Gospel Story Finder

I always looked forward to Primary activity day because it meant exciting activities, great games, and tasty treats. Sometimes the activities were serious and spiritual, and I liked those, too, because I learned so much. But of all the great activities I went to, I remember one more than any other.
At 10:00 on the dot that Saturday, I showed up at church, along with the rest of the Primary-age children in my ward. After an opening prayer, a song, and a few instructions, we split into groups. I followed my group into a classroom and was surprised to find a large piece of green-and-white-checked fabric and a piece of solid green fabric, with a layer of fluffy stuff in between. It was all stretched out and tacked to some boards. Nearby were yarn and big needles. “A quilt,” I thought. “Who would be tying a quilt right in the middle of our Primary activity?”
“We are all going to help tie this quilt for someone in the ward who isn’t feeling well,” one of our Primary leaders explained. “After it’s finished, we’ll give it to her.”
“What a great idea!” I thought. When I’m having a hard time, I enjoy wrapping up in a nice warm blanket. But I wondered how well it would turn out since I had never tied a quilt and was pretty sure the rest of the Primary hadn’t either.
Then the Primary president announced who would receive the quilt—my own lucky mom! I was even more excited to try my hardest so the quilt would look nice.
My mom had been very ill all month. In fact, Grandma had to stay with us for a while because Mom was so sick she couldn’t take care of us. She had to be released from her Primary calling, too. Even though Mom’s illness wasn’t easy for our family, something good was going to happen. I would have a baby brother!
With the help of our leaders, we set to work. Even though I wondered if we could really do it, we tied that quilt. Everyone made a stitch or two. Then we each wrote a message, signed our name, or drew a picture in a book that went along with the quilt. I knew what we were doing would mean a lot to Mom because she told me how much she loved and missed all the children in Primary. And the person who bought the fabric must have been inspired, because green is Mom’s favorite color.
Tying the quilt wasn’t hard, but keeping quiet about it sure was. A few weeks later, the secret was finally revealed. On a sunny Sunday morning during singing time, we all walked a block from the church and around the corner to my backyard. We sat on the lawn and waited while one of our leaders knocked on the door.
You can probably guess that when Mom stepped outside and saw all the children gathered, she cried. She cried even more when we sang some of our favorite Primary songs in our best voices. Then the Primary president presented the finished quilt and the book of messages.
“Your singing was beautiful,” Mom said through her tears. “This is one of the nicest things that has ever happened to me.” I knew she meant it. She smiled and cried some more and said that she was going to go inside, wrap up in the quilt, and read every message we had written.
Mom still has that quilt, and I know she always will. It has a few extra-long loops of yarn on the back where some of the stitches weren’t pulled all the way through. Mom says that makes it even more special. To this day, when someone in the family is sick or has a bad day, nothing makes us feel better than wrapping up in the memories and warmth of what we affectionately call the “Primary quilt.”

Always dealing honorably with others is part of loving mercy. Consider a conversation I overheard decades ago in the emergency department of Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore, Maryland, in the United States. A patient, Mr. Jackson, was a courteous, pleasant man who was well known to the hospital staff. He had previously been hospitalized multiple times for the treatment of alcohol-related diseases. On this occasion, Mr. Jackson returned to the hospital for symptoms that would be diagnosed as inflammation of the pancreas caused by alcohol consumption.

Toward the end of his shift, Dr. Cohen, a hardworking and admired physician, evaluated Mr. Jackson and determined that hospitalization was warranted. Dr. Cohen assigned Dr. Jones, the physician next up in rotation, to admit Mr. Jackson and oversee his treatment.

Dr. Jones had attended a prestigious medical school and was just beginning her postgraduate studies. This grueling training was often associated with sleep deprivation, which likely contributed to Dr. Jones’s negative response. Confronted with her fifth admission of the night, she complained loudly to Dr. Cohen. She felt it was unfair that she would have to spend many hours caring for Mr. Jackson, because his predicament was, after all, self-inflicted.

Dr. Cohen’s emphatic response was spoken in almost a whisper. He said, “Dr. Jones, you became a physician to care for people and work to heal them. You didn’t become a physician to judge them. If you don’t understand the difference, you have no right to train at this institution.” Following this correction, Dr. Jones diligently cared for Mr. Jackson during the hospitalization.

Mr. Jackson has since died. Both Dr. Jones and Dr. Cohen have had stellar careers. But at a critical moment in her training, Dr. Jones needed to be reminded to do justly, to love mercy, and to care for Mr. Jackson without being judgmental.

Over the years, I have benefited from that reminder. Loving mercy means that we do not just love the mercy God extends to us; we delight that God extends the same mercy to others. And we follow His example. “All are alike unto God,” and we all need spiritual treatment to be helped and healed. The Lord has said, “Ye shall not esteem one flesh above another, or one man shall not think himself above another.”

Our six-year-old grandson, Oli, who affectionately calls me “Poppy,” had to get something from the car. His dad stood inside the house and, without Oli being aware, unlocked the car door remotely as Oli approached it, then locked it again when he was done. Oli then ran inside with a big smile!
All the family asked him, “How did you get the car door to unlock for you, then to lock again?” He just smiled.
Our daughter, his mother, said, “Maybe it’s like when Poppy does it—maybe you have magic powers like him!”
When it happened a second time a few minutes later, his response to further questions about his newfound abilities was: “It’s amazing! I think it’s because Poppy loves me and is one of my best friends, and he takes care of me!”

One of the great men I know is Brother Dale Duffy from Boise, Idaho. Every young man who has ever come in contact with Dale will never forget his influence. It was Dale’s idea, as a Scoutmaster, to purchase boating equipment and float the Middle Fork of the Salmon River.

The troop started river running about the time my three oldest sons were in Scout and Explorer troops in the Boise 15th Ward. I remember well how Dale involved the young troop leaders in planning. Few men know better the meaning of the phrase “preparation precedes power.” We started a year ahead. Every boy who wanted to go had to earn the swimming and lifesaving merit badges and be able to swim two-thirds of a mile.

The biggest challenge they had to meet was the “Duffy Battle.” This was hand-to-hand combat with Dale Duffy in water over their heads. He made it a real challenge to see what kind of substance the boys were made of under pressure. During this battle, I’m sure each boy found just how hard he could fight for his life if he had to.

There were also hours of classroom training prior to the first float trip, followed by the practical application of this training as the boys floated down the Boise River in preparation for the Middle Fork experience. Following are some of the things my boys remember and will never forget from this special training:
• You are never on the river without a life jacket.
• Every boy must have a razor-sharp knife in a scabbard on his hip, for use in case he falls in and gets tangled in the rope.
• When you fall in, you face downstream, your feet in front of you to parry off the rocks that are down river.
• When you fall in, always stay with the boat if possible.
• When you swim to shore, swim to the closest shore, diagonally downstream. This conserves strength, and once you are ashore you can be picked up by another boat.
• If someone in your boat falls in, the closest crewmen should immediately grab him and pull him back into the boat as quickly and with as much strength as possible.
• Never pass the lead boat.
• The rubber raft assigned to bring up the rear never passes other boats.
• Never panic, no matter what the condition. Think back on your training and you will recall a specific teaching point or principle that will pull you through.
• Whenever anyone is floating loose after being capsized, pick him up in your boat immediately.
Of course, this is only a small particle of the training the boys received from Dale Duffy. They listened because they respected him and knew that anything they did not understand might put their lives in jeopardy.

On every trip the boys would go to a point just below Dagger Falls and jump into the cold, chill water and float down about 50 yards. This was to take away the initial shock of falling into the water should they capsize. We assigned a crew to each raft, with one of the boys assigned as crew leader. This boy was given total authority while on the river. Usually we would have about six rafts, with three to five boys and their gear on each raft.

I well remember one trip when Scott, my fourth oldest son, was on the same raft with me and three other fellows. On the first or second day of our trip we capsized (which was very common), and the raft got caught in a backwash and was being pounded by tons of water. I came to the surface and watched for my crew members. I counted them. One boy came up, then another, and then a third—but no Scott. I started to feel real concern when I looked back and forth across the river and couldn’t see him anywhere. Fifteen or 20 seconds is an eternity when you are waiting for your son to come to the surface. It’s the most helpless feeling in the world. Finally I saw Scott come to the surface and heaved a great sigh of relief.
“What took you so long?” I yelled to him.
“My foot got caught in the rope, and I was being pounded around because the boat was caught in the backwash.” Then he said, “But I remembered Duffy’s instruction, reached on my hip, pulled my knife out of the scabbard, cut the rope tangled around my foot, and floated free.” I owe my son’s life to Dale Duffy’s training.
About three weeks after our trip another group of river runners went down. Their boat wrapped around a huge rock. All of the crew except one climbed onto the rock. The other crew member got caught in a 50-foot rope and couldn’t get loose. By the time those on the rock had pulled him upstream against the current and lifted him out of the water, he had drowned. This young man was 21 years old. Scott was 13. The whole difference was in training.
On a different trip, Joe, my third son, got caught in a huge backwash behind a giant boulder. Usually the body is heavy enough that you sink down below the waves and wash, and the current pulls you under the backwash and away from danger. However, in Joe’s case the water washed him into the backwash, which threw him like a top back into the hole. This happened over and over, and we feared for his life, but Joe did not panic. He remembered that Dale had told him he would wash through, and so Joe let himself drop down into the water and eventually washed through.
There is an element of physical danger when you go down any river. There is an element of danger rappelling down cliffs or water skiing. Yet I would ten times rather have my boys face physical danger on the Middle Fork of the Salmon River than I would have them drag the streets of the city where vile and filthy temptations lurk at every corner and where their spiritual lives are in danger.
Let me tell you some of the great, exciting things that happen on the river. There are bridges that span the Middle Fork. We like to stop and climb up on the railings of the bridges and dive or jump into the beautiful, sparkling-clear river 25 or 30 feet below. The water is clean enough to drink. It is absolutely beautiful. There are cascading waterfalls that we shower beneath. There are high cliffs, such as those at “Pool” or “Hospital Bar” campsites, that we dive from. The water must be 40 or 50 feet deep. The cliffs are anywhere from 15 to 40 feet high.

What a great experience for boys to feel that exhilarating challenge and accomplishment as they work up enough nerve to dive from these high cliffs. Then there are several hot springs that other travelers have turned into pools and tubs where one can lie and soak his aching muscles and relax. Fishing is great. We usually have several griddles of fish during the trip. I really never cared much for trout until I ate some of that solid pink and white meat cooked out in the open. Now, just thinking about it, I crave some.
As a rule the weather is excellent, with not more than one day of rain during a week’s trip; it is usually hot under a sunny, clear sky.
Among the exciting activities on the river is the water fighting that is carried on between crews of separate boats; they splash each other with bailing buckets, oars, and paddles.
In some places the water is absolutely calm, and one can just lean back, drop into the river, and float downstream in the cool, beautiful water. Occasionally we can even float through rapids in a life jacket or on an air mattress.
We watch for sandbars for overnight camping. These usually lead right out into deep pools, and we swim before and after dinner, and often again just before bedding down. There is a huge bonfire to stand around and warm up by in between dips. One of the most thrilling experiences is to awaken in the middle of the night and look up at the majesty of the heavens. The stars are breathtaking, and there is no smoke, fog, or cloud to obscure the view. Sometimes when there is a full moon, we float the river at night. Such a sight is seldom seen anywhere else in the world. The Milky Way appears almost as a cloud, stretching from one end of the sky to the other. All the constellations stand out, giving evidence that God is truly in his heaven, and these are his creations. He rules over the heavens and the earth. On some of these occasions I feel so near to God, I seem to feel his Spirit and know that he is willing to answer our prayers.
We read in the Book of Moses that Moses saw the beginning from the end and all the creations. And he said, “Now for this cause I know that man is nothing, which thing I never had supposed.” (Moses 1:10.) Under a star-filled sky on the river, I feel just the reverse. I feel the total importance of man in God’s plan.
Every bend in the river, every new tributary, every change of scenery brings a new and exciting challenge. Because of the varying water levels, the river changes every trip. It is never the same. There are always challenges to keep a young man excited and involved in maturing to his full manhood. We see all kinds of wildlife that can rarely be seen any other way—mountain goats, mountain sheep, moose, elk, eagles, hawks, and all kinds of wild bird life such as chuckers, field grouse, and so forth—all adding to the experience of floating the river.
If we spend more than one day on a sandbar, we organize track and field activities, high jumping, broad jumping, racing, shot putting, and underwater swimming—anything that the mind of a young man can conceive. Often we engage in a game of flag football. Frisbies are usually aboard, and sometimes chess boards are brought along to help a river runner relax with a good mate after a hard day of rowing. Underwater swimming with snorkels and fins can be exciting.
From the river we see Indian caves and Indian writings on high walls. At Veil Falls a beautiful, sheer waterfall drops some 300 feet, making a gentle shower of rain at the bottom. Underneath in the huge cavern are many authentic Indian writings. We’ve never visited Veil Falls without seeing mountain goats on the high ledges in the cavern.
Another exciting experience is to see the salmon going upstream to spawn. We always see several, and it affirms our testimony that Christ truly is the Creator. These salmon fight their way over tremendous waterfalls, obstacles, and powerful currents, returning to the spot where they were born that they might spawn and start the life cycle again.
We constantly see deer on these trips. They are gentle and fairly tame, with a sense of curiosity that brings them close to camp. Our young men are impressed with the gentleness of the deer in the high, primitive areas.
White water river running is exciting, but there is an element of danger there. One must be well prepared, in top physical condition, and must love a good challenge. He should love the out-of-doors and feel the exhilaration that comes from the cold night air and an invigorating swim, as well as the heat from the warm fire.
I have never known a young man who floated down the river who didn’t raise his spiritual level many degrees. There’s something highly inspiring about seeing the majesty of God’s creation in the primitive areas of Idaho. Almost every young man seems to be attracted to finding a secluded spot where he may kneel and communicate with the Lord. I’ve seen this happen again and again. My own experiences are the same. Early in the morning and late at night I find a peaceful place where I can kneel along the river and look up at the majesty of the heavens and the multitudinous creations of the Savior. I feel very close to him in that sacred setting, and it is during these hours that I pledge to the Lord every ounce of energy that I have—pledge to follow him at all costs—and have a desire to keep kindled in my bosom the powerful and holy feelings that come as I kneel before him.

This is the life! I found myself thinking as I stood in left field in my baggy white uniform, enjoying the sunshine and the scent of freshly cut grass. Little League baseball fans filled the stands, where hot dogs and drinks were selling for a quarter.
“Think!”
I was quickly brought back into the game as my coach stepped out of the dugout and yelled to our team. Oh yeah. I’m in a baseball game. A good hitter from the opposing team was approaching the plate, and coach wanted us to be ready. We knew from last week’s baseball practice that Think! meant “Ask yourself, What would I do if the ball were hit to me?”
My 11-year-old brain went to work. Let’s see … no outs, a runner on second base. If the ball comes to me in the air, I’ll catch it, check the runner on second to see if he’ll tag up, and throw to the second baseman. If the ball is on the ground, the runner might advance, and I’ll probably throw to third.
Now I know exactly what to do. With my knees slightly bent and my eyes fixed on the batter, I was ready for anything. The pitcher wound up and threw one right over the plate. I heard a loud crack as wood met ball. A line drive was flying straight towards me! In a split second, my mental computer judged the ball’s speed and trajectory and determined it would land just a few yards from where I was standing.
If I hustle, I can catch it. As I began running, out of the corner of my eye I saw the runner take off for third base. What was he doing? Didn’t he think I could catch it on the fly? On my fourth stride, I raised my mitt and felt the ball smack my left hand. In one motion I took the ball out of my mitt and threw it as hard as I could to second base.
I did it! I got the runner out! Or did I? Unfortunately, our second baseman forgot to think. He wasn’t on his base! He was just standing there watching. The ball bounced on the dirt infield, but luckily he scooped up the ball and stepped on the bag just in time to get the runner, who forgot to tag up.
Coach leaped from the dugout and shouted loud enough for all the players and spectators to hear, “Nice job, Bytheway!” A big Boy Scout smile spread across my face as the cheering crowd recognized the little kid in left field who just made a double play. I owed it all to my coach. He reminded me to think.

Rachel peeked around the wheel of the covered wagon and whispered, “Psst, Mary Ann!”
When her friend did not respond, she spoke louder: “Mary Ann, come here!”
Mary Ann was sitting on an old quilt tending her baby brother. She looked up. “I can’t come there,” she said. “My mama told me not to move off this quilt until she was through cooking the biscuits.”
Rachel made her way to the quilt, which was spread on the ground under a shady tree. They were traveling west with their families in a wagon train. They had left Missouri with everything they owned loaded into the wagons. Rachel was ready to cry as she sat down on the quilt.
“I’ve looked and looked,” Rachel groaned. “It’s gone!”
“What’s gone?” Mary Ann asked.
“I’ve lost my knitting!” Rachel said. Rachel was a very good knitter. She kept a ball of yarn in her apron pocket and knitted as she walked behind the wagon. “I had a stocking almost half done. Mary Ann, what will I do?”
“Now, calm down,” Mary Ann said in her best motherly voice. “Stop and think. Where did you have it last? Did you look in your little wooden trunk? Sometimes you put it in there.”
“I looked everywhere,” Rachel said. “My last ball of yarn and my metal knitting needles are gone. My papa traded a whole pound of nails for those knitting needles in St. Louis. He’ll never forgive me for losing them.”
“I’m sure he will understand,” Mary Ann said. “But I’ll help you look in your wagon tonight after supper.”
The girls searched the family’s wagon together, but they didn’t find Rachel’s knitting.
“How can I tell Mama and Papa?” Rachel asked.
“Tell us what?” a voice asked.
The girls whirled around. There was Rachel’s father, standing next to the wagon checking the level of the water barrel.
“Oh, Papa,” Rachel sobbed. “I am so careless, and I have done such an awful thing. I’ve lost my metal knitting needles, my yarn, and a half-finished sock.”
Rachel’s father put his arms around her. “That is sad, but it’s not the end of the world.”
The following Saturday when the wagon train stopped for the night, it was announced that they would camp there until Tuesday to give the horses and oxen a chance to rest, and to let the men make repairs to the wagons and harnesses.
Rachel tried to keep busy. She helped her mother cook. She washed clothes in the nearby stream. She helped Mary Ann with her little brother. Rachel sighed. “If I had my knitting, I could have had that stocking almost finished,” she told her friend.
“Never mind,” Mary Ann said. “When we get to the Salt Lake Valley, you can get some new needles and yarn.”
“I hope so,” Rachel said sadly.
“Rachel, please come here,” her father called. “I have a surprise for you.” He was standing near the campfire with his hands behind his back. He brought out one hand. “I whittled a new pair of knitting needles for you,” he said. “They are not as sturdy as the metal ones, but I think they will do. They are made of alder wood, and they are quite straight and smooth.”
Rachel squealed with delight. “Oh, Papa, they are beautiful!”
Then he brought out his other hand from behind his back. He was holding a ball of red yarn.
“Yarn! Where in the world did you get it?” Rachel asked.
“Sister Davis donated it. She said it was just taking up space in her sewing basket.” Her father smiled. “And here is a bit of green yarn that Sister Harper found, and a small ball of yellow from Sister Rogers.” He hugged his daughter. “Everyone felt so bad about you losing your knitting that they all found what scraps of yarn they could so that you could continue knitting the rest of the trip.”
“This is wonderful,” Rachel said. “I must tell everyone how much I appreciate it.” Rachel started off, but she turned around quickly and went back to her father. “Thank you so much for the knitting needles, Papa. I will take very good care of them.” Rachel ran off to show all the ladies of the wagon train the wonderful gift she had received.
As they walked along with the wagons, Rachel knitted and knitted. At night, Rachel held her needles and yarn safely in her pocket. “I’m not taking any chances with this knitting,” she told Mary Ann. “It is too special.”
The day finally came when they looked down into the Salt Lake Valley. They were relieved to have arrived before winter. The nights were getting colder and they knew that snow would not be long in coming.
“Did you finish the sock?” Brother Carter asked Rachel as he led his horses down the steep mountain trail.
“I did,” Rachel said. She pulled out her knitting to show him her finished work.
“Well, now, that is a most unusual stocking,” he said.
“I know.” Rachel laughed. “Papa called it ‘quite remarkable.’”
The knitted stocking had wide and narrow stripes in many different colors. Rachel looked at it thoughtfully. “It’s one of a kind,” she said. “There will never be another like this. I am going to hang it on the mantle at Christmastime when we get a house built. It will be my most unusual, quite remarkable, one-of-a-kind Christmas stocking!”
Rachel enjoyed hanging up her special Christmas stocking for many years. It was a colorful and happy reminder of her trip across the plains, and the generosity and kindness of her fellow travelers.

I discovered file-sharing software as a college freshman, and, however innocently, I quickly got caught up in the world of free downloads. I thought that since it was so easy, and seemingly without penalties, it was harmless. Before long, my hard drive was jammed with almost 1,000 of my favorite songs.

Then I started to wonder about the collection of songs on my computer. Every time I listened to them, I felt guilty for enjoying something I hadn’t paid for. As much as I loved my music, I just couldn’t feel right about keeping it. I finally deleted the software.

A few months later, I heard rumors that the record labels were filing lawsuits against people who used the same file-sharing software I had just removed. Some people were being fined more than $100,000! I couldn’t believe it.

After the shock wore off, I realized just how serious music pirating is. Fortunately, I had removed all my files before the legal battles began, so I didn’t have to worry about paying monetary damages. But I realized that I hadn’t gotten away without damaging my spirit. I had known stealing was wrong since I was a child, and yet I had convinced myself that somehow this was different.

I asked a Choctaw from Oklahoma if he knew the meaning of the word Nanah-ku-chi. He told me that it means “to bring out of the mountain.”
“You have said it just the way the Choctaw would say it,” he told me. “Nanah means mountain; Ku-chi means to bring forth.” I concluded that the words I had heard must have meant that the names of the Choctaw dead should be brought out of obscurity so that the Choctaws’ temple work should be completed.

President Brigham Young once remarked that the Spirit of the Lord would do more to convert people than the eloquence of man. The same is true of singing. It is not always the ability that a missionary has to sing in a creditable and entertaining way that will aid him most in his missionary work; but on the contrary, if he can sing some of our beautiful hymns with the spirit in which they were written, he will be able to carry conviction to the hearts of his hearers as to the truths of the gospel. As an example of this: Elders J. Golden Kimball and Charles A. Welch, neither of whom claim to sing well, while on a mission in the southern states, were about to baptize some converts; a mob had assembled, and the brethren were given to understand that if they carried out their intentions of baptizing, the mob would throw them into the river. The brethren determined to go ahead no matter what the result might be. Before doing so, however, they sang a song. The song seemed to have such an effect upon the mob that they were almost transfixed. The brethren proceeded with their baptisms, and then went some distance to attend to confirming the baptized. A message came from the mob asking them to come and sing that song again, and the request was complied with. The leader of the mob, Joseph Jarvis, afterwards joined the Church, and he stated to Elder Kimball that the sentiments of the hymn and the inspiration attending the singing converted him to the gospel. …

The Lord says in a revelation given to Emma Smith, the wife of the Prophet: “For my soul delighteth in the song of the heart; yea, the song of the righteous is a prayer unto me, and it shall be answered with a blessing upon their heads” (D&C 25:12).
My soul has always delighted in listening to singing, having been passionately fond of it all my life, and I am delighted to be able today to pray unto the Lord “in the songs of the heart.” It is my opinion that if we will all remember the words of the Lord, that the song of the righteous is a prayer unto Him and shall be answered with a blessing upon our heads, and will frequently supplicate our Heavenly Father in the sweet songs of Zion, earnestly and honestly echoing in our hearts the sentiments of our beautiful hymns, that we are bound to have the promised blessings. …
I am confident that the hymns of Zion, when sung with the proper spirit, bring a peaceful and heavenly influence into our homes and also aid in preaching the gospel of Jesus Christ. I recommend to the youth of Zion, that they go to work with determination and learn to sing; particularly is this recommendation made to the young men, because, next to a familiarity with the scriptures, the ability to sing will assist them when they are called to the nations of the earth to preach the gospel. …
I have learned to sing; you can do the same; will you make the effort?

John also reports an incident which took place in June 1844, shortly before the martyrdom. Now 16, he had been marching with 75 legion troopers summoned to Nauvoo by the Prophet. It was raining; roads were bad. Most of the men were on foot, wading in places through waist-deep water.
We reached Nauvoo about daylight and encamped near the temple. While I was guarding the baggage, Joseph the Prophet rode up. He asked about my parents. As we were talking, he took my hand and pulled me forward until I was obliged to step up on a log. Then turning his horse sideways he drew me step by step to near the end of the log, when, seeing that each foot left marks of blood upon the bark, he asked me what was the matter with my feet.
I replied that the prairie grass had cut my shoes to pieces and wounded my feet, but they would soon be all right. I noticed the hand he raised to his face was wet and looking up I saw his cheeks covered with tears. He placed his hand on my head and said, “God bless you, my dear boy,” and asked if others of the company were in the same plight. I replied that a number of them were.
Turning his face toward Mr. Lathrup as the latter came to the door of his store, the Prophet said: “Let these men have some shoes.” Lathrup said: “I have no shoes.” Joseph’s quick reply was, “Let them have boots, then.”
Joseph then turned to me and said, “Johnnie, the troops will be disbanded and return home. I shall go to Carthage for trial. …” Then leaning toward me, with one hand on my head, he said: “Have no fear, for you shall yet see Israel triumph in peace.” (Adapted from Carl Arrington, “Brother Joseph,” New Era, Dec. 1973, pp. 16–19.)

Since I was little, I always wanted to make my Heavenly Father and my present and future family proud. I wanted to get all the education I could to improve myself and my life.
In my country, Peru, quality education is very expensive and, in some areas, totally inaccessible. My family didn’t have all the resources to support my education either. But my parents taught me that working hard, being diligent, and asking Heavenly Father for help can help make our righteous desires come true. And I planned to work hard.
In elementary and high school, I was diligent in my studies to be able to improve myself each year. After high school, I was admitted to Peru’s top-ranked university and received a good scholarship. While there, I worked with several organizations, including an internship with a global organization, and had opportunities to lead many different types of projects.
During that internship, I felt like it would be a great opportunity for me to gain an education in English. So I decided to transfer to Brigham Young University–Idaho. It felt daunting, but I knew that Heavenly Father would help me to achieve this goal—I just needed to trust Him and do my part.
I was set to go to BYU–Idaho, but during the application process, I felt a strong prompting that I should serve a mission before transferring there. So I followed Heavenly Father’s will and was called to serve in Trujillo, Peru. When I returned home, I planned to go back to the university in Peru because I felt like I could get a degree there quickly. However, I found out that my scholarships there were revoked because I had left my studies for more than a year to serve my mission.
I was devastated and lost. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know why I had felt prompted to serve a mission if it meant losing my opportunity to get a college degree.
But one day, I remembered my mission president telling us about BYU-Pathway Worldwide. He had invited us to improve our English and to pursue this opportunity when we came back home—and I did!
I knew that my mission president telling me about BYU-Pathway was not a coincidence. When I began the Pathway program, it required me to travel almost three hours each week to meet with my group. I sacrificed a lot, but I knew that getting an education was both important to me and to the Lord. And those sacrifices led to many blessings.
BYU-Pathway Worldwide was the window of opportunity I was looking for. It gave me access to education at an affordable cost, allowed me time to hold a job, and helped me get an education in English. And through it all, I found great friends who encouraged me to be brave and continue working toward my goals. I feel spiritually stronger and have become a better disciple of Jesus Christ.
Eventually, I was the first international student to receive a bachelor’s degree through BYU-Pathway Worldwide. Education has opened amazing opportunities for me. I am now a welfare and self-reliance specialist for the South America Northwest Area of the Church, and I’m also a volunteer missionary for BYU-Pathway in Peru. I see so much light in each student, and I encourage them to move forward just as I was encouraged by my friends during school. Through this journey, I’ve realized that Heavenly Father has been with me every step of the way.

When I entered BYU Provo in September 1965, Bishop Glenn L. Pearson, a religion professor, was our bishop. Bishop Pearson taught us our first Sunday about the law of the Sabbath, the sacrament, and that our sacrifice to the Lord was to be of a broken heart and a contrite Spirit. He made a promise: “If you look at the Sabbath Day as a day to focus upon the Lord and worship Him, and offer your sacraments and oblations, and not do things for yourself or study—then you will have better grades and a richer education experiences than if you studied on the Sabbath.” I knew I needed help. I decided that each Sabbath I would do the Lord’s will and that I would do all I could to worship the Lord so I could gain the Bishop’s promise of good grades, an enriched education and also have a marked spiritual influence that would stay with me through the week.

I learned something very early in that process. I realized that how I approached the Sabbath—whether on my own terms or from the perspective of the Lord’s commandments—dramatically affected my own vision of discipleship and spirituality. Developing an attitude of worshipping on the Sabbath started to drive my desire to be there on time, to be kind and charitable to all, to be helpful to teachers giving lessons, and, most of all, to seek to connect with Heavenly Father during the time the sacrament was administered. I felt a sense of responsibility to be prepared for Sunday lessons, and to look for ways to do Church service; indeed, I was benefitted greatly by focusing upon worshiping God rather than “attending Church.” I also learned that when one participates in an ordinance—one is exposed to the promises of the powers of heaven—and especially the sacrament where we are promised that we will have the Spirit of the Lord with us ALWAYS.

I had some faith-promoting and enriching educational experiences. One of the most impressive to me came some 8 years later when I had finished my course work for my doctorate. My doctoral chairman, who had been in Europe for the year, learned that I would be leaving the university to take another teaching assignment in California. She called me and asked me to take my comprehensive exams with only ten days’ notice, so I could complete them before I moved. I was greatly troubled by her request. I went to the temple, I visited with each member of my committee, I fasted on both Sundays and studied. When I sat for my four days of comprehensive exams, on several questions I felt like I had answers dictated to me. I truly did receive better grades and a much richer education through Sabbath Day Worship.

Perhaps I can illustrate to a degree what I mean by sharing with you something that happened a year or so ago. Sister Larsen and I attended church meetings in the little Idaho town where Sister Larsen was born and where she lived during her girlhood years. During priesthood meeting I was participating in a discussion with the high priest group of the ward. The subject of the lesson being reviewed that morning had to do with honesty and integrity. The discussion had led us into a consideration of how honest, in strictly legalistic sense, may not always be adequate in our dealings with others. There were comments about the need for being fair and equitable also. The men in the group came mostly from farming backgrounds. Their sense of values was basic and unencumbered by some of the subtleties we are so often afflicted with.

To illustrate a point he was attempting to make, one of the men in the group said, “Let me tell you a story about Uncle Otto.” I was immediately alert with interest. I knew the Uncle Otto referred to was my father-in-law. He had passed away more than ten years before. He was actually of no blood relationship to the man who was speaking. He had simply been known as Uncle Otto to some of those whose parents had associated closely with him and who had shared his way of life.

I must explain that my father-in-law had spent his life working a small farm. He had homesteaded part of the ground as a young man just at the turn of the century. In those early years horses were an essential ingredient in the success of the farmer. Living conditions were very stringent by our present standards. Having a good team had much to do with whether a year’s work showed profit or a loss.

My father-in-law was a quiet man. He was not apt to say much about his inner feelings. He worked hard, and he loved the land he farmed. He was never called upon to carry responsibilities of notoriety in the Church or in the community. But everyone knew the principles upon which he stood. The only sermons he ever preached were those that came unspoken from the way he lived.

Returning to the discussion in the priesthood group, the man continued with the story about Uncle Otto. He spoke of a long-term negotiation that had gone on between his father and my father-in-law over the possible trade of some horses. Such a transaction was entered into with greatest care because so much was at stake. This was especially the case in matching pairs of horses as teams. An agreement had finally been reached that appeared to be totally acceptable to both the farmers. The trade was made.

The man relating the story concluded in this way.

It was on the evening of the day the horse trading had taken place. We were sitting around our kitchen table, eating our evening meal. Father had been telling us how pleased he was with the trade he had made with Uncle Otto. Apparently he was totally satisfied with the outcome of the transaction. Suddenly there was a knock at our door, and father went to see who was calling us. It was Uncle Otto. He stood in the doorway to speak to my father, but we at the table could easily overhear the conversation.

“I’ve been thinking about the trade we made today,” Uncle Otto said. “I haven’t felt exactly right because I think I got a little the best of the deal.”

His hand went into the pocket of his overalls and came out with a beautiful pocketknife that he obviously treasured.

“I’ve thought it over,” Uncle Otto said, “and I’d feel a lot better if you’d take this knife.”

The man who shared this story with us told how deeply he had been impressed, even as a boy, by this act of personal integrity that seemed to go beyond basic honesty.

Developing qualities of this kind helps us to move forward toward greater perfection.

About a year ago, some friends of our family were hospitalized in very serious condition. Rosana and Angel Blanco Rodrigues and two of their children were in their kitchen when they smelled gas. Brother Rodrigues went to investigate. When he touched a gas hose, a small leak exploded, igniting a fire. Seeing his two small children in danger, Brother Rodrigues used his own body to extinguish the flames. He was the most critically injured of the four.
When Mama told our family about the accident, she told us of the love she and Papa felt for their dear friends. She explained that because we live far away, we could not help Brother and Sister Rodrigues by taking care of their other children, their house, or their business matters. But there was a special way we could help them, she said. We could have a family fast and pray that the Lord would bless the Rodrigues family. All of us, even we younger ones, could participate. Our parents had always fasted on the first Sunday of the month and on other occasions, but we had never fasted as a family before. We decided to try it.
We began Saturday at lunchtime. We all fasted—Papa and Mama; Dougles (13), Francini (11), Debora (7), and me (9). We said a prayer and asked the Lord to bless our friends. Mama put a reminder—“Our First Family Fast”—on the refrigerator, the water faucet, the microwave, and the kitchen wall so that we would remember not to eat or drink anything.
I did not feel thirsty during those hours, even with the intense heat here in Amazonas, Brazil. I didn’t feel hungry, either. I was able to understand a little how Jesus Christ might have felt when He fasted for forty days. I felt how good it is to do something to help others.
On Sunday, Papa gave each of us an envelope for our fast offerings and helped us fill out the form. At church that day, we gave the money to our branch president. We ended our fast at lunchtime.
The Rodrigues family eventually returned home with some injuries. As we and many other friends continued to fast and pray for their recovery, the Lord continued to bless them. After several months of care, they were completely healed and were left almost without scars.
Each month since our first family fast, we have fasted and prayed for a united purpose.
I am grateful to be a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and to learn about Jesus Christ and how much He did for me. I want to follow His example always.

When Elder Hales finished serving as mission president in 1979, the family moved directly to Europe. There, as area supervisor, he worked with Elder Thomas S. Monson, then of the Quorum of the Twelve, and Hans B. Ringger, then a regional representative. They worked closely with the leaders of countries where the gospel had not yet been established. In East Germany, they talked with leaders about the possibility of building a temple. Each time the Church leaders made the request to build, it was denied because “no building materials were available.” Finally, they asked where building materials might be available. Eventually the answer came: Freiberg. Soon permission was granted to build a temple there.

Last summer was one of setting and achieving many goals for the youth of the West Jordan Fifth Ward, West Jordan Utah Stake—not the least of which was a 100-mile bike ride to the Manti Temple pageant. Youth committees were called and meetings were held to make the necessary plans and physical preparations. Each person was challenged to ride one hour every day but Sunday, and Salt Lake County extension agents conducted workshops on physical fitness, nutrition, and bicycle safety and repair.
During practice rides, repair kits were always carried for those inevitable flat tires or loose spokes, and ice cream stops became a regular part of the bike riding on Mutual nights. Several trial runs were planned during the summer months, including outings to the Great Salt Lake, the Deseret Gym in Salt Lake City, Copperton Park (uphill all the way!), and the This Is the Place Monument.
Two days before they left, a bike rodeo was held where riding skills were tested, road skills were gone over, and every bike was checked for fitness by the teachers quorum. Finally the day of the trip arrived. Each bike was equipped with a water bottle and gaily colored flag. The only vehicles allowed to accompany the 26 bike-riders were the “water wagon,” which carried food and large cans of cool water to replenish empty water bottles; the bishop’s “tow truck” containing luggage and space for broken-down bicycles; and the Ashworth motor home where the exhausted could ride and meals were prepared. In addition, Brother Loosli followed the last bike all the way, his lights flashing to provide warning to approaching cars and protection for everyone.
Lunch and meal breaks, as well as two stops for swimming, gave everyone the energy to successfully complete the two-day trip. The last mile was straight uphill, and tears of pain, joy, and pride clouded the vision of the bikers as the beautiful Manti Temple came into view. Physically the young people were drained, but spiritually they were full with the sense of accomplishment and togetherness that comes from working together toward a common goal. After viewing the pageant they spent the night in cabins and returned home in automobiles the next morning.

They changed our basketball game from Tuesday to Monday. Because it’s a really important game, Coach said we would have a practice on Sunday afternoon.
“I can’t practice on Sunday,” I told him.
“I know that you’re a Mormon,” he replied, “but this is really important. I’ll talk to your mother.”
“It won’t make any difference,” I told him. “I still won’t be able to come.”
All the girls were staring. “Are you going to be in church?” one asked.
“No,” I answered. “My church is in the morning.”
“Well, where are you going in the afternoon?”
“Nowhere, I guess,” I said. “Just home.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“It’s the Sabbath,” I mumbled. After a lot of exchanged looks and rolled eyes, they went into the locker room, leaving me sitting alone on the bench.
I wish I had a close friend.
Friends. Why can’t we all be friends? Today I was walking about Winter Quarters with Mariah Jewett and Leticia Harwood. Oh, how I have wanted to be Mariah’s friend! She is pretty and clever, and she plans dances for which her father plays the fiddle. I love to dance. She promised to invite me to the next one.
While walking, we saw a family arrive in an overflowing open wagon. I love to see more Saints joining us. Tucked in among the household goods was a girl who looked to be about our age. “How exciting! Let’s go welcome her,” I said.
“Wait,” Mariah said. “Don’t go near her. She’s probably got vermin. Look at her dress. Did you ever see anything so ugly?”
I was anxious about the vermin, so I stared impolitely. Her dress wasn’t ugly, only very plain. Just then the girl saw us watching, and she smiled shyly. Was she feeling as I had felt when we finally joined the other Saints? Was she heartsick at losing friends, and hoping to find new ones?
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “Let’s go be friendly.”
“Hazel!” Mariah’s voice stopped me. “If you mingle with that riffraff, I shall be forced to exclude you from my list of associates.”
I am ashamed that I hesitated, thinking of having fun with Mariah at the dance. Then I remembered the great and spacious building in the Book of Mormon, and I knew where I wanted to be.
“So be it, Mariah,” I said, and I left her. Even in the midst of the Saints, life has trials.
It must be my destiny to be a loner. I was walking to an assembly with Melinda and Denise, who are on the basketball team too. We passed a girl just standing there, looking lost. She also looked like a total nerd. Besides her clothes being all wrong, her hair was like my grandma’s. She was obviously new, and my heart ached for her. I knew just how she felt.
I said, “Are you going to the assembly?” When she nodded, I said, “It’s this way.” Melinda and Denise looked at me like, “You know her?”
She began following us, and Melinda muttered, “Get rid of her.”
But I couldn’t. She needed a friend. She followed us up the bleachers and sat down next to me. Melinda and Denise gave me a disgusted look and moved over to the next section.
Good-bye, Melinda and Denise.
All week long I have looked forward to the dance tonight. Life on the trail is so dreary, just plodding along day after day. I don’t think I ever fixed supper faster or cleaned up more quickly than I did tonight. I called over to Sister Fuller in the next wagon to see if she needed help getting ready. She has two small children and a grandfather who has been ill. She replied that she wasn’t going to the dance. Her grandfather was feeling very ill, and someone had to stay with him.
Poor Sister Fuller. She loves to dance and sing and was probably looking forward to it even more than I. “I will watch your grandfather,” I told her. “I can come get you if he turns worse.”
“But you don’t want to miss the dance,” she protested.
“There are plenty of dances ahead of me. Go with your husband and enjoy yourself.”
Her smile lit up her entire face, and she hugged me. “God bless you, Hazel,” she whispered, and she hurried to freshen up.
So I spent the evening taking care of the grandfather and watching the sleeping babies. I heard the music and the happy voices all evening, and missed it dreadfully. But I was not sorry I stayed so that Sister Fuller could go. If I don’t feel happiness in my soul tonight, at least I feel peace.
Talk about anticipation! Thinking about the ward social Friday night was what kept me going all week. Other girls in the ward were sure to be there, and Church is the only place I can relax and not feel different.
Mom and I left early to pick up Sister Grogan. We found her balancing her crying three-year-old on one knee while feeding the baby in his high chair. Her house was a mess, and she was too.
“I guess I’m not going,” she told Mom. “The babies are fussy, and I can’t handle that tonight.”
Mom picked up the crying toddler. “You need this night out,” she told Sister Grogan. “I’ll stay with your children, and you drive on to the social with Trisha.”
Sister Grogan brightened up. “I can’t let you do that,” she protested weakly.
Mom said “Nonsense,” and started to push her toward the bedroom.
I looked at Mom, and she looked as tired as Sister Grogan did. They both needed this night out.
I took the toddler from Mom. “You’re going to the ward social, too,” I said. “I’m staying with the children.”
“I can’t let you do that.” But she looked as hopeful as Sister Grogan had.
“No problem,” I said. “Go have fun.”
I may not have had fun tonight, but I sure feel good inside!

For the past three years I have been trying my hardest to make varsity cheerleader in my high school. I thought that I had everything going for me, and I thought that I would make it this time. I was absolutely crushed when I found out that I hadn’t. Then I happened to find a January 1973 New Era on my sister’s desk. It was opened to an article by Margie Christiansen called “Can a Loser Really Be a Winner?” As I read it I felt that it was speaking to me, and I was depressed no longer. That article really helped me to see the light and was the answer to a prayer. I’m a winner now, and always will be.
Kathy PorterSimi Valley, California

Later Hernando hurried along Twentieth Street. He pushed the door of an office building open and took the steps two at a time. In Dr. Daily’s office his mother was singing at her work. When she saw Hernando, she smiled and shut off the vacuum cleaner. “All done?” she asked.
Nodding, he handed her his tip money. “I’ll go home for my books and lunch, then be off to school.”
She counted the change that he had given her. “Please stop at Myerling’s and get milk,” she said as she pressed the money into his hand. “Make sure it’s fresh, and don’t forget to close the refrigerator tightly. Be good, and have a nice day.”
He kissed her, then went back outside and down the street.
At the store, Hernando checked the date on the milk before taking it to the counter. As he waited to pay for it, his hand brushed a basket of pears. His mouth suddenly watered. He thought of how long it had been since he’d had one. He looked at Mr. Myerling, who was busy bagging groceries and talking to an early customer. Behind the meat counter, Mrs. Myerling was grinding meat with her back turned. How easy it would be to slip a pear into my pocket! he thought. How good it would taste … Then his mother’s words came to his mind: “Be good.” Swallowing hard, he turned his back on the basket of pears.
When the other customer finally left, Mr. Myerling turned to Hernando.
“Morning, Hernie,” he said. “I didn’t know if you’d stop by this morning, but I’ve been hoping you would.”
“You have?”
“I have some things for your mother,” Mr. Myerling explained. He put the milk into a sack behind the counter. “This bag of sugar split, but I taped it shut. And the labels on these cans are coming off from being on the shelf for a while, but I’m sure the food inside is still good. As for the fruit, it has some bruises, but it’s still good for fruit salad or for baking. Just be sure to put it into the refrigerator for your mother.”
Hernando’s face brightened as he took the sack of groceries. “Thanks, Mr. Myerling!”
“I’m glad you can use it.”
As Hernando entered the apartment building and climbed the stairs, his heart was singing. We might not have much, Hernando prayed silently, but what You give is always enough. Thank you, Father, for always providing.

The youth of the Dublin (California) Ward and the Pleasanton Second Ward had to move quickly. With just three days’ notice from Children’s Hospital in Oakland, California, they pulled together a group to put on a party for all the cardiology patients and their families.
The youth manned refreshment tables, a popcorn machine, face-painting booths, and the check-in table. They also gave instruction in ’50s style dancing.
“It was so fun to watch the kids learn that dance,” says Jessica Cooper. “Every single one of them was smiling. It really made me feel good.”
“I’m not sure who had more fun,” says Beth Patterson, “us or the kids!”