Gospel Story Finder

“Traveling without purse or scrip is pretty heavy,” Wilford Woodruff joked to his missionary companion, Henry Brown. Wilford lifted the small suitcase filled with copies of the Book of Mormon to his back and pulled the ropes around his shoulders.
“These valises of books will protect us if Missouri mobbers try to shoot us from behind,” Henry replied.
Crossing Missouri in 1834 was dangerous, but Wilford had faith the Lord would protect them. Besides, it was the quickest way to Tennessee and the other southern states, where Wilford and Henry had been called to serve as missionaries.
“Let’s get on our way,” Wilford said. “So many people in Missouri hate us that it may be a very long walk before we find food or a place to sleep.”
That day Wilford and Henry did not find anyone who would give them food or lodging. They ate what they found at the edges of fields and in the woods and slept on the ground. After several days, they came to a place called Harmony Mission, where a minister and his family lived. “Could you spare food and a bed for fellow ministers?” Henry asked.
“Are you Mormons?” the minister asked.
“Yes,” Wilford said.
“Then there’s nothing,” the minister said.
“Does anyone else live nearby?” Henry asked.
“Jereu the Frenchman keeps a trading post 12 miles down the Osage River,” the minister said. “Maybe he’d feed Mormons. Follow the river.” Then the minister laughed.
Henry and Wilford soon understood why. The river was terribly crooked, and when the sun went down they were left to wallow in muddy water. Late that night they dragged themselves out onto the dry prairie, said their prayers, and lay down on the ground.
Soon they were awakened by someone singing and drumming on a tin pail.
“Someone who sings has food,” Wilford said.
The two men picked up their valises and stumbled toward the singing. Soon they could see the campfires of the Osage Indian village.
Mr. Jereu and his wife gave Henry and Wilford a delicious supper and comfortable beds. Before they fell asleep, the missionaries thanked the Lord for leading them to these kind people.
The next morning they thanked the Jereus for their kindness and headed out again. After walking 30 miles across open plains, they came to a dark wood.
“Is that a man in the trees?” Henry asked.
“Hello!” Wilford called. A large bear came out of the woods and glared at the missionaries.
“Maybe we should go back,” Henry said.
“No,” Wilford said. “If you recall your Bible, the people troubled by bears had mocked the prophet. We are missionaries following the prophet. We shall have no trouble from this bear.”
As the two men approached the woods, the bear sat and watched them. Then it got up and walked away. The two missionaries continued through the woods, rejoicing.
When night fell, Wilford and Henry were still in the woods. They heard something behind them, then to their right and their left.
“Let’s strike a light,” Wilford said. He lit some tinder. There was a low growl. On every side fierce eyes reflected the light. They were surrounded by wolves.
(To be continued next month.)

The choppy waters of the North Sea gently rocked the Speedwell anchored at Delfshaven, Holland. Crowding the ship’s deck were the passengers, along with their families and friends who had come to say good-bye.
Roger gathered his little sister Ellen into his arms. “Be happy that you are going to America,” he said. Ellen wrapped her arms around his neck, and her tears wet his cheek. Releasing herself, she ran to her parents, Kathrine and Edward Howard.
“Oh, Papa! Mama!” she exclaimed. “I don’t want to go away and leave my sister and brother behind.”
“Don’t worry, little sister,” Sarah said, comforting her. “Roger and I will come to America before long. Just wait and see. And remember, Ellen, although you’re almost the littlest Pilgrim on board, you must be brave, because you’re going to a brave new world.”
“Sarah, why are Pilgrims so poor?” Ellen asked. “If we were rich enough, our whole family could go to America. Then I wouldn’t feel so awful.”
“Come on, Ellen, dry your tears. I’ll tell you what—let’s play one more game of pretend before you go. Let’s pretend that I have lots of bags of gold,” suggested Sarah.
Ellen liked to play pretend with Sarah. “What are you going to do with lots of bags of gold?” she asked.
“I’m going to buy a whole fleet of ships. I’ll tell all the Pilgrims to get aboard, and I’ll take them across the ocean where they can never be persecuted again.” Sarah’s smile broadened. “Better still, let’s pretend that I’m a genie. I’ll wrap a magic web around King James, and I’ll say, ‘Aye, Your Majesty, you’re going to be banished to a faraway island where you can never rant and rave and thunder at people or throw them into prison or hang them or clap them into the stocks again. Never again will you tell people how to worship, for they will belong to any church they like.’ And then I’ll sit and watch while he flies into a rage. His beard will bristle, and his face will turn red. Then he’ll spin off into the air to an island of peacocks and apes.”
As Ellen giggled, Sarah hugged her and said, “See, it’s better to laugh than to cry.”

Carolyn sat down on the stairs, pressed her face against the banister, and peered through the posts. She was waiting for breakfast to be ready.
“Toast with Grandma’s strawberry jam!” called Mother from the kitchen.
Carolyn hopped down the stairs, singing:
“Daddy likes dinner.
Mommy likes lunch.
But breakfast is the meal
That I like to munch.”
As Carolyn skipped into the kitchen, she saw her dog, Inky, disappearing through the swinging door into the pantry. Mother was making orange juice in the blender. Peter was eating crunchy cereal and reading the back of the cereal box.
Carolyn sat down at her place at the table. Her plate was empty, so she waited for her toast.
Carolyn waited and waited. But when Mommy finished giving them each a glass of juice, she sat down and started to read the paper.
At last Carolyn said, “Mommy, I’m ready for my toast and jam now.”
Mommy put down the newspaper. “I already gave you your toast and jam, Carolyn. What did you do with it?”
Peter chuckled. “She probably ate it and then forgot about it.”
“No I didn’t. Someone else must have eaten it.” Carolyn looked suspiciously at her brother, who was always hungry.
“Don’t look at me,” Peter said, picking up his books. “I’d rather have cereal.”
While she waited for another piece of toast, Carolyn sang:
“I think jam and toast are fun.
I guess I’m not the only one!
Someone else likes toast just fine.
But I wish he would not take mine!”
The next morning when Mommy called, Carolyn hurried to the kitchen and sat down at her place. Her plate was empty.
Carolyn reached down to pet Inky, who was lying beside her chair. “I hope,” she whispered to her, “that no one has eaten my toast again.”
Mother was already reading the paper. Peter was studying his spelling words.
“Mommy,” Carolyn said, “I’m ready for my toast now.”
Mother looked up. “Not again! I put your toast on your plate before I called you, Carolyn.”
“But, Mommy, it’s not there now.” Carolyn looked hard at Peter, but he just kept studying his words.
Mother got up and put another piece of bread into the toaster.
After breakfast Carolyn and Inky sat on the stairway landing together while Carolyn thought about how to catch the toast thief. Finally, she had a plan.
The next morning she and Mommy waited outside the kitchen doorway until they heard the toast pop up. Mommy went into the kitchen, spread the toast thickly with butter and jam, put the toast on Carolyn’s plate, pretended to call to Carolyn, and then went back into the hall.
Peeking into the kitchen, Mommy and Carolyn saw the thief! They saw Inky put her front paws on Carolyn’s chair, reach up, and carefully grab the toast with her teeth!
“Inky, you naughty dog!” Carolyn scolded.
“From now on, Carolyn,” said Mommy, “I’ll wait till you’re here before I put your breakfast on the table.”
“And I’ll give Inky a dog biscuit so that she won’t want my toast,” Carolyn said.
Carolyn sat down and waited for more toast. While she waited, she sang:
“I am not the only one
Who thinks that jam and toast are fun.
Inky stole my toast away,
But I still love her anyway.”

A young person who “just loves music” or is “simply wild about acting” can easily mistake a hunger for applause as the presence of talent. Recently a young man came to my office and said that he was going to organize a rock band, make a hit record, and acquire fame and fortune within the next year. I asked him what success he had already achieved in other people’s bands. “None.” How expert was he on an instrument? “I’m just learning the guitar.” I advised him not to risk the savings of friends or parents on a rock-band venture but to learn basic musical skills, join someone else’s band, and when he felt that he could surpass his mentor, then embark on a solo career. As he left, I suggested that he return in a year with his bank book, and we could compare notes, receivable and payable.

White puffs of frozen breath tickled my nose as I twisted the key in the lock on hangar 20, row four. It opened with a click, and John and I worked together to pull the dilapidated doors wide apart to reveal our pride and joy—a shiny blue-and-white, single-engine Piper Dakota airplane, number 80838. We had come to the airport for flying practice for John, who was working on getting an instrument rating. I was to be the safety or copilot, and John’s son Duane had come along just for the ride.
The asphalt pavement was damp with moisture from a low layer of fog which had enveloped the valley. Visibility was down to less than a mile on the ground, but if you looked straight up at the sky you could see the round lustrous disk of the sun trying to shine through. I let John preflight the airplane while I closed the hangar doors. Then with anticipation of an enjoyable morning the three of us climbed aboard.
“Salt Lake Clearance, this is Dakota 80838. IFR clearance on request to Brigham City for a practice ADF approach,” John’s voice crackled in my headphones. As we waited for clearance to go, I explained some of the instruments and procedures to Duane, who was sitting in the back seat. Each instrument has an important purpose and each must be checked for accuracy to ensure a safe flight through the fog. The compass, the directional gyro, altitude indicator, and especially the VOR were all important for this flight because we would be taking off in very marginal conditions and could possibly be coming back to land in even more reduced visibility.
The fog seemed to be getting more dense the longer we waited to go. The cold temperature inside the cockpit caused our breath to condense on the windows, making it even more difficult to see. I could sense that Duane was just a little nervous about the whole experience, but he didn’t say a word. John did the pretakeoff run-up, called the tower, and then we were on our way, straight down the runway.
The soft muted glow of the runway lights slipped by faster and faster as the little plane gained speed. Then suddenly we were airborne. The runway disappeared below us, and within what seemed like only a few seconds, we were enveloped in a soft gray nothingness. The roar of the engine filled our ears, and I had the feeling that we were beginning to turn to the left. As safety pilot I had been watching the instruments carefully and noted that we were holding our correct heading, our pitch was okay, and altitude proper. My feelings were all in my mind. We were on instruments and had to trust them now no matter what our other senses might try to tell us.
I remembered hearing stories when I was first learning to fly about pilots who got into clouds and tried to follow their senses instead of the instruments. They would go into what was called a “graveyard spiral.” The pilot begins to turn slightly and loses a little of the normal lift of the wing. To correct this the pilot pulls back a little on the yoke, which tightens the turn and makes him lose more lift, a cycle which keeps getting worse as he pulls back harder and harder, eventually spiraling him right into the ground.
We had only been airborne a few minutes, but it seemed longer, when the gray mist around us began to get brighter and brighter. Then, like flipping on a brilliant radiant light, we broke out on top and sunlight bathed our faces. Above, the sky was blue and bright. Below, the entire valley looked like a gigantic ocean filled with white frothy water. The mountains raised their snow-covered peaks in majestic grandeur. Duane smiled, I smiled, and John smiled. It is a challenge to fly for the first time under real instrument conditions while in training, and John had done well.
The rest of the flight went smoothly. We flew along the charted course and made an instrument approach into Brigham City, then headed back. The sea of clouds was still there, and as we got closer to home, I could once again feel the tension rising just a little from the back seat. I knew Duane trusted his dad, but he was still wondering just how we would get back down through this when we couldn’t see.
We were descending now, and the clouds were getting closer. Soon they closed in around us, and once again there was nothing to see but dull gray mist. The sound of the engine seemed to get louder, and our eyes strained to see something—anything that would give us a clue of our position. Nothing came. A minute went by, then two. The cross needles were centered on the instruments, speed was okay, we should be all right. Suddenly there was a flash, a brilliant, yet fog-shrouded light, then another and another and then a whole line of bright white lights leading our little plane right out of the murk and in perfect position to land on the broad expanse of runway that we could now make out before us. The landing was smooth, and although two of us had been through this before, there were three silent sighs of relief when we felt the wheels touch the ground. It had been a great day.
As we taxied back toward the hangar, I turned in the seat and said to Duane, “Well, how did you like flying through the clouds?”
“Oh, it was okay,” he answered. “I sure felt like Enos though.”
“Enos?” I asked, “What do you mean?”
“I just prayed a lot,” said Duane, and we all laughed together.

“Hey, everyone, the bus just pulled in. They’re here, they’re here!” With a crunching race to the back door of the meetinghouse, 60 anxious teens greet and pair off with 60 equally anxious preschoolers. They are going to a Christmas party—one they’ve looked forward to all year.
Each December, the youth of Butler 20th Ward in Salt Lake City plan and carry out, with their leaders, a special Christmas activity for three- four- and five-year-olds who attend the Redwood Multipurpose Day Care Center, a partially state-supported facility for underprivileged children. Butler ward has thrown the party for several years, and it is a highlight of the holidays for both the children and the youth.
It’s love at first sight when the children and the teens pair off as buddies for the evening. Sarah Cowan, a Laurel, says, “I really couldn’t believe the spirit that came with those little kids. The little girl I had was so sweet. I love doing this.”
The party is full of activity. First comes pizza and root beer. Next, each child gets a turn on Santa’s lap and has a Polaroid snapshot taken. Then it’s off to decorate (and sample) sugar cookies. The children put their own creative touch to a T-shirt they can wear throughout the coming year. And a glue-and-glitter project on a Christmas box help them carry their treasures home. As the children prepare to leave, they open a gift donated by their teen friend and share a few quiet moments before boarding the bus. Several children ask their teen companions to come home with them. Others don’t want to let go of a hand or they keep hugging and hugging.
“I wouldn’t trade that night for any thing! I know how much it meant to those kids, but I realize it’s improved my life even more,” says Jet Brown, a Laurel.
One of the priests, Robert Dickson, says, “We were able to give the children a Christmas that they ordinarily would not have. To see their faces makes me feel the warmth of the Spirit at its fullest.”
Mandy Sommers, a Beehive, adds, “I hope we can do it again. I hope the children felt like they were on top of the world and very special, because they were just that to us.”
For Nikki Barson, the Christmas party of 1993 was her last year to participate as a young woman. She says, “Participating in this activity is sharing a piece of Christmas. Nothing can replace the feeling of making someone happy, especially over the holidays.”
The director of the Redwood Multipurpose Day Care Center, Teresa Whiting, and her staff are most appreciative to the youth and leaders of the Butler 20th Ward. Ms. Whiting sent thank-you cards to them with handprints of the children in red fingerpaints.

After several unsuccessful visits and discussions with the missionaries, I came to recognize the fact that the Church was true, but I had a problem: The Book of Mormon. I did not accept the idea that there was another scripture besides the Bible that would testify of Christ. I had a keen interest in reading and my supposed broad knowledge of the Bible and other philosophical books did not facilitate my discussions with missionaries.
Finally, I began to read the Book of Mormon. At first, I read it just out of curiosity, but once I started, I could not find the strength to stop. After a full reading in a month, I began to feel something deep inside me, a warm feeling in my heart, a light in my mind, a transformation, a voice.
At night, I could not close my eyes because my mind was revealed about the sacredness of the Book of Mormon. I was baptized in February 2010. As a result, I served a full-time mission and married Prisca Ebi, a lovely daughter of our Heavenly Father!

The first thing you can do is talk to them. It may not be easy at first, but it will be worth it. “My dad and I talked,” says a high school student I know, “but we never really sat down and had serious talks about what’s going on in my life, about problems I had, or things I wanted to accomplish. As a matter of fact, the first time I ever had a serious talk with my dad was when he was bishop and had to interview me on my birthday.
“That interview really helped me see that I could improve our communication if I met him halfway. Things didn’t change overnight, but since then, he and I both have tried harder to find the time to sit down together once in a while and talk.”

My wife, Maria Isabel, and I served in Central America, being stationed in Guatemala City. There I had the opportunity to meet Julia, a faithful member of the Church. I had the impression to ask her about her family. Her mother died of cancer in 2011. Her father had been a faithful leader in his stake, serving as a bishop and as a counselor to his stake president for several years. He was a true undershepherd of the Lord. Julia told me of his tireless efforts to visit, to minister, and to serve. He indeed rejoiced in feeding and tending the precious sheep of the Lord. He remarried and stayed active in the Church.

A few years later, he went through a divorce, and now he had to attend church alone once again. He felt out of place and also felt that some people were critical of him because of his divorce. He stopped attending church as a negative spirit filled his heart.

Julia spoke highly of this wonderful undershepherd, who was a hardworking, loving, and compassionate man. I vividly remember that a feeling of urgency came to me as she was describing him. I just wanted to do something for that man, a man who had done so much for so many throughout those years.

She gave me his cell phone number, and I began calling him, hoping to have the chance to meet with him personally. After several weeks and many, many phone calls without success, one day he finally answered the phone.

I told him that I had met Julia, his daughter, and that I was captivated by the way he had served, ministered, and loved the precious sheep of the Lord for so many years. He was not expecting a comment like that. I told him that I really wanted to visit with him eye to eye, face to face. He asked me my purpose in proposing such a meeting. I replied, “I really want to meet the father of such a wonderful lady.” Then for a few seconds there was silence over the phone—a few seconds that seemed to me like an eternity. He simply said, “When and where?”

The day I met him, I invited him to share with me some of his experiences visiting, ministering, and serving the precious sheep of the Lord. As he was recounting some touching stories, I noticed that the tone of his voice changed and the same spirit he had felt so many times as an undershepherd came back. Now his eyes were filled with tears. I knew this was the right moment for me, but I found that I did not know what to say. I prayed in my mind, “Father, help me.”

Suddenly, I heard myself saying, “Brother Florian, as a servant of the Lord, I apologize for our not being there for you. Please, forgive us. Give us another chance to show you that we do love you. That we need you. That you are important to us.”

The following Sunday he was back. He had a long conversation with his bishop and remained active. A few months later he passed away—but he had come back. He had come back. I testify that with our Savior’s help, we can love His precious sheep and minister to them as He would. And so, there in Guatemala City the Lord Jesus Christ brought back one more precious sheep into His fold. And He taught me a lesson on ministering that I cannot forget. In the name of the Good Shepherd, the Beautiful Shepherd, the Magnificent Shepherd, even the Lord Jesus Christ, amen.

When Lorenzo Snow was a young boy, he ran for his life from a charging bull! He quickly climbed a tall white oak tree and sat shivering from cold as the bull pawed the ground around the tree and slashed the air with his horns. With teeth chattering and his hands numb, Lorenzo prayed, “Dear Heavenly Father, thank you for all your blessings. And please, dear Lord, tell my father to come and help me.” Just then, his father came riding on his horse and carrying a bullwhip. One crack from it sent the bull running. Lorenzo’s prayer had been answered by a loving Heavenly Father.

The European trip was one of the first professional ventures the family undertook. It consisted of 28 concerts in 10 countries, many of them given for local Church groups in areas they visited.
“In England the missions used the concerts for fellowshipping,” Brother Phelps said. “They told us, ‘We’ve had people attend who haven’t been to church in 15 years!’ One of the mission presidents invited the entire town to hear the concert, had the mayor speak, and then had our family present the mayor with a Book of Mormon. During the intermission of a concert in France, a missionary came dancing back to tell us, ‘I’ve got my first contact, my first investigator!’”

I had spent my 16th summer working at a dude ranch and returned home with two hundred dollars, more money than I had ever had before. I entertained so many different ways to spend it that by the Christmas season I still had it all.

I was old enough to understand the worried glances my parents exchanged at comments my brothers and sisters made regarding their Christmas wishes. Dad had recently recovered from a serious illness, and medical costs had made a sizable dent in my parents’ Christmas budget.

I approached Mom with a suggestion that she and Dad use my money, but she wouldn’t hear of it. She explained that they had decided to forego giving anything to each other and would just make sure Santa made his visit.

It wasn’t too many days later that I heard my parents discussing an offer made to Dad. He had been snowmobiling again with his friend Bob. It wasn’t hard to see how much Dad and my brothers enjoyed this winter sport. They returned from their snowmobiling ventures full of enthusiastic stories. Now Bob had offered to sell the snowmobile to Dad for a reasonable price.

Without realizing, I had crept closer to their room where I could hear every word. Mom said, “I know two hundred dollars is a good price. Do you think we could do it?”

After a long pause, I heard a deep sigh that said so very, very much, followed by Dad’s voice, “No, I just don’t think so.” Another long pause, then, “There’ll be other times.”

I stole away to my room while my thoughts ran like wildfire. Two hundred dollars … two hundred dollars. That was every cent I owned. It would close my account entirely.

I got ready for bed, and after turning out the light, I could picture my family riding that snow-mobile. All night we chased snowflakes in my dreams.

With the light of the foggy winter dawn, I felt calm. I found a few moments to myself to call Bob.

“Bob, this is Louise, Ellis’s daughter. … Yeah, he’s had a lot of fun on that machine. Listen, I … uh … understand that you offered to sell it to him for (gulp) two hundred dollars. Is that correct?”

“Well, I heard them talking about it last night and they decided they couldn’t buy it. So what I’m wondering is … uh … if they decide they can’t for sure, could I buy it from you for that price? I could? Thanks! Thanks so much! … Yes, it would be a surprise, so don’t let on, okay? Thanks.”

I hung up the phone and tried not to think about it for the rest of the day. It was not a spontaneous act of selflessness. I had to wean myself from my money, avoiding thoughts of how long it had taken to earn it and all the other ways I had planned to spend it.

The days crawled by. Christmas Eve finally came. After midnight Bob’s sons would sneak over with the snowmobile and park it on the lawn where we would be sure to see it. Anticipation made sleep difficult.

Christmas morning brought shouts as the younger ones raced downstairs to see if Santa had come.

The drapes were drawn in the living room. I sneaked a peek and caught my breath. There it was! A huge red bow adorned it, and Bob’s sons had shined it till it sparkled.

I can’t remember what I received that year. Mom gave me a quizzical look once. I guess my excitement for what I knew was about to happen overrode what my enthusiasm should have been.

I kept waiting for someone to open the drapes, but no one thought of it. Finally my brother David glanced outside to check the weather.

I’ll always cherish the look on his face. He’s the family’s mechanic, and to him that machine represented tinkering at its best.

David approached Dad and asked in a low voice, “What’s that out on the lawn?” Dad’s questioning took was authentic, so David knew Dad didn’t know either.

They walked back to the window and Dad looked out. I almost laughed aloud at their sharp, surprised looks at one another. In unison, they looked at Mom, who was still helping the youngest ones open and assemble toys.

Dad bent down and gave her a big kiss. He started to thank her and ask how she managed it. Her look of surprise was also authentic. Now all three went to the window. I ducked my head. One look at my foolish grin would give it away.

After a few moments of murmured exclamations, Dad and David threw on coats and went outside to investigate. David revved the machine and spun it around the yard. He was in his glory. They searched it for a card.

The noise of the snowmobile drew the rest of the family to the window, and I oohed and aahed with them. I could see Mom studying me carefully, and I knew the game was over.

It was at that moment, on that frosty Christmas morning when I had helped fill a Christmas wish, that I knew the real meaning of the old cliché about it being better to give than to receive.

Several years ago, I went on my first assignment as a newly called General Authority Seventy. Elder Ronald A. Rasband of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles was my senior companion and it was a chance for me to observe and to learn as he presided over a stake conference in Minnesota. On Saturday, we had a meeting with many wonderful sisters from the auxiliaries in the stake. The chapel and cultural hall were filled as these sisters came, anxious to be taught and edified by an apostle of the Lord. The teaching by Elder Rasband was inspired and focused on Christ. At a certain point, while Elder Rasband was conducting this session in a question-and-answer format, I felt a strong spiritual impression as a sister asked a question, recalling a personal experience that would have been a perfect response. At that very moment, while Elder Rasband was standing at the pulpit, he turned to me and asked, “Elder Palmer, is there something you want to say?” I marveled and asked myself, “How did he do that?”
A couple of years later while in a question-and-answer session with leaders and wives in Johannesburg—led by Elder David A. Bednar, of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles—I once again had the exact same experience. A long time after the meeting had started and while sitting quietly some distance away, I again felt a spiritual prompting regarding a question asked and felt an impression that it should be shared but did not want to interrupt. At that precise moment Elder Bednar turned to me and asked if there was something I wished to add. Once again, after giving my response, I silently asked myself, “How did he know to do that? How did he know at the very instant an impression had been received by someone else, that he should turn to them and invite them to share it?” The next day I told Elder Bednar what had happened and asked, “How did you do that?” He simply smiled and said, “You know the answer.”
Earlier in the week, we had been together in Kinshasa for an amazing young adult meeting, which filled every room in the stake center and overflowed into a large outdoor seating area. The questions were excellent and the teaching so inspired. I was sitting off to one side when—during the second hour of the meeting—Elder Bednar came over and quietly whispered for me to go into one of the other rooms where young adults were watching by broadcast, and ask if anyone had a question they would like to ask Elder Bednar. I entered one of the rooms where they were reverently watching, and as I began to ask if anyone had a question, they pointed to a bishop who was walking up to me and who then handed me half a dozen pages of questions he had already collected from all the rooms. I was astonished and asked why he did that (knowing no one had told him to do so). He simply said he knew we would be coming and felt it was the right thing to do. The Lord is in charge and through His Spirit clearly orchestrated all aspects of that extraordinary experience with thousands of excited young adults so anxious to see and learn from an Apostle of the Lord.

“Nothing exciting happened to me during the summer,” Lin complained to his friend Harvey. “So how can I write a theme about it?”
“I went to my grandmother’s in August,” Harvey volunteered, “and my seven cousins came …”
“And you roasted eighty-four ears of corn,” interrupted Lin. “You already told me all about it. But that doesn’t help me with my assignment!”
“Oh, you’ll think of something,” Harvey told Lin as he went out the back door. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
As Lin stared at the blank piece of paper before him on the kitchen table, he remembered Mrs. Rogers had told the class that they could make up a story for their “Summer Happening” theme if they couldn’t think of anything else.
Lin decided that was just what he’d have to do. As he reached for his pencil, an idea flashed into his mind and he quickly wrote at the top of his paper:
Through Darkest Africaby Lin P. Wang
The title pleased him, and immediately he began to write:
The natives were restless. I listened to the drums beating. What were they saying? They stopped. I waited. My cat, Chu, waited too. Suddenly I heard a noise. …
Tap, tap. Lin leaped from the table and hurried to open the door.
“Hi, Mrs. Turner,” he said. “Mom’s upstairs. Come in, and I’ll call her.”
The little lady’s gentle blue eyes twinkled behind her glasses. “I came to see you, Lin,” she explained. “The temperature is supposed to drop tonight, and I’m afraid Carmen might catch cold. Could you put in my storm windows for me?”
“I’d be glad to,” Lin said, pulling on his plaid jacket.
“Carmen’s from Brazil, and she’s used to a warm climate,” Mrs. Turner explained as they crossed the street.
Mrs. Turner unlocked her front door and called, “Carmen, I’m back.”
Squawk, squawk! the parrot answered.
Carefully Lin latched the storm windows on the inside.
Later when he arrived home eating one of Mrs. Turner’s chocolate donuts, he read what he had written.
It didn’t quite please him, and so he changed the title to THROUGH DARKEST BRAZIL and continued to write:
A giant parrot flew past, flapping its wings. Mad with rage, it attacked me. I fought it off and so did Chu. Then something long and thin slithered through the tall grass. It was …
Br-ring, br-ring! Impatiently Lin answered the telephone.
“Hi, Lin!” said a familiar voice.
“Hi, Mr. Martin. What can I do for you?” Lin asked.
“I need your help.” Mr. Martin replied. “Can you come over to my house immediately?”
Lin zipped up his jacket and jogged down the street to Mr. Martin’s house. A tantalizing spicy smell came from the open door, and Joy, a blonde cocker spaniel, barked a friendly welcome.
“My dinner guests will soon be arriving,” Mr. Martin began as he opened the door, “and I can’t leave the kitchen. Joy needs her evening walk, and I wonder if you could possibly take her out for me?”
“Sure,” said Lin.
After the cocker finished sniffing Lin’s sneakers, the dog plunged down the driveway, dragging Lin along.
When they turned the corner, Lin saw Chu vigorously washing his ears.
Woof, woof! Joy also saw Lin’s cat and jerked the leash from Lin’s hands.
Hisst, hisst! Chu hunched his back angrily and his fur stood straight up.
Lin grabbed Joy’s leash just in time and took her back to Mr. Martin.
Mr. Martin gave Lin a steaming dish. “Have some of my curry,” he said. “It’s the food of Indian princes. Thanks for helping me, Lin.”
Lin hurried home with his dish of curry. As he nibbled the spicy rice and chicken, he read his theme. He quickly took his pencil and changed the title to THROUGH DARKEST INDIA Then he wrote:
… a man-eating tiger. Roaring, it leaped through the darkness. Chu fought off the vicious animal. I staggered into the clearing and stood before the campfire eating curry, the food of Indian princes.
“Hello, Lin,” Dad said as he appeared in the doorway. “Has your homework kept you busy?”
“It sure has!” Lin replied. “Harvey dropped by, I put in storm windows for Mrs. Turner, and Mr. Martin asked me to take Joy for a walk. In between I’ve been working on my theme.”
Lin slipped his “Summer Happening” theme into his notebook and stretched. Being a writer was hard work!

My son, Nicholas, wanted to make a collection can and collect money so that he could buy teddy bears for children whose houses burned down. My husband and I decided to support his desires to “do good works like Jesus.”
We live in a rural community just outside of Idaho Falls, Idaho, so I called the fire chief there. He said that they love to be able to give teddy bears to children who have been in accidents or whose homes have burned down. But, he said, they could only accept new teddy bears, not used ones.
We typed up a letter explaining what Nicholas wanted to do, then began delivering it to neighbors and to businesses. We collected more than $150 and will be donating about fifty new teddy bears!

Rex watched the dust cloud around his bare feet as he walked up the path from the river in the summer sunshine. As he came within view of the farmhouse, he saw his mother tending the vegetable garden out back. She was a hard worker; her pantry was filled with canned beans, beets, tomatoes, and sweet fruit for the winter. She sewed and baked and took care of her family, but when she had a moment to spare, she spent it on her little flower garden in the front yard.
It wasn’t much to look at. With the list of chores she tackled each day, it was difficult to find time to weed and water her flower patch. Each year when the seed catalog came with the mail, she spent a week’s worth of evenings sitting by the fire, carefully turning through the pages to find just the right seeds for the coming year.
Suddenly, something flapping in the front yard caught Rex’s attention. His mother jumped up from the vegetable patch and ran toward her flowers. “Scat! Get out of here, you old turkeys!” There, in her flower garden, a flock of turkeys made a mess of her summer efforts. All the stems had been snapped, the flowers ruined.
Rex ran to help his mother, shooing the flock back to Mr. Lukin’s farm. Like many of the local farmers, Mr. Lukin had recently traded in his hens for a pack of turkeys. But the turkeys’ wings were stronger than hens’ wings, and they had escaped.
“Get on home!” Rex’s mother yelled, her face red. The turkeys waddled single file, demolishing every plant in their path. “Rex, chase those turkeys back where they belong.” She looked sadly at the trampled flowers.
Rex quickly herded the turkeys back down the road, yelling and flapping his arms to spur them on. As the turkeys entered Mr. Lukin’s yard, Rex decided to make one last attempt to make them stay. Looking down, he grabbed a rock lying on the ground. He yelled and threw the rock with all his might, intending to give them a good scare.
Thunk. Rex watched with horror as the largest of Mr. Lukin’s turkeys toppled over. Oh no. Thoughts of old Mr. Lukin raced through Rex’s mind. The man had never been kind to Rex or his brothers. Walking over to the turkey, Rex gave the bird a nudge with his foot, hoping for some sign of life. Nothing—the bird was dead.
What was he going to do? Mr. Lukin would be furious. Looking around, he realized no one had seen him throw the rock. No one would ever know what had happened. Maybe Mr. Lukin would think the bird had died of old age or eaten something bad. Maybe Mr. Lukin wouldn’t even notice the bird was gone. Without another thought, Rex grabbed the turkey and hid it in the bushes. He wouldn’t say a word. No one would ever know. He turned and ran home as fast as he could, fueled by uncertainty and guilt.
His mother praised him for his quick work with the turkeys, unaware of the turmoil in Rex’s belly. How could he tell her what he had done? What would she think of him? As the sickness welled inside him, tears filled his eyes.
“What’s wrong?” his mother asked.
He ran to her arms, sobbing as he unloaded the whole story, complete with his fears of Mr. Lukin’s anger. Finally, as his sobs quieted, she pulled back to look at him. “Rex, take the bird to Mr. Lukin. If you tell him what happened—”
“Oh no! I couldn’t do that!” Rex panicked as he imagined Mr. Lukin’s angry response.
“Rex, believe me,” his mother said. “You will never have peace if you don’t face him and confess. Mr. Lukin deserves to hear the truth.”
“Mr. Lukin will be so mad! He’s mean and he’ll yell at me.” Rex’s eyes filled with fresh tears as he looked at his mother’s tender face. Then he thought of Heavenly Father. Rex realized Heavenly Father expected him to tell the truth.
Finally, looking down, Rex asked quietly, “Will you go with me?”
The walk to Mr. Lukin’s house was torture. Leaving his mother in the yard, Rex stepped to the front porch with the dead turkey. He cautiously knocked, praying Mr. Lukin wouldn’t answer. The door opened.
“Hi, Mr. Lukin.” Rex handed him the bird. “He dug in Mama’s flower beds and I had to chase him out. I threw a rock and he fell. I … I guess I killed him. I’m sorry! Oh, please don’t be mad, Mr. Lukin!” Rex looked at the ground, too frightened to watch the reaction.
There was a moment’s pause, and then Mr. Lukin spoke. “That’s all right, that’s all right. We’ll eat him for dinner today.” A smile pulled at the corners of his mouth.
Rex couldn’t believe what he had heard. As he walked home with his mother, he felt as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He realized that doing the right thing was truly easier in the end. Facing his consequences had been far less painful than living with the guilt.

5. Publicize and recruit.
Getting the first registrations for the conference was like pulling bent nails. Then the committee held a fireside to drum up enthusiasm. One young man who put up a bit of a struggle when we tried to recruit him completely surprised us with his enthusiasm. The builders showed him what needed to be done, and he caught on like a pro. He worked up such an appetite that when we saw him in the chow line he held a plate loaded with vegetables. The Young Women counselor said, “Todd, I’m amazed you eat so many vegetables.” He turned to show his other plate of food. And this was only his first time through the line. It really touched us to see Todd, a young man with so much going for him, sit down with another boy who felt like he was somewhat of an outcast. The lonely boy had been struggling all day until Todd showed him the way to use his hammer and worked with him. Working side by side, the youth not only established bonds between themselves but with the adults as well. It was worth any effort to encourage each person to attend.

Some time ago I visited a friend who belongs to another church. I have talked to him about our Church on many occasions, but he isn’t interested. So it surprised me when he told me he was reading a manual titled Teaching, No Greater Call: A Resource Guide for Gospel Teaching. He was fascinated with the content. I asked him how he had obtained it, since as a member and leader in the Church I didn’t have it yet. He replied that he had gotten it from his nephew who, in turn, had received it from someone else.
I am very grateful to my Heavenly Father for the standard works and for all the Church publications. They are helping not just Latter-day Saints but the whole world.Felipe Urbina,Rubén Darío Branch, Managua Nicaragua Rubén Darío District

Brother and Sister John ministered to me and my children in so many ways. They have been an example of Christlike love.
My ministering brother had been with us since we first moved to Idaho. He made many efforts to befriend my then-husband. Not only did this good brother visit us monthly, but he also called or texted to offer his assistance when I stubbornly told him I didn’t need anything.
After my separation, he and his wife became ministering partners, and they lovingly, and without judgment, met with me often. They invited us to sit with them at the local Independence Day parade and to join their extended family at a barbecue.
Our ministering brother found out my children’s favorite characters and carved them into plastic pumpkins for Halloween. They have helped us string Christmas lights, prepare our home for winter, spray our weeds, answer the children’s questions about electronics, and dig my van out of the snow. They brought me the softest blanket as a Christmas gift, which has comforted me many nights when I’ve been lonely and uncertain of what life would bring.
But the most important act of service was the many priesthood blessings this kind brother bestowed upon me and my children. He truly was an example of the scripture, “They did watch over their people, and did nourish them with things pertaining to righteousness” (Mosiah 23:18). So many times, when my anxiety felt like it had reached its peak, he and his wife would come over to talk with me, and the conversation would end with my receiving a priesthood blessing.
He gave my children priesthood blessings before the school year started. He participated in my daughter’s confirmation. This loving couple’s generosity has been an example of Christ’s love for me and my kids.

I know a young woman who grew up in President Spencer W. Kimball’s ward. She had a fervent testimony of his calling, but while she was on her mission, President Kimball died. This young missionary worried about testifying of a prophet she didn’t know. One evening as she prayed for newly sustained President Ezra Taft Benson, she was immediately flooded with the warmth of the Spirit, and she gained a new testimony. “The Lord knew I needed to know,” she said, “and he knew I would share that witness in the conversion of others.” Sisters, this can happen for you!