Gospel Story Finder

There was one time when the chase crew didn’t quite make it on time, and the story of their rescue is a sure-to-be-told-tale at quorum get-togethers.
The chase crew, who were pulling a trailer that day, made a wrong turn down a long narrow lane with no room to turn around. By the time they had managed to back out, the balloon had already landed, and no one had been able to see where. While the chase crew searched, the balloon crew was waiting in a strawberry patch where they had landed. It seemed that a hundred people knew exactly where the balloon had come down, and a hundred people were absolutely wrong. Finally, almost two hours later, the bewildered searchers saw a little boy sitting on his bike with all the manly nonchalance of John Wayne on his horse.
“You see a balloon?”
“Yep.”
“You know where it is?”
“Yep.”
“Will you show us?”
“Yep.” And hunched over his banana seat, legs churning like pistons, the one-man cavalry led them to their stranded companions.

At last the Ellsworth company’s journey was coming to an end. It would have ended sooner if they had not been slowed down by the ox-drawn wagons that carried their tents and other supplies. When Brigham Young heard that the handcart companies—both the Ellsworth and the McArthur companies—were between Little Mountain and Big Mountain, he organized a group of citizens, brass bands, Church leaders, and others to meet the groups and escort them into the city. When the escort met the handcart companies, the handcarts were halted and Captain Ellsworth introduced the companies to President Young and his counselors. Relatives and friends greeted the newcomers and provided a treat of fresh melons for them to eat.
As the companies and their escort moved on toward the public square in Salt Lake City, the number of welcomers increased. The Deseret News of that day stated, “The line of march was scarcely taken up, before it began to be met by men, women, and children on foot, on horses, and in wagons, thronging out to see and welcome the first hand-cart companies and the numbers rapidly increased until the living tide lined and thronged South Temple street.”
President Young spoke briefly to the group and blessed them; then the handcart pioneers pitched their tents, finally at rest in the valley of the Great Salt Lake.
26
Eight miles from Salt Lake City, met by Brigham Young, Nauvoo Brass Band, and others with provisions (13 miles)

When I arrived in Natchez to accept a job with the U.S. National Park Service, I entertained doubts and fears. I had left all that was comfortable and familiar to me in Utah, and as I took up residence in this new and seemingly foreign city, I felt lost and alone.
On my first day of training, the supervising ranger began by taking me through the park’s Civil War-era mansion and demonstrating the type of guided tour I would soon be expected to conduct. By the time we had finished exploring the first floor, I was already having a hard time remembering all of the details. From the French rococo revival furniture to the English porcelain china, the ornate home embodied Southern prosperity—and thoroughly overwhelmed me. Realizing that we had yet to see the second level of the home, I was overcome with a feeling of frustration and a longing for home.
As we climbed the grand staircase, an oil painting of a townscape caught my attention. I had never seen it before, yet there was something familiar about it. My eyes were drawn to the depiction of a large building atop the town’s bluff, and I recognized the sweeping curve that the river made around the city. Could it really be what I thought it was?
I asked if the painting was a depiction of Nauvoo. My supervisor, startled by my question, replied that indeed it was. I soon learned that the painting had been purchased by one of the home’s later owners because presumably it had been painted during the mid-19th century and the river scene coincided nicely with the Natchez landscape.
The Saints who passed through Natchez amid persecution must have felt a great sense of relief and gratitude when they finally arrived at Nauvoo. Similarly, I felt comforted when I saw the painting of Nauvoo in the mansion in Natchez. Seeing the painting helped me know that Heavenly Father was aware of my situation and would bless me with the strength to overcome my homesickness, fear, and doubts. I knew that the painting of Nauvoo was a tender mercy of the Lord.

Trevor sat down on the couch and put his chin in his hands. His brothers were playing with Grandpa. He wished he could have fun too, but he couldn’t stop worrying about his baptism.
Mom sat down next to him and ruffled his hair. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “Don’t you want to play?”
Trevor shook his head, frowning.
Mom looked at him a moment, then put her arm around him. “Are you still afraid to go under the water?”
Trevor nodded.
The thought of being underwater always scared Trevor. When he was three, he had fallen into a swimming pool. He could never forget how scared he had felt as he sank deeper and deeper into the water until someone pulled him out. He had been nervous around water ever since.
“Why isn’t anything working?” Trevor asked. “We prayed, and we even visited the font. Nothing worked!” Springing up from the couch, Trevor ran into his room.
Slamming the bedroom door behind him, Trevor fell onto his bed. Soon he heard a soft knock on the door.
Trevor looked over as Dad sat down beside him. “Mom told me you’re still nervous about getting baptized,” Dad said.
Trevor nodded. “I keep praying, but the scared feeling won’t go away.”
Dad thought a minute. “Sometimes when we pray for something, it doesn’t happen right away. You might feel scared now, but maybe by tomorrow you’ll feel better.”
Trevor shook his head, but then he remembered when he was nervous about starting school last year. Dad had given him a blessing. Maybe a blessing could help him get baptized too. He looked up at Dad. “Do you think you and Grandpa can give me a blessing?”
Dad nodded. “I think that’s a great idea.”
A little while later, Trevor sat down in a chair in the family room. Dad and Grandpa placed their hands on his head. Dad blessed him, saying that if he had faith, Heavenly Father could help him to feel calm and peaceful.
The next day as he sat at his baptism in his white clothes, Trevor still felt nervous. He was glad he had received a blessing, but what if he stayed scared? How would he get baptized?
After hearing a talk about baptism, Dad leaned over. “It’s time to go to the font,” he said. Trevor nodded and followed Dad to the font. Dad went in first.
It was Trevor’s turn. He hesitated, but then he remembered his blessing. “Heavenly Father, please help me to have faith,” he prayed silently to himself.
Slowly, Trevor put one foot in the water. It was nice and warm. Trevor took another step.
With each step, he could feel his worry and fear melting away. Dad took him by the arm and smiled. “Ready?”
Trevor felt calm and peaceful. This was the feeling Heavenly Father had promised to give him. He nodded. “Ready.”
Dad raised his right arm and said the baptismal prayer. As Dad lowered him under the water, Trevor wasn’t afraid. All he could feel was that calm, peaceful feeling growing stronger.
Trevor came out of the water smiling. He knew that his faith had helped him overcome his fear so he could be baptized. He knew Heavenly Father would always help him when he was trying to choose the right.

“Missions are fine for some people, bishop, but not for me. I’ve been out with the missionaries, and all the good we did was to relieve some people’s frustrations by letting them slam a door in our face, and someone else threw a beer can at us. Now what good is that? If you ask me, bishop, I’ll do the world a lot more good by getting through school and becoming a doctor. Besides, if I went on a mission I would lose my scholarship.”
The bishop sat calmly through my whole speech. I don’t know how he could be so calm, because he had heard this speech twice before. He just leaned back in his chair, sighed softly, and said good naturedly, “You are stubborn, aren’t you? Well, I’ve done everything I can to help you understand how important a mission is, but the final decision is yours and I guess you have made it. If anything changes your mind,” he added with a smile, “be sure to tell me.”
“If anything can change my mind, you will be the first to know.”
I saw my friend Ted sitting underneath a tree in the middle of the church lawn as I walked outside. I walked over to where he was and sat down beside him. Neither one of us spoke for a moment, but then Ted said, “So, what happened?”
“It was just the same old speech by both of us. He told me to let him know if I changed my mind,” I said with a chuckle.
“Maybe you will.”
“Now come on, Ted. You know me better than that. Nothing could make me change my mind.”
“All I know is that the bishop is pretty inspired sometimes.”
“We’ll see,” I said confidently. “Come on, let’s go home.”
The early spring air was still a bit cool, but it felt good blowing through my hair. The budding maple trees on the side of the street disappeared behind us one by one as we passed by.
Ted and I had grown up together. We lived just a few houses apart on the same street. He had just recently decided that he was going to go on a mission. He would be leaving soon after graduation, which was in a few months. It really made me feel bad that we wouldn’t be rooming together at college like we had originally planned.
When we reached Ted’s house, we both sat down on his porch steps for a minute.
“Hey, Ted,” I said, “after you eat dinner do you want to go to the creek and see if any water snakes are out yet, just for old times’ sake?”
“I’d like to, but I’m going home teaching after dinner.”
“Well, then, I guess I’ll see you at school in the morning.”
I jogged on up to my house and ran into the kitchen just in time to hear the “amen” of the blessing on the food. My mom and dad and little sister greeted me as I sat down. I knew they were all wondering how my talk with the bishop had turned out. Of course, I had discussed it with my parents before. They had encouraged me strongly to go on a mission but had always let me know that it was my decision. Just so they wouldn’t ask me any uncomfortable questions now at dinner, I hinted at what happened by remarking how I would miss Mom’s cooking while I was at college. I knew they were hurt and disappointed, but the bishop was right when he said I was stubborn.
After dinner I helped Mom with the dishes. Through the kitchen window I could see the hay fields behind the house and the creek which lay beyond. It looked so nice outside that I thought I would walk down by the creek even if Ted couldn’t go. After the dishes were done, I changed my clothes and started walking across the empty hay fields. The sun was warm on my back, and the air was cool and clean. It really made me feel good. When I got to the creek I lay down on my belly in a patch of tall grass. The bank where I was lying was about three feet higher than the creek and was eroded quite badly. I just lay there soaking in the sun and listening to the forlorn call of the mourning doves. The sound of the moving water lulled the thoughts of a mission and the bishop out of my mind. I had almost forgotten about my original idea of walking along the creek to look for water snakes and was almost asleep when I felt something wet and slippery slide up my pant leg. Now I know it isn’t manly to scream, but I’m no John Wayne, and I let out a yelp and leaped forward. The eroded bank gave way, and I tumbled into the creek. That water was really cold. Not wanting to impose on the snake’s territory, I quickly waded ashore and climbed back up the bank to level ground. I was surprised to see a girl my age with a concerned look on her face standing there watching me.
“Are you all right? Here, take my jacket. You must be freezing.”
Hesitantly I took her jacket, wrapped it around me, and then sat down in the sun to rest and dry off.
“I hope you will forgive me. I didn’t mean to scare you that bad.”
From the confused look on my face she must have gathered that I didn’t understand what she was talking about, so she went on to explain.
“I saw you lying there and I wanted to talk to you, but I didn’t know if you were asleep, so I touched your leg with this stick I pulled out of the creek. You were awake all right,” she said with a giggle.
My face went kind of red. “I thought it was a snake. There’s a lot of them around here, you know. Anyway, who are you?”
“I’m Susan Ward. My dad and I moved into that red brick house about a half mile up the road yesterday.”
“Just you and your dad?”
“My mom died a few months ago in a car accident. There were too many memories of her in the old house, so we moved.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. We both sat quietly for a moment. I threw a couple of rocks into the creek. Then I changed the subject.
“Are you in high school?”
“Yes, I’m a junior this year. I’m kind of nervous about going to school tomorrow. I don’t know anybody there.”
“I can understand that.” I thought for a moment, then said, “I don’t want to sound forward, but I would be happy to pick you up and take you to school tomorrow and show you around to your classes.” Then I added, “Just don’t tell anyone how we met.”
She smiled. “That would be nice, and I won’t say a word.”
“I’ll pick you up at eight.”
We talked a little longer, and then because of my shivering I decided I’d better go home and change clothes, so we said good-bye and went our separate ways.
My family had a hard time finding out how I got all wet and muddy. When they finally pried the truth out of me they had a good laugh.
Later that night I was in bed reading when my little sister tiptoed into my room.
“Hi, Chad.”
“Hi, Sara. What are you still doing up?”
Sara is eight years old. She has sandy hair and blue eyes. And she and I are good buddies.
“I couldn’t sleep. Besides, I wanted to talk to you.”
“So, what’s on your mind?”
“Did you catch a cold or anything from falling in the creek?”
“Nope. I’m fine.”
Sara sat there playing with her toes for a moment. Then she looked up at me and asked, “What does Susan look like?”
I leaned back and thought for a minute, trying to picture her in my mind.
“Oh, Susan is a lot shorter than me. She has short, brown hair with threads of red in it. She has big brown eyes and a cute little nose.”
“She sounds pretty.”
“She is. Kind of spunky, too,” I added thoughtfully.
“Is Susan a Mormon?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then are you going to convert her?”
Sara was looking me right in the eye when she asked that question. I don’t think I would have felt any more uncomfortable if it had been a General Authority who had asked me.
“Uh, well, maybe. What makes you think that Susan would be interested in the Church?” I was trying to put Sara on the spot just like she had done to me, but she answered quickly and sincerely.
“Don’t you think that she would like to be able to live with her family and Heavenly Father forever if she could, just like you and me?”
Now my bishop had given me all kinds of reasons for being a missionary and I had always been able to come up with excuses, but it was different coming from my little sister. All I could say to her statement was, “Yeah, I guess she would.”
“Well, I’m tired now. I better go to bed.” With that she reached over and gave me a hug and then disappeared out my bedroom door.
Leave it to my little sister to find my conscience. In her simple way she had made missionary work sound important. I didn’t sleep very well that night.
I picked up Susan a little early the next morning so I would have time to show her where her classes would be. It ended up that she was in my chemistry class. I have seminary last period in the seminary building across the street from the high school. Susan must have seen me come out of it after class, because when I was taking her home she asked me what class I had in that building. I told her that it was seminary, which is a religion class for my church. When I told her that, I remembered my talk with Sara last night and thought, “Here’s my chance to see if Susan wants to know about the Church.” It took a minute to build up nerve, but finally I asked, “Are you interested at all in religion?”
Susan stiffened up a little when I asked that question. She answered curtly, “No, I’m not. I used to believe in God until he took my mother away. But not anymore.”
I was embarrassed and scared to say anything else. Every time I do something to try to spread the gospel people get mad. It’s good I’m not going on a mission, I thought.
I continued to pick Susan up and take her to school for a week. By then she had made some girl friends and they took over. After that I didn’t see Susan much except in chemistry. We were lab partners, and we had a lot of fun working together. She never let me forget about the snake and the creek. I never forgot about the religion discussion we had in the car, but I never brought it up again.
It wasn’t long after that short discussion that Sara asked me if I had told Susan about the Church yet. I told her what happened in the car, thinking she would be satisfied with my attempt. All she said was, “You just approached her the wrong way.”
I was a little irritated that Sara thought she knew more than me. “Then show me how you would approach her,” I said.
“Okay,” she said, walking to the phone. “Tell me her number, and I will show you.”
Her seriousness surprised me. “No way. You just tell me how you would do it.”
“You are just a scaredy-cat,” she said accusingly. With that she stomped out of the room. I wanted to argue more with her, but I knew she was right. I was a scaredy-cat.
About three weeks before graduation, Ted and I decided to have a party at my house. We invited ten friends of ours and told them to bring dates. I had a hard time finding a date. I called a couple of girls from my ward, but both of them were busy that night. I didn’t know it, but my little sister was sitting outside my bedroom listening to me trying to get a date. After my second strike she stuck her head through the doorway and said, “Ask Susan.”
I usually get after Sara when she listens to me talking on the phone, but this time her suggestion caught my attention first. “Well, I guess I could.”
“Do it. Then maybe you could talk to her about the Church again.”
“Sara, this will be a party, not Sunday School.”
“But you never know what might come up …”
I cut her off. “Maybe, but I don’t want you saying anything about religion to her unless she asks. Okay?” I said that because I knew Susan wouldn’t ask.
“Okay,” my sister said with a shrug.
I didn’t trust her.
I did call Susan and was excited when she said that she would like to come.
The night of the party came, and so did all of my friends and their dates. We had a barbecue out back and then went down in the family room and played some games. After the games, Susan and some of the other girls went upstairs to the kitchen to fix some banana splits. Since I was the host, I went up after them to see if they could find all of the things they needed. When I got to the kitchen I found all of the girls working on the banana splits except Susan. “Where’s Susan?” I asked.
“I think she is in the front room with your little sister,” answered one of the girls.
“Oh no,” I thought as I walked to the front room. Sure enough, there was Susan sitting next to my little sister, who was in her nightgown. They had the big book on the temples in their laps. I was in the process of giving my sister a “You are in big trouble” look when Susan said in a serious voice, “I asked your little sister about that cross-stitch picture on the wall that says ‘Families are Forever,’ and she was just showing me these temples and telling me how families can get that way.”
Sara just smiled at me.
“Your sister was telling me that I could be with my mother again someday. Is that true?”
“Yes, it is,” I managed to say.
Susan sat there quietly thinking, and I stood there quietly wondering what to say next when Sara mouthed out the words, “The missionaries.”
I don’t know how I did it, but I heard the words coming out of my mouth, “Would you like to come back tomorrow night and talk to a couple of young men who could tell you a lot more about how families can be forever?”
I was getting ready for another rejection when Susan answered excitedly, “Yes, I would. Could my father come, too?”
I was too shocked to answer, but my sister spoke up. “Yes, that would be great!” I couldn’t believe this was happening. I don’t remember what happened the rest of the night except that when I got back from taking Susan home I found Sara lying asleep on my bed. I picked her up gently and carried her to her room. As I tucked her into bed I thought of the scripture, “Except ye … become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven” (Matt. 18:3).
I wanted to wake Sara up and tell her I was sorry for being so afraid of being a missionary, but instead I kissed her on the cheek and went to my own room.
Three weeks after Susan and her father had their first discussion, they were baptized. I had the honor and privilege of baptizing Susan, and my father baptized her father. My heart did a lot of changing during those three weeks. I guess while the Spirit was converting Susan and her father, it was also doing a little work on me. It wasn’t until I heard Susan’s father bear his testimony after his baptism that my heart was totally changed. This is part of what he said:
“I could become a millionaire, or I could become famous, but nothing greater could happen to me than to have the fulness of the gospel of Jesus Christ and know that I have the opportunity to live with my Heavenly Father and my family forever.”
Then I understood fully how 18 months spent on a mission could do more good than 50 years as a doctor. After the closing prayer my little sister came up to me, gave me a big hug, and said, “Missionary work is worth it, isn’t it?” A tear rolled down my cheek as I nodded. Then I said, “Let’s find the bishop. I have something to tell him.”

“Lucy, I’m tired,” four-year-old Eliza complained. “I want to go home.” Home was a covered wagon in a wagon train bound for Utah.
“As soon as we fill our baskets, we’ll head back,” Lucy promised. She glanced at her brother to find him eating the berries as soon as he picked them. “Hyrum, stop eating those, or we’ll never finish!”
“Aw, Lucy, I just ate a few.”
His purple-stained teeth made her smile. At almost eight years old, he was only two years younger than herself. “If you eat all the berries you pick, we won’t have enough for pies!” she declared.
His and Eliza’s faces lit up at the mention of pies.
There hadn’t been much to smile about since Papa had died two years ago. When the Saints had prepared to leave Nauvoo, some people had tried to discourage Mama from joining them, claiming a widow with small children would only slow the others down.
Mama had ignored them and had used what little savings the family had to buy the wagon and supplies needed for the journey. Keeping up with the rest of the wagon train took so much of Mama’s energy that there wasn’t much left for things like pie-making.
When she suggested that Lucy take Hyrum and Eliza berry-picking that afternoon while the wagons stopped for repairs, Lucy had eagerly jumped at the chance.
A roll of thunder rumbled through the air.
Looking up, Lucy saw a funnel cloud approaching rapidly. Only once before had she seen such a cloud. When it had touched down, the tornado had ripped through their small farm in Nauvoo, destroying everything in its path.
With her heart pounding in rhythm to the roar of the thunder, Lucy took Hyrum by one hand and Eliza by the other and began to run for shelter. Eliza couldn’t keep up the pace, so they were forced to slow down. The tornado gained on them, a frightening monster that whipped dirt and dust into their faces and spewed up rocks around them.
“Don’t worry—Heavenly Father will protect us,” Lucy shouted over the roar to her brother and sister. “He won’t let anything happen to us.” She repeated the words over and over, partly to reassure them and partly as a prayer for help.
The words uttered by her father at the time of her baptism suddenly sounded in her mind. “Know that the Lord loves you. You are a choice daughter of God. Pray always. Look to Him for guidance. He will not desert you in your hour of need.”
There was no time, no place to stop and pray. But Lucy prayed as hard in her heart as she’d ever prayed on her knees, all the while holding onto Eliza and Hyrum. Please, dear Lord, let me know what to do. I need Thy help. We all do!
They stumbled their way through the blinding gusts of dirt. Eliza began to cry as Lucy tugged on her hand. “We have to keep going,” Lucy said, urging her little sister forward. “We can’t stop. Not here.” Not when the wagon train was still a distance away.
And then the voice came. She heard it as clearly as she heard the howl of the wind.
Lie down in the gulch.
Lucy shook her head, sure she must have misunderstood. Lie down here, with nothing but a shallow gulch for shelter? she wondered. She looked at her brother and sister, surprised that they hadn’t heard it as well.
The storm is sweeping up everything in its path. We have to keep going, she decided. She started to pick up Eliza to carry her when the voice came again.
Lie down. Now!
Lucy couldn’t dismiss the voice this time.
It wasn’t loud but held a quiet authority that wouldn’t be ignored. She pushed Hyrum and Eliza down and covered them with her own body. The ground seemed to tremble beneath them as the storm raged overhead.
Please, Heavenly Father, Lucy prayed silently. Protect us from the tornado. The words gave her strength even as the wind howled around them.
The voice came once more. Do not fear. I am here.
A sweet calm settled over her. Hyrum and Eliza quieted as Lucy whispered soothing words to them, promising that everything would be all right.
When the tornado had passed, they got to their feet again and started toward the camp once more.
When they arrived at the camp, Mama fussed over them, crying and laughing at the same time. When she had assured herself that they were all right, she fell to her knees and offered a prayer of thanksgiving.
After Mama’s prayer, Lucy shared her startling experience with Mama and Hyrum and Eliza as the four of them gratefully clung together.

Years ago there came to my office a young woman and her aging father. She had brought him several hundred miles to find a remedy for the guilt he felt. As a young man he had made a serious mistake, and in his old age the memory came back to him. He could not shake the feeling of guilt. He could not go back and undo the problem of his youth on his own, but he could start where he was and, with help, erase the guilt which had followed him all those years.
I was grateful that by teaching him principles from the Book of Mormon, it was as though a tremendous weight was lifted from his shoulders. When he and his daughter drove back home those many miles, the old man had left behind the guilt of the past transgression.

One day Rosella and I were sitting next to each other during music class. We were practicing songs for the spring program when the intercom crackled and the principal’s voice asked the music teacher to please come to the office. The teacher told everyone to behave. He said he would be back in a minute, but he was gone a long time.
Some of the boys in the class began throwing wads of paper at the trash can on the other side of the room. Soon the floor was littered with paper.
One of the boys who was throwing paper looked at a boy named Alan and said, “Alan, look at that mess you made. You’d better go pick up those papers.”
Alan hadn’t thrown any paper at all, but he didn’t argue. He just nodded, got up from his chair, and began picking up the paper. It took him a long time because he picked up one wad at a time. Alan had crooked glasses, and his hair stood up in tufts all over his head. Something happened when he was born, and he didn’t get enough oxygen. Because of that he had a hard time learning. Sometimes he tripped or made mistakes. But he wanted to be friends with everyone, and he smiled a lot.
After Alan had picked up all the paper, he walked back to his chair. The other boys were all grinning. When Alan turned to sit down, one of them reached over and yanked the chair out from under him. Alan sat down on the floor. Hard. You could see it hurt him because tears came to his eyes. But when the boys all started laughing, Alan tried to laugh too.
The next thing I knew, Rosella was standing up. She marched across the room and stood in front of those boys, glaring at them. Then she reached out her hand and helped Alan get into his chair. The whole class was silent. She asked Alan if he was hurt, and he shook his head. Then she put her hands on her hips. “Being mean to people is a really chicken way of trying to be funny,” she told the boys.
They just looked at her. She didn’t sound mean or angry, but everyone knew she meant it.
Then Rosella turned around and walked back to her chair. The class was dead quiet. I wondered what the boys would do. They usually didn’t like being told what to do, especially by a girl. I kept hoping the teacher would come back before anything else happened. Then one of the boys looked over at Alan. “Sorry we yanked your chair,” he said.
Alan folded his hands together and smiled big. “It’s OK. I have friends.” He looked over at Rosella.
Just then the teacher walked in. No one said anything about the paper, and class continued as usual. When Rosella picked up her music, I could see that her hands were shaking, but she had a quiet look on her face.
Our class began practicing. I could hear the piano playing and the class singing, but I was thinking about Rosella. I was thinking about how she stood up for Alan even though she was probably scared. I looked at Rosella singing the song and then over at Alan. Then I understood—being brave doesn’t mean you’re not scared. Being brave means doing the right thing even if you are scared.

One Saturday afternoon I received a phone call from the father of a family I home taught. “I was wondering if you could watch our kids while Cindy and I go visit her grandma,” Brother Stevens asked (names have been changed). “She hasn’t been doing well, and we think this might be our last chance to see her.”
I assured Brother Stevens I would be glad to help. “That’s great!” he said. “And if you could, it would be nice if you could straighten up around the house, since today is our anniversary.”
When I arrived, Brother and Sister Stevens left me with some microwavable noodles and a list of chores to do around the house. Then they drove off. I had a strong impression that I should do more than just watch their children. This was a difficult day for them, and I wanted to make it a bit better. I decided to do all the chores on the list and more, including washing the dishes and mowing and edging the lawn.
Obviously, I couldn’t do all of that and take care of their three kids in just three hours, so I thought I should call some members of my priests quorum. There was just one problem: I wasn’t exactly friends with the guys in my quorum. We got along all right, but aside from the Church, we didn’t have a lot in common. We went to different schools, and I rarely saw them outside of Church functions. I felt awkward calling them for something like this.
I called the Young Men president and asked if he could get some of the guys together to help. He kindly replied that he was simply an adviser and explained that I should call Peter, the first assistant to the bishop, who had the calling to help me in my priesthood responsibility. That was exactly what I was afraid he would say.
Nervous and with a little hesitation, I called Peter and asked if he could come over. “Sure,” he said. “I’ve got Scott and Kevin here, and I’ll bring them over too.”
Together, we mowed and edged the lawn, did the dishes, and straightened up the house. Brother and Sister Stevens came home just as we were finishing.
That experience taught me that priesthood quorums are united by faith in Jesus Christ and in service, regardless of differences in interests, personalities, or backgrounds.

My father was a farmer and put in long hard days of labor, much of it with animals. If any earthly trial I know of can drive a man to profanity, it is working with animals, and there are many men on whom it has had exactly that effect. My father wasn’t one of them. I’ll never forget a lesson he taught me one day while he was milking a cow that was sick with milk fever. Father had cracked his ribs not long before, and they were excruciatingly painful, but as if that weren’t enough, the cow in her sickness suddenly collapsed and fell right on top of him. It would have been a funny sight, him lying there in the spilled milk with a cow on top of him, if it hadn’t been for his white-faced agony as he struggled to rise. Although he was sick with pain, he didn’t call the cow any bad names. He got out from under her and onto his feet with difficulty and then helped the cow up. Then he ran his hand gently along her side and said, “You poor dear, I’m sorry you’re so sick.”

That may sound absurd to anyone accustomed to salving all wounds with violent words, but it seemed to me an expression of reason, kindness, and self-control far better than the string of oaths he could have spit out at a poor, dumb animal. I really don’t believe his ribs would have felt any better had he sworn, nor would he have felt any better about the experience. I don’t believe it anymore when someone tells me there are times when a person can’t help swearing.

After many delays, our field camp at Coalsack Bluff was established. This location, selected by Dr. David Elliott of the Institute of Polar Studies, was within a fifty-mile radius of many barren windswept peaks and ridges. The random selection of this campsite was fortunate indeed, for the best fossil locality discovered was in the group of sandstone cliffs nearest our camp. It was therefore possible for us to carry out our work by motor toboggan when helicopter support failed, as it often did.
The day our three remaining helicopters arrived at Coalsack Bluff from McMurdo, Bill Breed and I flew off in one, only to have it crash. The tail-rotor shaft broke soon after liftoff, causing us to fall on the landing field. We were uninjured, but the helicopter was wiped out, leaving us with only two craft. Navy support policy was to fly helicopters in pairs with rescue backup always available in camp. This was no longer possible and led to many frustrating delays.

I was 18 years old when I became a member of the Church. The Book of Mormon played a key role in my conversion. At the time, I was searching for new ideas that could explain the world around me. I remember my college professors taking very materialistic approaches in their teaching. I started to lean toward agnostic ideas about the existence of God.
One day I noticed a sky-blue book that a couple of missionaries had left in our home about six years before. It was the Book of Mormon. Along with the book, they had left a pamphlet about the Prophet Joseph Smith and also some instructions about how to pray to God.
I started reading the Book of Mormon. I was only a few verses into the book, in 1 Nephi, when I felt something different. I began to debate between my feelings and my intellect. So I decided to ask God in prayer.
This was the first time in my life that I had prayed on my knees. The experience that followed became one of the most sacred of my life. A feeling of such overwhelming happiness filled me that I knew in my heart that the Book of Mormon was more than just a book. It was a book of divine origin. It had to be the word of God. I later came to understand that the feeling was the Spirit testifying of its truthfulness.
4. Some will know by asking God. You may be among those who will know by reading from the Book of Mormon and then asking Heavenly Father in prayer whether the book is true. This is what I experienced. It is the sublime promise extended by another Book of Mormon prophet, Moroni, to all sincere seekers of truth: “Behold, I would exhort you that when ye shall read these things … that ye would ask God, the Eternal Father, in the name of Christ, if these things are not true; and if ye shall ask with a sincere heart, with real intent, having faith in Christ, he will manifest the truth of it unto you, by the power of the Holy Ghost” (Moroni 10:3–4). I bear witness that if you read and pray about the Book of Mormon, following the directions of Moroni, you will know that it is true.

I had a similar experience in Idaho some years later. I was attending a stake conference. After the Sunday morning session one of the bishops brought his aged mother up to see me. I had been referring to the Book of Mormon during my sermon and was still holding it in my hand.
She took the book from me, opened it, read a paragraph at random, and then returned the book. I wondered why. Then she said that at the previous stake conference the visitor had been Elder Thomas E. McKay, one of the Assistants to the Council of the Twelve.
She asked me if I knew Elder McKay, and of course, I responded that I did. Then she said, “Will you please tell him that I read a paragraph in your book? When he was here at our last conference, my son brought him to my home and had him administer to me. I was blind. Please tell him that I read from your book.”

My wife and I recently received a letter from one of our daughters that, in part, read, “I’ve become a nurse. Four of the six kids have the flu. I’m changing my ambitions from psychiatrist to nurse. Anyway, nobody in this family is sick in the head; we are just all sick.” Then in capital letters she wrote, “I WANT MY LIFE BACK!”
When we read the letter, we gave each other a knowing smile. But those last words, “I WANT MY LIFE BACK,” have stuck in my mind. My daughter’s situation was temporary and for a good cause, but I’ve been hearing more often about people who are filling their lives with meaningless and harmful things.
A cluttered life is a life that you do not have control of. It is a life in which the things you have surrounded yourself with, and allow to use up your time, are controlling you and negatively influencing your happiness and eternal progress.
Our lives can become cluttered by many things. Some are obvious, such as material things. We can surround ourselves with the material things to the extent that we have no time for the spiritual. Look around and you will see all the gadgets and toys and the nice and the fun things that cause us to squander and pay and to wander and play.
Other things that clutter our lives and use our time are not as obvious. They are more subtle and just seem to evolve, taking control of us.
Whenever I think of something subtle—something kind of hidden that we know is there if we stop to think about it but don’t suspect it of cluttering or negatively influencing our lives—I know Satan is busy at his work.
Nothing suits the devil better than to become a silent partner with us. He knows that we have agency and are at liberty to make choices for ourselves. He also knows that while in mortality we are subject to time. If by his subtle means he can become our silent partner, he can influence us to make wrong choices that use our time unwisely and prevent us from doing what we should.
I have learned that it is very difficult, if not impossible, to unclutter one’s life by starting at the top of the pile with the idea that the solution is to just get things sorted and better organized. It is nice to get better organized, but that is not enough. We must actually get rid of what we do not need.
To do this we need to develop a list of basics, a list of those things that are indispensable to our mortal welfare and happiness and our eternal salvation. This list must follow the gospel pattern and contain elements needed for our sanctification and perfection. It must be the product of inspiration and prayerful judgment. It should separate need from greed. It must be our best understanding of those things that are important as opposed to those things that are just interesting, between things we really need and things we just want.
We need to examine all the ways we use our time so we can better understand what we should really be spending our time doing. After all, we give our lives to that to which we give our time.
We must learn that none of the exciting and entertaining and fun things are worth it if they take us from the path that will lead us back home to our Heavenly Father.
We must remember that a person who is not living the basics of the gospel of Jesus Christ is not living them, no matter who or what has caused it. We must also remember that a family divided is a family divided, no matter who or what divides it.
We need to ask ourselves some serious and soul-searching questions. One of these would surely be, Do I have time for prayer? I don’t mean just an occasional, quick, repetitious prayer that is like giving a wave of the hand to your Father in Heaven as you pass Him on your way to something “important.” I mean sincere, honest, “from the depths of a contrite spirit and a broken heart” prayer; kneeling in humility, demonstrating to the Holy Father that you really love him; private prayer which involves you in the process of repentance and pleading for forgiveness and allows time for pondering and waiting for the answers to come.
The next question might be, Do I study the scriptures? If you do, you know that Lehi saw a rod of iron, which, interpreted, means the word of God (1 Ne. 11:1–23). Those who held to the rod, using it as a guide at all times, came safely through the mist of darkness and arrived at the tree of life and partook of its glorious fruit (1 Ne. 8:19, 30). I solemnly testify that the holy scriptures are the word of God. Constant study of them is the act of holding to the iron rod. They will guide you to the Tree of Life. If you are one who has said, “I want my life back,” I exhort you to go to the Tree of Life, where you will find the pure love of God.
God’s plan is a plan of simplicity. It involves being obedient to simple laws, laws that have within them an automatic blessing and happiness for obedience and an automatic punishment and unhappiness for their disobedience.
I urge you to clear away the clutter. Take your life back. Use your willpower. Learn to say no to those things that will rob you of your precious time and infringe upon your agency to choose to live in exactness to God’s plan of happiness and exaltation. Don’t let the subtle influences of Satan take away any part of your life. Keep it under your own control and operated by your own agency.
It is my humble prayer that by our choices we may preserve our individual agency from the subtleness of Satan and live our lives bright and clear and on the path that leads us back to the presence of our Heavenly Father.

How do you feel?
Not good.
When will Papai give us a blessing?
Soon. Brother Ramos is on his way to help.
Why didn’t it work? I still feel sick!
Me too.
Be patient. Sometimes blessings from the Lord take time. But I know He heard our prayers.
Now it’s time to rest so you can heal.
A few days later …
I feel great today! I’m so glad Heavenly Father helped us get better.
Me too. I’m grateful for the priesthood!
Illustrations by Katie McDee

In my youth I learned an important lesson about how our actions may limit our freedom. One day my father assigned me to varnish a wooden floor. I made the choice to begin at the door and work my way into the room. When I was almost finished, I realized I had left myself no way to get out. There was no window or door on the other side. I had literally painted myself into a corner. I had no place to go. I was stuck.
Whenever we disobey, we spiritually paint ourselves into a corner and are captive to our choices. Though we are spiritually stuck, there is always a way back. Like repentance, turning around and walking across a newly varnished floor means more work—a lot of resanding and refinishing! Returning to the Lord isn’t easy, but it is worth it.

It was the hardest letter I had ever written. Not knowing how it would be received, I struggled to find the right words.
It had been five years since I last communicated with my ex-husband’s mother. I was now remarried and trying to offer the love of four children to a grandmother who hadn’t seen or heard from them in all that time.
“Do what you feel you must do,” my husband said, although he didn’t like the idea too well. “Don’t start something you might regret later,” my mother told me.
But there was something else prompting me—a different spirit that said, “You must let her know that her only grandchildren are alive, well, and happy.”
So I wrote the letter. Offering to put aside our past, I spoke of future visits with loved grandchildren and friendship with our family. I included the children’s school pictures.
Grandmother June was in the hospital when the letter arrived. Following surgery, she had developed an infection that slowed her healing and was the start of a deep depression. She had had an unhappy life, and no one was really surprised when she seemed to give up the will to live. Days went by as she lay there, uncaring and unfeeling.
Bill, her husband, brought her cards and letters as they arrived, but it didn’t seem to help. A few days before Thanksgiving a priest came to administer last rites. There was not much hope for her recovery.
That day, when Bill brought the mail in, June took an interest in one of the letters. He opened it, spilling the children’s photographs onto the bed. Both of them reached at once for the pictures. Bill kissed them again and again. June was too weak to do more than look at the treasure and weep.
Later in the afternoon she told a surprised nurse, “I’m hungry. Please bring me something to eat.” With a new will to live, June sat up in bed for the first time in many days. Soon she was strong enough to answer my letter. She was overjoyed to read about the children, happy to forget about past problems, and excited about seeing her grandchildren again.
We drove to Pennsylvania that summer and visited June and Bill, sharing together a great gift of love and gratitude. I don’t know that my letter saved her life, but I do know that the Spirit of the Lord prompted me to write. And I am deeply thankful that the Spirit urged me to do it when I felt like not doing it.

After I returned to Samoa, I spoke at a YSA devotional about health. Following the conference, a woman walked up to me to shake my hand and tell me she liked my talk. Lagimanofia had just returned from her mission. From the moment I met her, I felt that she completed me. I had been praying to find someone who could be a companion and who would love and accept me.
As Lagimanofia and I started dating, she cared for me and accepted me, and her family was supportive. We married, and our lives changed forever when we adopted Posenai Jr. God prepared us to adopt him. Having him in our lives has made us very happy.

Norm was our patriarch, not in age as much as in patience and insight. He was a tall, lanky guy who was always the first with a practical joke or a one-liner, but also the type who seemed to know when understanding and empathy were in order. Perhaps Norm’s kindness was made even more apparent as it contrasted with the rough, seasoned construction workers we worked alongside—men who used four-letter words to replace any and every adjective possible, men who spent their paychecks on beer and little else. Three of us steered clear of the regulars, but Norm made an extra effort to spend at least a few minutes every day working in their group.
One morning, before we made our way down the twisting trench, Norm pulled a Book of Mormon out of his lunch box and walked over to one of the regulars.
“Don’t be stupid,” snapped the powerfully built construction worker as he pushed the book back at Norm. Norm took a short, nervous step back.
“Put the thing in my truck,” the man said in a hushed voice. “And put it under the seat so the guys don’t see it and give me a hard time.”
Norm walked over to the vehicle and called back to the man who was now surrounded by several of his fellow workers. “Hey, nice stereo. Mind if I have a closer look?”
“Yeah, sure,” the man called back.
Norm slipped the Book of Mormon under the driver’s seat, and we began our daily walk to the job site.
Norm answered our queries by telling us that he had struck up several conversations with the man while they worked. During one talk he discovered the man’s grandmother was an American Indian. “I listened to the stories his grandmother told him,” said Norm, “like the one where the continent is covered in darkness for three days [see 1 Ne. 19:10]. I told him, ‘Boy, do I have a book for you!’”
I felt disturbed. I knew I would have let these individuals miss out on the blessings of the gospel simply because they appeared rough on the outside. I knew Norm did not approach these men because he wanted to show off to us; he knew the joy of the gospel, and he wanted these men to share that spiritual wealth.
After Norm told his story we were quiet for a long time, walking and thinking of the blessings we enjoyed and wondering how we could walk closer to our brothers. With the time we had left on the job, we brought the other men into our work group and involved them in our water fights and our harmless practical jokes on the bosses and on each other. But perhaps most important, we let these men know what we believed and how we lived our lives. And from then on, as we walked to and from the job site, we did so together, the regulars and the Mormons—side by side.

The United States Navy’s Officer Candidate School (OCS) is an intense 13 weeks of training for college graduates who want to become naval officers. The first week is especially difficult—seven days with a Marine drill instructor whose job it is to indoctrinate his new class with military discipline and attention to detail. During the training, the Navy’s core values of honor, courage, and commitment are taught and emphasized.
My class drill instructor, Gunnery Sergeant Cagle, stressed to us the importance of honesty and integrity. The consequence of making a mistake was a powerful chewing out—packed with choice words—by Cagle and a “mashing session” consisting of extra push-ups, jumping jacks, leg lifts, and eight-count bodybuilders. Often he would test us by putting us in situations in which we would have to stand up and admit that we had made a mistake just to see how we would act. If someone confessed, his punishment was usually reduced significantly. Still, no one wanted to stand out and draw more attention to themselves than was necessary.
Having been forewarned about what to expect at OCS, I was a little worried about being able to mentally and emotionally handle it. And knowing that many of my classmates probably would not have the same standards as mine regarding drinking, entertainment, and other distractions, I worried that I would not have the strength to stand up for my beliefs under pressure. So, as part of my preparation to enter OCS, I prayed and fasted for strength and asked for a blessing that everything would work out okay. I determined how I would react and what I would do if I found myself in a situation where I would have to defend my beliefs. Still, those drill instructors sounded pretty intimidating.
An opportunity to stand up soon came. Gunnery Sergeant Cagle had all my classmates packed into one of our rooms to show us how we were to fold our clothes and store them in our wall lockers for an upcoming inspection. He started his explanation, mixing it with a few colorful metaphors. At one point he stopped and asked if there were any of us who had not seen an R-rated movie. I almost didn’t raise my hand for fear of standing out, but I remembered what he had said about being honest as well as the commitment I had made to myself to stand up for what I believed. Much to the disbelief of Cagle and the rest of my class, I raised my hand. He stared at me for a minute then asked if I really hadn’t seen an R-rated movie. I answered again that I hadn’t. He told me he would talk to me later, then continued to justify his language to the class.
After he dismissed us for the evening, he pulled me aside and again asked me, in disbelief, if I really had never seen an R-rated movie. For the third time I told him, “No.” He then asked me if I found his language offensive. Taking a deep breath, I told him that, yes, I did find it offensive—a bold answer to my drill sergeant, but one worth any retribution I might receive.
My response caused him to pause again. He asked if I minded if he used that language as long as it was never specifically aimed at me. Again I told him, “Sir, I do mind, and I would prefer it if you would not use that kind of language. However, it is your choice, and I understand that some of it may come with your job.”
I guess he was taken aback, but he let me go. Later that night, and even for a couple of days after, my classmates would ask me what had happened. They told me they didn’t really like Cagle’s language either. They told me I was brave, then asked why I didn’t watch R-rated movies. Their curiosity gave me the chance to tell them about what I believed and about the Church.
Later in the course, we were reminiscing with Cagle, and someone asked him if anybody had ever answered his R-rated question like I had. He looked at me and replied that I was the first, and that I had totally taken him by surprise.
By the end of OCS, my classmates humorously dubbed me “rated-R.” Many of them were even more cautious about swearing in front of me. Because I stood up for my beliefs, I feel I earned the respect of not only my classmates but also my drill instructor.
I am grateful for the strength I felt from the Lord. I am also grateful I decided ahead of time what I would do if I had the choice to say nothing or stand up for my beliefs. I do know the Lord watches out for us and even turns sticky situations into missionary opportunities.