Gospel Story Finder

The Valiants of the Naples First Ward Primary, Vernal Utah Uintah Stake, started something big when they decided to collect aluminum cans from their families, the bishop, and along the road. They gave the bishop $9.51 for the temple. After that, at an Achievement Day activity, the girls made it their goal to collect cans everywhere they could. They made arrangements with Western Park to collect cans each night after the Dinosaur Roundup Rodeo. Wearing old coats and surgical gloves, they crawled around under the bleachers and in the dumpsters at Western Park. They and their advisers worked from 10 P.M. to midnight for three nights.
Many ward members donated cans to the project, and in July, Primary children brought cans to a pioneer activity. The total donation was $80. Inspired by the children, the whole ward gave generously, donating enough to pay for three chandeliers, the furniture, and the carpeting in the celestial room. When Stephanie Romane (11) went to the open house, she was so overwhelmed with the beauty of the celestial room that she just stood in the doorway for a while. “Who would have thought that those cans could turn into this elegant room?” she said.

Many years ago, I was hurt by someone at church. I was angry and upset, and I wanted that person to apologize, but they never did. I tried to forget what had happened, thinking that the pain and anger I felt would just go away.
But I carried those feelings of anger with me for several years. The resentment I felt toward this person refused to go away.
One day I was talking to a friend about this situation. A thought came into my heart:
Forgive.
The Spirit was prompting me to forgive this person I was harboring so much anger for. I was astounded.
How was I supposed to forgive this person? I was the one who had been hurt, so I deserved to be asked for forgiveness, didn’t I?
I struggled with this prompting for a long time. However, I pondered my Savior’s example and His teachings about forgiveness:
“For if ye forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you:
“But if ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses” (Matthew 6:14–15).
Even on the cross, the Savior pleaded with His Father to forgive the soldiers who crucified Him (see Luke 23:34).
I also remembered President Russell M. Nelson’s invitation to “exercise the humility, courage, and strength required both to forgive and to seek forgiveness. …
“… If forgiveness presently seems impossible, plead for power through the atoning blood of Jesus Christ to help you.”
With all of this in mind, I prayed a lot. I prayed to my Heavenly Father, saying, “If it’s Thy will that I forgive this person, open the doors and help me make it happen, because I don’t have the strength to do it myself.”
The next day at church, I found myself face-to-face with the person who had hurt me. Guided by the Spirit, I felt that I should ask them for forgiveness. I apologized for not having been a good friend at times and asked if they could forgive me. They did, and in return they asked me for forgiveness for what they had done. I forgave them.
I left that experience relieved. My hurt feelings didn’t go away all at once, but I felt better. I was free from the pain and the sorrow that had plagued me for so long. I could move on with peace.

Becky Larson was only in junior high and already the cross-country coach at her future high school was encouraging her to join his team when she was old enough. Although she was running in junior high, she wasn’t sure she wanted to continue in high school.
But the night before her first day of high school, the coach called again to ask her to come to practice and give the team a try. She couldn’t bring herself to turn him down.
“I went to the practice after school the next day and ran three miles,” says Becky, who is now 22. “I thought I was going to die. My body hurt so bad; but Coach made it fun so I kept coming back.”
Although cross-country was usually more hard work than play, Becky stuck with the sport throughout high school. She was a state champion in 1986, and after high school she ran a year for BYU. “Those were some of my most disciplined years, some of my best,” she says.

A good man shed some light on a bright path for me in earlier years, and I would like to share his story with you.
I was 12 years old and a Tenderfoot Scout when I experienced my first overnight excursion away from home. I was excited, and I was frightened; we all were.
The group of boys who lined up with their gear on the lawn of the old 19th Ward building in Salt Lake City were variously equipped for the planned adventure to Lake Blanche in the high mountains to the east of us. Some had elaborate and expensive sleeping bags and pack frames, and some had bedrolls attached to old army knapsacks. I was in between, having the use of a homemade bag fashioned by my brother-in-law, together with the pack frame he had built, on which the bag and contents would be lashed.
All of us had been told to lay out our equipment for inspection by the man in charge, and we each fearfully waited by our stuff as the examiner approached. No marine trainee facing his sergeant could have been more apprehensive.
The man passed down the line rather quickly, commenting on this item or that boy’s pack, directing the abandonment of this extra baggage, sending one boy home to his mother with the three clean sheets she had sent along for his big trip.
I was last in line and thus nearest home, since our little house lay just alongside the old Relief Society building that separated us from the chapel. There was a narrow alley between the chapel and that building, and at the end of it a wall which formed the east border of our yard.
Being closest to home might have been an indicator of my frame of mind, because I was not altogether sold on this adventure and I was a bit apprehensive about the equipment I had borrowed, having been admonished carefully to keep it very clean and in absolute good repair.
When the inspector reached me, many foolish questions had been asked and answered, with increasing impatience, I suspect, so that the man as he faced me had become a bit short on good will. He was, in fact, quite a dynamic person of whom I was somewhat afraid, though he had always been appropriately dignified in his calling and never had been anything but kind to me.
This day under the circumstances and with the provocation of so much juvenile incompetency, he reached the end of his rope. Observing the number of items I was carrying which seemed to him superfluous for the high mountains and which he felt should not be carried in my pack, he sternly directed me to remove them and take them home to my mother. He seemed to dwell a bit sarcastically upon the pronunciation of my first name, about which my life on the west side of town by the railroad tracks had made me a bit touchy, if not defensive.
When he seemed to be making fun of me, the other boys up the line, having had their turn, snickered or broke into open laughter. Everybody but I thought it was funny. When he had left me and returned up the line to begin to herd the crowd onto the trucks which were to transport us, I made my gesture of protest. Not having anything else to do that I could think of, I just bent over, picked up the pack frame in one hand, and the two ends of the sleeping bag on which my gear was resting in the other, and walked up the alley, dragging it all behind me. When I reached the wall I dropped over, retrieved the equipment, and dragged it all behind the coal shed which was separated by a few feet from our house. Then I sat down on the ground under the basketball hoop on the back of the coal shed and suffered the pains and anguish of the damned—that is, those who have through willfulness and stubbornness painted themselves into an impossible position. I was 12 years old and in trouble.
I could not retreat and keep my self-respect; this man of authority had made a fool of me in front of others and had, to me quite unjustifiably, subjected me to ridicule. I was resentful and hopelessly frustrated. I could not see a way out of my dilemma, and I was deeply distressed.
After a long time—no doubt it seemed much longer than it actually was, but it was a long time—I heard footsteps coming up our pathway from the front street, heard the pause and a murmured conversation at our back door, and then felt and heard him resume his pace toward me. Mother had told him where I was.
He came down the little passageway between our house and the coal shed, around the corner, and sat down beside me on the dirt. He said nothing for a time but joined me as I nervously flipped little rocks and clods of dirt with a stick between my feet. I didn’t look at him. After a time he spoke.
“Do you ever get up on Kotter’s garage?” “Does Brother Kotter care?” “Do walnuts from the Perkinses’ tree fall in your backyard?” “If you take ten shots at this hoop from the line over there, how many can you make?”
I gave brief answers to all questions, and again there was silence.
Then a large, strong hand reached over to my knee and grasped it warmly.
“Son,” he said, “I made a mistake and I’m sorry.”
“That’s all right, bishop,” I said.
“Are you ready to go now,” he said. “The others are waiting.”
“Okay,” I said.
“We better get your pack ready.”
He helped me roll the gear into the sleeping bag, secure it to the pack frame, and lift it to my back. We then walked out past our back door to the street and onto the truck where the others were waiting. I later learned that after I had left he had called all of them together and explained that he had made a mistake and had been unkind to me and that my reaction had been understandable. He apologized to them in my behalf, prepared them to receive me without clamor when I arrived, got them all ready in the truck, and then made the long walk back to find me.
I do not dramatize what might have happened had a good man who was also a great man and a generous man not made that long walk, if he had not been mature enough and humble enough and capable of acknowledging and correcting a mistake. I know I was wounded and frustrated by the impossibility of my circumstance. I know that he was the bishop we prayed for by name at our house every day. And I know that my wonderful mother who did not intrude on my dilemma must have helped pray him up the path.
I also know that boys and girls, even stubborn and rebellious ones, or hurt ones or bewildered ones, are worth something to our Heavenly Father and should be worth something to all the rest of his children. I do know that I myself have taken a few long walks when my own sense of pride or impatience might have prevailed, whispering to me, “Ah, let him go. Let him sit there and see how he likes it. Why should I be bothered?”
To this hour I remain grateful that my wonderful bishop overcame any such thoughts, if he had them, and made that long walk.
His light in my life has made a difference.

Jeff Holt doesn’t believe in going against the grain. The 17-year-old Indio, California, priest was recently honored for his statewide, first-place woodwork project—a pool table. Jeff was a guest of the California Department of Education in Sacramento where he toured government buildings, watched the legislature in session, and was guest at a banquet.
The pool table, weighing well over a thousand pounds, was completely hand-fashioned and valued at $1,000. Surprisingly, it was Jeff’s first real woodworking project.
“As I got into it, the work went very slowly at first,” he recalls. “It turned out to be a lot more work than I thought—not only the design and planning and woodwork, but the sewing and upholstery and felt work involved.”
The four-month endeavor also became a family project as Jeff, his parents, and his three sisters embarked on all-day trips to Los Angeles for specially selected materials. The 24-hour marathon completion involved lots of sandwich-making by family members, as well as Jeff’s final perfectionist touches to the felt and the polished Philippine mahogany.
The ten men it took to lift the table and the thousands who saw it in California aren’t about to forget Jeff’s effort.
Back home there’s not a room large enough in the Holts’ home for the table, so Jeff has to be content with keeping it in the garage. With the table finished, he’s also had a chance to work on a few new projects, including a stereo console and a dinette set. He’s also taken a junior college class in upholstery while finishing high school.
Jeff holds down a part-time job to save money for a mission. After his mission he plans on studying to become an industrial education teacher or furniture maker.

An elder from Germany told me how he had “always known” that he did “not know the truth.” He described how he sometimes “prayed to God” to find it. After leaving the military service, he was employed in Switzerland. One day, living alone and feeling lonely, he prayed again, “Please God, send me the truth.” A few days later when he was walking down the street, a stranger approached him and said, “Young man, I am supposed to talk with you, but I don’t know why.” In this missionary’s words, “I looked into his face and knew he had the Spirit of God. His face was beautiful.” The stranger was a Church member who had been walking down the same busy street and felt inspired to speak to a young man he didn’t know. This new elder spoke of his mission as a privilege.

Sergio’s school friends often ask him about his religion because they know his standards are different from theirs. “I answer their questions and tell them about the beliefs I have,” said Sergio with a steady voice reflective of his firm testimony. “I invite them to Church on Sundays and to the activities. Some come and others don’t,” he said shrugging his shoulders. Since his baptism two and a half years ago, Sergio has helped the missionaries teach and baptize three of his friends.

Then came the first Sunday in March. I’ll never forget that day. Just after Sunday School Bishop Edwards asked me if I could come to his office an hour before fast meeting for a little talk. Well, I know the bishop doesn’t just call people in for a little talk for no reason. I wondered what I had done—or what I was going to do. But I did tell him I would be there.
At three o’clock I found myself stepping on the rich blue carpeting of the bishop’s office and then staring into the eyes of a man who, it seemed, instantly knew everything about me. I had known Bishop Edwards for a long time. He had been my Sunday School teacher when I was in junior high school and had been bishop now for a couple of years. I hadn’t known him as a bishop too well since I spent many Sundays in my student branch at school. But now, as I looked at him, I knew what a wonderful man he was and the great power he represented.
After a few minutes of small talk about school, family, and whatever, he got to the point of this meeting. “Today as I looked over the congregation, my eyes rested on you,” he said intensely, “and as clearly as we have been speaking to each other, a voice said to me, ‘That girl needs to go on a mission.’” I was stunned! That was the last thing I expected him to say. Me? On a mission? His voice interrupted my thoughts.
“I can see by your expression that you didn’t receive the same inspiration. It must come as quite a surprise. But it’s something you don’t have to decide right now. You think about it and be sure to include your parents and the Lord in your decision. Just let me know when you’ve found your answer.”
A few moments later I walked out of the door, and the fluorescent lighting of the hall hit me with the reality of the situation. I figured in two years I’d really be an old maid. But two years might give Allen time to join the Church on his own. It would give me a chance to find myself. And most important, it would be a chance to get closer to the Lord and serve his children more than I had ever done, I found an empty room and knelt in prayer, asking my Heavenly Father to help me make the right decision. When I stood, I felt a certain calm, even though I still didn’t feel that I had a positive answer.
As I made my way down the stairs and into the chapel, I met Emily and her baby in the foyer. It was her first time back to church since Julie’s birth. We talked for a minute and then entered the chapel. Emily and her mother sat in the row in front of me, and just before the meeting, Emily leaned back guiltily and whispered to me, “I forgot this was fast Sunday until I looked at the program. We just finished eating a turkey dinner at Ted’s, so I guess I’ll have to fast twice next month.” I smiled and just then my stomach growled uncomfortably, testifying to the fact that I had remembered.
Through the rows of heads and shoulders that I saw from my position on the fourth row from the back, I caught a glimpse of Karen and the rest of her family taking up an entire center bench. I was glad that she had made it but sorry I’d missed her before the meeting. I’d have to hurry to the front after the closing prayer to talk to her.
After the songs and announcements were over and after we had taken the sacrament, Bishop Edwards stood behind the pulpit and said, “This afternoon we have a special treat. I know many of you have known Karen Evans since she was a little girl.” Emily looked back at me and winked knowingly, but then turned her head sharply forward as the bishop went on. “Well, this afternoon Karen, now Karen Sanders, has brought her own little girl to receive a name and a blessing from her husband. Assisting in the circle will be her father and brothers.”
As I watched David take his little girl from Karen and carry her almost reverently to the front, I could see a side view of Emily. Tears were rapidly filling her deep blue eyes and streaming down her face onto Julie’s downy head. Her shoulders shook violently as she buried her head in her baby’s neck. Emily’s mother tenderly put her arm around her daughter’s throbbing shoulders, and I could see that she, too, was crying. Emily looked up, and I heard her gasp in a desperate whisper, “Oh Mama! Who is going to bless my baby?”
“I bless you, Melissa, with a sound mind and body,” I heard David Sanders say at the front of the room, “and that you will live a righteous life, that when the time comes, you will meet a choice son of our Father in heaven, one who honors his priesthood and who will take you to the temple of the Lord to be sealed to him for eternity.” Through the entire blessing and for the rest of the meeting, Julie’s baby shawl absorbed her tears.
And now, even though a year has passed, and even though the dark-haired women in this once strange country contrast vividly with blonde Emily, whenever my companion and I are out tracting, or we go to a branch meeting and I see a mother and baby alone, something grabs at my heart. For I keep seeing Emily.

On another occasion, near the Christmas season, I had the opportunity to meet in the Church Office Building with a group of handicapped children. There were about sixty in the group. My heart literally melted as I met with them. They sang for me “I Am a Child of God,” “Rudolph, the Red-nosed Reindeer,” and “As I Have Loved You, Love One Another.” There was such an angelic expression on their faces and such a simple trust expressed in their comments that I felt I was on sacred ground. They presented to me a beautiful booklet where each one had prepared a special page illustrating those blessings for which he or she was most thankful at Christmastime. I commend the many teachers and families who work behind the scenes in bringing a measure of comfort, purpose, and joy to these special children. They brightened my entire day.

Dinner at the Ferland’s was always a glorious affair—plates heaped with home-grown tomatoes, beans, and pickled beets, with lamb and potatoes browned together until the meat was tender and the vegetables sweet. In the wood-burning oven, an apple pie simmered. The room spoke of families and of love.
It was at such a dinner that father called his wife and children near. Christine noticed a happy mischief in his eyes, a spark of something that for too long had been distant.
“We have to make your mother happy,” he said, looking each teenager firmly in the eye. He let them guess what he was planning to do.
After a minute he said, “Whatever it takes, we’re going to the temple.”
Of course, saying and doing are two different things. But even when he wasn’t attending his meetings, Jean-Claude Ferland had never thought of himself as anything less than a Latter-day Saint. He was still friendly with people from the branch, still in contact with home teachers, still “active” in his heart. So when he decided to be involved, he gave full dedication.
Sunday meetings were not considered optional. Service projects, branch parties, cottage meetings, whatever was asked, the Ferlands would gladly participate. Callings were willingly accepted, instructions from the branch president explicitly heeded. Even tithing, which had been a struggle in the past, was now a privilege. Once, when it was paid twice by mistake, mother and father decided to “let the Lord keep it.”
Time passed quickly. In August 1986, interviews were held and recommends were signed. The dream was coming true.
Christine can see it still, every time she closes her eyes—the Washington D. C. Temple, its white spires bright against the woods. Inside, everything is calm and bright. People smile and share a great peace.
In a sacred room, maman and papa, dressed in white, kneel at the altar. Christine, Clément, and Marie Claude, also in white, kneel beside them. Hands are placed on hands, children and parents sealed. By the power of the priesthood they are given the promises of eternity.

Haven, a 14-year-old from Utah, USA, decided to celebrate being a young woman in the Church by serving others.
“It started as a small idea,” she says. “My uncle went to Bangladesh on a humanitarian trip and learned about difficult things the people there were experiencing. I wanted to help them—so I looked on the JustServe app and got the idea to make homemade kits for the refugees there.”
Haven collected donations at her school, created a GoFundMe page, and even took out neighbors’ garbage cans to help raise money for the kits. “I take out about 22 garbage cans and 11 recycle cans every Monday and Tuesday,” she says. “I normally use the money I earn for my choir program and to save for a mission, but I decided to use my funds that month to help buy supplies instead.”
Haven then went out and bought all the materials she needed for the kits, including socks, gloves, scarfs, and hats. She assembled each kit and also got in contact with the director of Lifting Hands International to coordinate the delivery of the kits in Bangladesh.
“Putting the kits together took up the most time in my project. But every time I put a piece into the kit, I knew that it would go to someone in need and that they would be blessed for a long time by it.”
By the end of her project, Haven felt her confidence build in her ability to serve. “I learned from this how much help I can be if I try my hardest. I also felt compassion for the people I was helping, which helped me feel closer to the Savior and feel some of what He feels for us.”

After Sister Teh and I dated for a little while, it became obvious that I wanted to spend eternity with her. Naturally, I made it a subject of earnest prayer and fasting. No particular change in my feeling followed. I did not feel a burning in my bosom. I did, however, continue to feel good about my decision, so I persevered. Sister Teh got the same answer, so here we are. Since that experience, I have arrived at many of my decisions in a similar fashion (see D&C 6:22–23).
Contrast that with experiences I now have concerning specific assignments from the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles to call a new stake president. As I approach this assignment in the spirit of prayer and fasting, I have been blessed with distinct impressions that help me know who should be called. The impressions come sometimes before, sometimes during, or sometimes even after the interview process. I always feel a burning in my bosom. I have since recognized that as the way the Holy Ghost guides me in such assignments.

Frequently the heavenly virtue of patience is required. As a bishop I felt prompted one day to call on a man whose wife was somewhat active, as were the children. This man, however, had never responded. It was a hot summer’s day when I knocked on the screen door of Harold G. Gallacher. I could see Brother Gallacher sitting in his chair reading the newspaper. “Who is it?” he queried, without looking up.
“Your bishop,” I replied. “I’ve come to get acquainted and to urge your attendance with your family at our meetings.”
“No, I’m too busy,” came the disdainful response. He never looked up. I thanked him for listening and departed the doorstep.
The Gallacher family moved to California shortly thereafter. The years went by. Then, as a member of the Quorum of the Twelve, I was working in my office one day when my secretary called, saying: “A Brother Gallacher who once lived in your ward would like to talk to you. He’s here in my office.”
I responded, “Ask him if his name is Harold G. Gallacher who, with his family, lived at Vissing Place on West Temple and Fifth South.”
She said, “He is the man.”
I asked her to send him in. We had a pleasant conversation together concerning his family. He told me, “I’ve come to apologize for not getting out of my chair and letting you in the door that summer day long years ago.” I asked him if he was active in the Church. With a wry smile, he replied: “I’m now second counselor in my ward bishopric. Your invitation to come out to church, and my negative response, so haunted me that I determined to do something about it.”
Harold and I visited together on numerous occasions before he passed away. The Gallachers and their children filled many callings in the Church. One of the youngest grandchildren is now serving a full-time mission.

Maybe we weren’t the best troop in the district, but could you really blame us? Boy Scout Troop 756 (of the Mesa 34th Ward, Mesa Arizona East Stake) was barely a year old, and already we were losing our third Scoutmaster. We were losing interest in Scouting too.
Some of us had been to camp the summer before. Camp Geronimo, nestled under the Mogollon Rim in the heart of Arizona’s ponderosa pine forest, has the reputation of being one of the best Scout camps in the country, but we weren’t very well organized and didn’t take advantage of their program. Few of us wanted to go back. We’d lots rather go camping in the Grand Canyon, if we could get someone to take us.
Our problem was discussed in the next troop committee meeting. Brother Decker had just moved into the ward and had accepted the assignment of advancement chairman. He agreed to take charge of us until someone could be called as Scoutmaster.
At our next troop meeting Brother Decker explained to us what the situation was. We discussed the Grand Canyon trip and decided on a date, and our new leader agreed to contact the park and make reservations for the campgrounds we planned to use. He then showed slides he had taken on other hikes he had made in the canyon.
In our troop meetings the next few weeks we learned how to make up a light pack. All the equipment we took into the canyon would have to be carried out, and the last 7,000-foot climb would be when we were the most tired. There would be no need for sleeping bags—an air mattress and a sheet or sleeping sack would suffice. Food would be planned for light weight and high energy: instant cereals, jerky, dry soups, etc. (We could have freeze-dried camp packs if we could afford it.) We practiced first aid and other things we might need on the trail and were encouraged to hike a few blocks every day to condition ourselves and make sure our walking shoes were well broken in.
The big day finally came, and we all met at the prescribed place at the crack of dawn. Our transportation arrived—two Volkswagen bugs! That’s the best our leaders could come up with. We crammed ourselves in and headed north.
We stopped in Flagstaff to visit the headquarters of the Grand Canyon Council. They have patches that can be earned for hiking some of the trails in the canyon. First there’s the diamond-shaped patch with a colorful view of the canyon. Then there are chevron-shaped patches to sew around it, such as “The Hermit Trail,” “Supai To River,” and “Rim to Rim to Rim.” (The latter would be about the best 50 miler you could ever make!) We found that we would have to hike the trails first, then apply for the patches.
We entered the park through the south entrance and went directly to Mather Point where most of us got our first view of the canyon. What a view it was! No words can describe it, and pictures can’t do it justice. I’ve heard it said, and really believe it, that the Grand Canyon’s magnitude is impossible to comprehend.
We loaded back in the cars and went to the visitor’s center where our leaders checked our reservations and got our camping permits. Then we drove out to Yaki Point where we loaded our packs and started down the trail. It was steep at first, with several switchbacks; then it straightened out along Yaki Point. Dropping down on Cedar Ridge we encountered our first mules. The famous mules of Grand Canyon carry thousands of visitors on tours of the canyon each season. This, however, was a work detail repairing the trail.
At Cedar Ridge we found hitching racks for the mules, a scheduled rest stop on the way out of the canyon from Phantom Ranch. We also found a glass-covered case protecting an imprint of a large fern leaf in solid rock, no telling how old.
As we dropped down behind Bucky O’Neil Butte, storm clouds started gathering above us. Brother Decker told us that the only shelter on this trail was the tunnel at the suspension bridge over the river. This was over four miles away. The rain came, and we got into our packs for our sheets of plastic. They worked almost as well as raincoats and kept our packs dry too. The rain was really a blessing in disguise. It would have been pretty hot without it. Sometimes the temperature down in the gorge reaches over 120 degrees.
The troop was strung out as we went down over the Tip-Off. Brother Slade had twisted his knee and was taking it easy for a while. We found the tunnel at the river, which opened right onto the suspension bridge, and then we crossed the river, and waited for everyone to catch up. The sun came out and the wet cliffs glistened—a beautiful sight, and the river ran peacefully along below us. It was restful there, and we could have stayed for hours, but we still had to find a place to camp. It would be dark soon.
We followed the trail around the bend to Bright Angel Creek and then on to Phantom Ranch. Brother Decker remarked that another flood had gone through since he was last here; boulders were exposed everywhere. The beautiful new pool that had been so nice to swim in had disappeared, and a lawn had been planted in its place. A deer grazed peacefully nearby.
We found the concession window open at the restaurant. They didn’t have much of a selection, but the tall, cold lemonade sure tasted good.
We went on up the trail and found a beautiful campground. A little bridge over a sparkling brook led to a level area with plenty of grass under large spreading trees. Bright Angel Creek bordered the camp on the west. We just had time to get supper and make up our beds before dark. Most of us were pretty tired and went right off to sleep, but some of the guys amused themselves by tracking bats with their flashlights. They claimed that with the light on them the bats would lose their radar and crash into things.
The sun rises late in the canyon. Breakfast was over, and we had stashed our packs in a shed at Phantom Ranch for a hike up Bright Angel Creek. We didn’t see the sun until we had hiked up through the Box, with sheer rock walls reaching thousands of feet above us, and had come out in a valley inside the canyon. Here, out of sight of the towering cliffs, it was easy to imagine we were in an area of rolling hills rather than the bottom of a mile-deep chasm. Only the South Rim could be seen far in the distance.
To reach Ribbon Falls we had to leave the trail, cross the creek, and wind our way up a side canyon about half a mile: Ribbon Falls is a fantastic place. The water flows out of a cliff about a hundred feet above where we were, falls to a moss-covered ledge about halfway down, then onto the bottom, some falling free and the rest running down a tall, green wall of moss. We climbed up the ledge. We were hot and tired from the long hike, and the water sure looked inviting. We went in, some of us fully clothed, and it was the best shower I’ve ever had! We relaxed around the pool beneath the falls and ate the snack food we’d brought in our pockets. It was so peaceful it seemed like the most out-of-the-way place in the world. We didn’t realize at the time that only a mile or so away, almost directly above us, was the bustling Grand Canyon Lodge on the North Rim!
We returned to Phantom Ranch and our old campground. The day was hot and the pool in the creek looked like a good place to cool off. Storm clouds were beginning to appear, so we stashed our clothes and packs where they wouldn’t get wet and enjoyed ourselves in the creek. The rain came but we didn’t care. We were comfortable in the water.
We still had a long way to go. It was seven or eight miles and 2,000 feet up to the Indian Gardens Campground where we had reservations to spend the night. We broke camp, policed the area to make sure there was no sign that we had been there, and headed out. We went down past the ranger’s station and crossed the river on the lower bridge, the one that carries the water line from Roaring Spring to Grand Canyon Village. It’s a half mile below the suspension bridge.
The trail ran a mile or so along the river, with each bend giving another spectacular view. The sun was getting low in the west when we turned up the side canyon and started climbing the Bright Angel Trail. Since the campgrounds were always so crowded, we decided to let the senior patrol leader and some of the faster boys go ahead and pick us out a good campsite at Indian Gardens. The rest of us made our way the best we could. A patrol leader was assigned to bring up the rear, and it was way after dark before we reached the camp. In fact, those who went ahead were just starting to organize a search-rescue mission to come look for us. We had hiked about 20 miles that day, with the last two or three miles as hard as you’ll find anywhere.
We made our supper in the dark. Most of us used canned heat, but Brother Slade, a member of the bishopric, had made up a little stove from a tuna fish can with rolled up corrugated cardboard inside and melted paraffin poured over it. It worked fine for the whole trip. He was using it that night, and it made so much light that the Indian camp attendant came over to tell us that campfires weren’t allowed!
If everyone hadn’t been so tired that night, we would have had some star study. I’ve never seen stars as bright as they were that night at Indian Gardens. The sky was perfectly clear with no clouds, and no moon. The only light we could see was the one from the Grand Canyon Lodge on the North Rim, 16 miles away. We didn’t enjoy this beauty very long; sleep came fast.
As we began stirring at daylight the next morning, Brother Decker called a conference. He reviewed each boy on his advancement, then gave the senior patrol leader some assignments on Scoutcraft instruction. This hike wasn’t just for play, he said, after we’d already hiked nearly 30 miles! He went on to mention a few things we could improve on and bragged us up a bit for the way the troop as a whole was conducting itself. Brother Slade also gave us some words of encouragement.
With breakfast over, some of us went on a morning hike with Brother Decker out to Plateau Point. This is where the mule parties go for a look down into the gorge. The rapids were shimmering in the sun, and although we were 2,000 feet above them, we could hear their roar. The colors in the canyon that time in the morning were indescribable. When we returned to the campground, we found everyone ready to leave. We still had 4 1/2 miles and 3,000 feet to climb.
On the trail we met several mule parties, with a dozen or so tourists in each. Most of them were on a half-day trip to Plateau Point. Too bad that they couldn’t go on and see Phantom Ranch and Bright Angel Creek as we had. The only way to really see the canyon is to walk! When we met these mule trains, courtesy required us to get clear off the trail out of their way.
We reached the three-mile rest station and found a little stone house with a drinking fountain and a telephone. No one was ready to call for assistance yet, especially after reading the message by the phone that it would cost $30 to have a mule come down for you. There was another rest station much the same as this one 1 1/2 miles farther up. By then it was becoming a race to see who could be first to reach the top.
The snack bar at Bright Angel Lodge was sure a welcome sight. We decided that we liked civilization after all. Our leaders drove out to Yaki Point for Brother Slade’s car. When they returned, we all went to the Yavapai Museum where they have a bank of mounted binoculars that we used to look down on all the places we’d been. It was goodbye for now to the canyon, but we all wanted to go back.
As we traveled homeward that night I reflected on the events of the past few days. We’d had a very good hike. We had learned a lot. (The best way to learn Scouting skills is in actual practice.) We had driven ourselves almost to the limit of our endurance, but we had succeeded. It was a comfortable feeling, one of great satisfaction.

“Hey, Aaron,” Ty called from the other end of the church gym. “Come shoot some hoops with us!”
Aaron shifted the box of paper cups and napkins in his arms and shook his head. “I can’t,” he called back. “I’m helping my mom set up for Relief Society.”
Aaron heard Ty and some of his other friends laugh as they dribbled and passed the basketball. All of the boys were in his Primary class except Todd, a new boy who didn’t go to church. Aaron heard Todd ask, “What’s Relief Society?”
“It’s a meeting for moms and old ladies … and Aaron!” Ty laughed again.
Aaron ducked into the kitchen and dropped the box on the counter. He knew that Relief Society wasn’t just for moms and old ladies, and it wasn’t just a meeting either. When his mother was in the hospital, Relief Society sisters brought delicious meals to his family. They also served his family a luncheon after his grandfather’s funeral. Mom had explained that the Relief Society also helps the bishop care for the sick and poor in the ward. Aaron enjoyed helping Mom with Relief Society activities because he always had a good feeling afterward, and he often got to sample the leftover treats.
But he didn’t have a good feeling right now. He didn’t like being laughed at. “Mom, can I go play with Ty and the other guys?” he asked.
“I’m counting on you, Aaron,” Mom said. “I really need you to put chairs around the tables.”
Grumbling to himself, Aaron shuffled over to the rack of chairs against the wall. He lifted one off the top, and the one below it clattered to the hardwood floor. Some of the boys laughed, but Todd said, “Why don’t we go help him?”
Ty shot the basketball and missed. “No way,” he said, chasing down the ball. “We only have the gym for five more minutes. I’m not going to waste my time on Relief Society.”
Aaron unfolded more chairs and arranged them around the tables. Brother Brown arrived to help, and soon the two of them had completed the job. But Aaron knew that he wasn’t finished. Mom handed him a stack of tablecloths and paper napkins. He turned away from the boys at the other end of the gym and concentrated on getting the tablecloths straight. Brother Brown and several Relief Society sisters worked around him, setting the tables and making everything look nice. Aaron took a pitcher of water and started to fill the paper cups at each place, when suddenly a basketball crashed into the table, spilling water everywhere.
Ty ran over to retrieve the ball just as Aaron’s mother came out of the kitchen. “It’s time for you to go so we can have our meeting,” she told Ty.
Ty picked up the ball and dribbled it at his side. “Ah, come on, Sister Dean, we won’t bother you. We’ll just play at that end while you have your meeting over here.”
“Sorry, Ty,” she said. “It’s our turn now. You boys will have to leave.” She turned and walked back into the kitchen.
Aaron mopped up the spilled water with a wad of napkins. Ty was still standing there looking stubborn, bouncing the ball up and down. Aaron didn’t want to argue with his friend, but he didn’t want to let Mom down either. He offered a quick and silent prayer.
“Listen, Ty,” he said with a smile. “Why don’t you guys help me finish, and then we can go outside and play basketball before it gets too dark. The Relief Society is having brownies and ice cream afterward, and my mom might give us some if we help out.”
Ty looked around and the other boys waited to see what he would do. Aaron took the pitcher of water and pointed at the empty cups. “If we all take a table, we’ll get done fast.”
Later, Aaron’s mom brought brownies and ice cream outside for the boys. “I want to thank you guys for helping out tonight,” she said. “It sure made my job a lot easier.”
Todd took a spoonful of ice cream and grinned. “This is your job?” he asked. “Where do I sign up?”

Chris stood next to the door to the Relief Society room. After what seemed a very long time, the door finally opened. Chris stood back and watched as the sisters left, chatting in twos and threes. He had learned over the years that it was easier to just wait for his mom in the hall, but today he really wanted to get into the Relief Society room.
He waited for just the right moment, then, ducking under Sister Brown’s purse, slipped in. He slid into an empty row of chairs and looked around. Just as I thought, he said to himself, there’s no fireplace in here.
“There you are, Son.” Chris turned when he heard his mom’s voice. “I was looking for you in the hall.” Noticing the confused look on his face, she asked, “Is something wrong?”
Chris handed his mom a sheet of paper he had been holding. “I came in here to see the fireplace.”
Chris’s mom read the first line on the paper out loud. “‘You and your parents are invited to attend a special baptism fireside.’”
“It says it’s going to be here in the Relief Society room, but where are they going to build a fire?”
Mom smiled. “A fireside is a kind of meeting,” she explained. “I’m not sure why it’s called that—maybe people really did meet around a fire at one time. But that rarely happens anymore.”
“Oh.” Chris was unable to hide his disappointment. “I thought maybe we would be roasting marshmallows or something fun like that.”
“It does say that refreshments will be served,” Mom tried to cheer him up. She put her hand on his shoulder. “Come on. Let’s go see how much longer your dad’s going to be.”
They walked to the clerk’s office, where Chris’s dad was busy helping Brother Watkins, a member of the bishopric, count the day’s tithing donations. “Did you get my tithing?” Chris asked excitedly. “I gave it to the bishop before sacrament meeting.”
Dad nodded. “We got it and just entered it into the computer. You’re well on your way to another year of being a full tithe payer.”
Chris smiled, thinking back to last year’s tithing settlement. He remembered the bishop saying, “Heavenly Father is very pleased with you for paying all of your tithing.”
Chris’s mom poked her head in. “How much longer are you going to be?”
“Not much longer. We’ll be finished in a few minutes. Do you want to wait for me, or do you think I need the exercise of walking home?”
“I don’t know. What do you think, Chris?”
Chris laughed. “I guess we can wait a few more minutes.”
As they waited on the couch outside the office, Sister Johnson came around the corner. “Chris—just the boy I need to talk to!”
“Me?”
“Yes. I was wondering if you would talk for a few minutes at the baptism fireside. I’m asking some of the children in your class to take a minute or two to tell what they are doing to prepare themselves for baptism. Would you be willing to do that?”
“I guess so,” Chris said nervously.
“Your mom and dad can help you,” Sister Johnson assured him. “I’m sure you’ll do a great job.” She turned to walk away, then turned back. “Oh, and one more thing. I want your whole class to recite the fourth article of faith together. Do you know that one?”
Chris nodded enthusiastically. “I know them all,” he said.
“I thought so.” Sister Johnson smiled. “Thank you for your help.”
“Your first fireside, and you get to be one of the speakers!” Mom said. “Good for you!”
Chris slumped on the sofa next to his mother. “But she wants me to talk about what I’m doing to get ready to be baptized. And I haven’t done anything. I should have told her to ask someone else.”
“I think you’ve done more than you know,” Mom said.
“Like what?”
Before she could answer, the door to the clerk’s office opened and out walked Dad and Brother Watkins. Brother Watkins held out his hand to shake hands with Chris. “And how are you today?” he asked.
“OK, I guess.”
“We were just talking about what a person should do to prepare for baptism,” Mom said. “Do you have any recommendations?”
Brother Watkins rubbed his chin. “Well, let me see. Someone who is interested in being baptized should be trying to learn about the gospel and trying to keep the commandments. Do you know someone who is interested in being baptized?”
“Yeah—me!” Chris said. “I’ll be eight next May.”
“That’s great!” Brother Watkins told him. “I think you’re doing a good job of preparing for baptism.”
“But what am I doing?”
“Well, I know that you attended your meetings today. And I saw that you paid your tithing. Those are two good things.”
Chris nudged Mom. “Go to meetings and pay tithing—I can say that in my talk.”
Brother Watkins went on. “Are you learning the Articles of Faith?”
Chris nodded. “I already know them.”
“Wonderful! Do you obey your parents?”
Chris smiled sheepishly. “Most of the time.”
“Do you remember to say your prayers?”
Chris nodded again.
“Do you read the scriptures?”
Chris’s smile faded. “No. Not really. I just read the kids’ ones. You know, the ones with lots of pictures.”
“The kids’ ones are a great start,” Brother Watkins assured him.
Chris’s smile returned. “I’m more ready than I thought,” he said happily. “There’s a baptism fireside next week. I’m supposed to tell what I’m doing to get ready to be baptized. I guess I always thought that all you had to do was be eight years old.”
“Thank you for your help, Brother Watkins,” Dad said.
“My pleasure,” said Brother Watkins. “When is the fireside?”
Mom looked at the invitation. “It’s at 6:00 P.M. next Sunday in the Relief Society room.”
“I think I’ll see if I can get myself an invitation,” Brother Watkins told Chris. “I’d love to hear your talk.”
“There’s going to be refreshments, too!”
“Excellent!” Brother Watkins grinned. “I do like refreshments.”
“This fireside’s only going to be missing one thing,” Chris said.
“What’s that?” Dad wondered.
“A fire. A perfect fireside would have a fire.”
“Hold that thought,” Brother Watkins told him, hurrying into the clerk’s office. He returned carrying his scriptures. “I think your fireside will be perfect.” He opened his scriptures. “What happens after you get baptized?”
“I don’t know,” Chris said.
“Sure you do. Tell me the fourth article of faith.”
“‘We believe that the first principles and ordinances of the Gospel are: first, Faith in the Lord Jesus Christ; second, Repentance; third, Baptism by immersion for the remission of sins; fourth, Laying on of hands for the gift of the Holy Ghost,’” Chris recited.
“So, what comes after baptism?”
Suddenly understanding Brother Watkin’s question, Chris answered excitedly, “The laying on of hands for the gift of the Holy Ghost.”
“That’s right. Now listen to this,” Brother Watkins said. “This is in Doctrine and Covenants 19:31 [D&C 19:31]: ‘Thou shalt declare repentance and faith on the Savior, and remission of sins by baptism, and by fire, yea, even the Holy Ghost.’ Chris, do you think that the Holy Ghost will be at the fireside?”
“I think so.”
Brother Watkins smiled. “I think so, too. You see, you’re right, Chris—a fireside really isn’t a fireside without the fire.”

Bobby looked around the Primary room. All of the kids looked so small! He couldn’t wait to turn 12 and start going to Young Men.
“Today we are going to talk about the priesthood,” Sister Wilkey said. “The priesthood is Heavenly Father’s power. When you receive the priesthood, you’ll have access to that power.”
Whoa, Bobby thought. Heavenly Father did things like create the earth and perform miracles. And He’s giving me His power? That sounded awesome.
Bobby didn’t really listen to the rest of the lesson. He was too excited thinking about how cool it was going to be to have Heavenly Father’s power!
One evening a few days later, Dad came in and said, “Bobby, I need your help. Sister Jarvis called. She can’t get around well with her hurt leg, and she needs help with some chores tonight. My home-teaching partner can’t come.”
Bobby looked out the window. It was snowing like crazy, and he was watching a great movie. “Can I finish this first?” he asked, snuggling into the warm sofa.
“Well, the storm is only going to get worse.”
“Fine. I’m coming,” Bobby said, slowly sliding out of the fuzzy blanket.
When they got to Sister Jarvis’s home, she thanked them for coming.
Rroooff! her little dog barked.
“Peanut got all muddy when he went outside today. Could you please give him a bath?”
“Sure,” Bobby said. He picked up Peanut. “Hey, little guy.” Peanut licked Bobby’s hand happily.
While Bobby washed the dog in the bathtub, Dad made dinner for Sister Jarvis. Then they washed the dishes, filled Peanut’s food dish, and brought more firewood inside.
“Is there anything else we can do for you tonight?” Dad asked.
“No, this is lovely! Thank you for your help!” she said.
“It was our pleasure. Have a good night,” Dad said.
“Bye, Sister Jarvis,” Bobby said. He patted Peanut goodbye.
As they got in the car, Dad thanked Bobby for coming.
“It was fun. Sister Jarvis seemed really grateful,” Bobby said.
“You know, things like this are what the priesthood is really about,” Dad said. “Heavenly Father gives us His power so we can serve others. Sometimes this means giving a blessing or passing the sacrament. Sometimes it means just visiting someone who needs help.”
“Oh, I hadn’t thought about it like that,” Bobby said. “But I’ll still get to do powerful stuff right?”
Dad smiled. “Serving people is powerful stuff, Bobby. It’s what Jesus Christ did when He was on the earth. Heavenly Father gives power to everyone who serves in His Church so that they can help others. That way everyone benefits from the priesthood.”
Bobby thought about that. Having the priesthood might be different from what he expected, but it still sounded important. And Heavenly Father trusts me to do it, he thought.
“I can do that,” Bobby said. Even though it was dark and cold, he felt peaceful and warm.

The youth of the Poway California Stake weren’t exactly thrilled when they heard their youth conference would consist mainly of painting and planting, but by the time the testimony meeting at the end rolled around, it was obvious that it turned out to be one of the best conferences ever.
About 220 young people descended on Julian, a small town within their stake, to plant 100 seven-foot liquidambar trees and paint the exterior of the United Methodist Church, where the LDS branch leases space for its services. They knew that by planting the trees, they were helping clean the southern California air. A tree can consume as much as 50 pounds of smog per year.
Inspirational speakers, a spiritual slide and music presentation, and a dance were part of the conference as well. And it all cost one-tenth of the previous year’s conference.

The main reason I went to church my junior year of high school was because my parents never gave me any other option. But I had an experience that changed my life. One Sunday a new girl was in our Sunday school class. I felt prompted to slide over a few chairs and introduce myself. As we talked, I realized that Kristeen was very shy, so I took it upon myself to introduce her to our class. I assumed she had just moved into the ward, and she and I became fast friends.
A month and a half after she joined our class, I received a phone call from our ward mission leader. He told me that Kristeen and her mother were getting baptized and that Kristeen wanted me to speak at her baptism. I was floored; I thought Kristeen was a member all along. I also felt like I was the wrong person to speak on baptism, but I accepted the invitation.
To prepare for the talk, I used some scriptures on baptism, the fourth article of faith, and a good-sized chunk out of True to the Faith and called it good.
The day of Kristeen’s baptism was beautiful. She looked so confident and cheerful. I could tell she was excited and ready for baptism. Then it came time for me to speak. I’ve always felt comfortable speaking in front of large groups, so the talk seemed cohesive. Things were going well until I read Romans 6:4: “Therefore we are buried with him by baptism into death: that like as Christ was raised up from the dead by the glory of the Father, even so we also should walk in newness of life.”
I could feel the Spirit, and I knew that I had not been keeping my baptismal covenants fully. I started crying and did my best to finish my talk. I was jealous of Kristeen, that she was going to be baptized and have the slate of her life wiped clean and renewed. But I was even more overcome by feelings of happiness for her and for her strength. She wanted to follow Christ.
How wonderful it is to know that we can be made pure by baptism and that if we fall even a little short, we can repent and be made whole again through the atoning sacrifice of Christ. I am so thankful for my Heavenly Father’s plan and for Jesus Christ and His eternal sacrifice for me. I know that if I keep trying my best and continue to repent, I can also “walk in newness of life.”

In Bodø, a city far to the north, Church members have gathered for a district conference. The few teenagers present tell what it’s like living above the Arctic Circle, often as the only LDS youth in their towns.

Håvard Lunde, 15, and his brother Erlend, 13, live in Alta, almost as far north as you can go in Norway. There is no chapel in Alta; the eight Latter-day Saints take turns meeting in each other’s homes.
“The Church seems normal to us, because we were born in it,” Håvard says. “But in Alta, like in most of Norway, young people don’t believe in much of anything. Our friends don’t shun us, but they wonder why we make such a big thing about religion.”
“We just try to set an example,” Erlend says.
And they wait for times like district conference, when their spiritual strength is renewed.