Gospel Story Finder

After they reached Clay County, Missouri, news arrived that a mob of nearly four hundred men were preparing to destroy them. When Joseph heard the news, he knelt beneath the clear blue summer sky and prayed for divine protection.

Not far off, gunfire sounded. The men of Zion’s Camp wanted to fight, but Joseph counseled them to wait and see what God would do.

Suddenly a small black cloud appeared in the west. It moved eastward, growing bigger as it moved, until it filled the heavens with darkness. The first ferryboat of mobbers had crossed the Missouri River south of Zion’s Camp and was returning for another load, when a violent burst of wind hit the boat. Rain poured and the wind soared so hard that the members of Zion’s Camp ran from their tents and found shelter in an old Baptist meetinghouse nearby. Safely inside, Joseph told them that God was in that storm.

The horizon filled with the snaking of lightning bolts—not one after another, but atop and beside each other so that the sky was continually lit, and the thunder roared without stopping. Large hailstones broke branches from trees and destroyed crops. Torrents of rain soaked the mobbers’ ammunition and made it useless. The sights and sounds of the storm frightened the mobbers’ horses away, leaving the mobbers to find their way home, wet, horseless, and frightened.

The next morning, Fishing River, which had been only ankle deep, was more than forty feet (12.2 m) deep. One of the mobbers told Joseph Smith that he knew that God was protecting the Mormons.

“Truck left and get me a two-shot.”
The words come quietly but insistently over the headset to a young cameraman silhouetted against the hot lights of the television studio.
“I thought you just told me to stay with a close-up,” he whisper yells into his microphone. “What’s it going to be?”
“Get the two-shot,” the director insists.
The cameraman wheels his camera to the left, focuses it, locks it in place, and watches as the red light comes on indicating that his camera is live.
The television show being taped is one of a series being produced for cable television by the two wards in Kamloops, British Columbia. The series, the LDS Hour, can be seen on the second Tuesday evening of each month. The show consists of one of the many films produced by the Church, followed by a panel discussion using the theme of that particular film as the topic for comment. The guests on the show, hosted by the stake public communications director, Graham Noble, are local residents, most often nonmembers who are experts in the area being discussed. So far, the program has dealt with such topics as loneliness, alcoholism, genealogy, and self-esteem. The boys who run the cameras, control the sound, and direct the production are from the teachers quorum of the Kamloops Second Ward.
It all started when Brother Noble visited the meetinghouse library and saw that there were nearly 70 Church films available for viewing. He thought that it would be nice to show a film on television once a month. “I figured that with 70 films, we could be on the air for four or five years.”
“I knew people liked Mr. Kreuger’s Christmas, and I thought they might like these other films,” said Brother Noble. “I phoned the television cable company and was invited for an interview. The manager said we couldn’t just show a film. We had to have some local content. He suggested an hour show where we show a half-hour film and discuss it afterward with two or three guests. We set the formula for the show based on his suggestion.”
Before the first episode of the show could go on the air, a crew had to be assembled. The studio personnel would train the people involved to run the cameras and sound equipment and be the floor director. Brother Noble thought of using the young men of the ward. He asked the teachers quorum to help. His aim was to have a trained, established group who would stay with it for several years.
Were there any problems using such an inexperienced young crew? Brother Noble said, “There was some opposition to my using kids. But we stuck with it. They are just the right age to learn.”
It takes a four-man crew to get a show on the air. So far six have worked on the program, Allen Oram, Mike Noble, Martin Kyle, Bill Graham, Doren Quinton, and Chris Arnold. Not only are friends impressed when they beg off from other after-school activities because they “have to go film a television show,” but parents too have been impressed by what their sons have done. Indeed, most of the boys’ families and other ward members tune in to watch the show. But the crew doesn’t always sit back and enjoy the program.
“When we watch the show on Tuesday nights,” said Doren, “we’re critical of how we did.”
Allen quickly added, “We’re getting better all the time.”
Things have not always gone smoothly as the young men were learning how to run the equipment and anticipate the requests of the director. Some of the first tapings were plagued by pictures with no sound and potentially embarrassing zoom shots.
The group learned quickly that they had to do it right the first time. “There are no retakes,” said show host, Brother Noble. “If you stutter or clam up, it’s right there on tape, no second chances. It doesn’t bother me to talk to different people, but once you get under those lights, it shakes you a bit.”
Chris remembers learning about how to produce the show. “I was really surprised at first. The first time was quite rough, but we learned. Now when I watch television, I know what the cameras are doing and when they mess up.”
Martin was also involved in that first program. “Everyone decided on what area they wanted to work, sound or camera. I thought the whole thing was a great idea. I had always wondered how they actually did television productions, and here we were doing it too.”
Martin chose to do the sound mixing. His interest has been stimulated, and he finds that knowing a little has added to his appreciation of professional sound mixers. “I went to a concert, and I was really interested in the complicated sound mixing. It was amazing because I knew just how good it was.”
At first, the LDS Hour seemed to be a service just for Church members. But Brother Noble and the boys found out that the show was being watched by an audience they hadn’t quite expected. They found that members who have not been attending church for years are tuning in.
“They don’t want to commit themselves to attend church meetings, but they want some connection. One lady who watches our show was baptized 33 years ago,” said Brother Noble. “Her home teachers and visiting teachers have never been successful in encouraging her to attend the ward. But she watches the program and calls her friends to watch it.”
The group really didn’t know how well the program was being received until one day the LDS Hour had to be cancelled because of a scheduling conflict with another program the cable station was airing. That was when the telephone started ringing. Viewers wanted to know what had happened to “their” program. The following month the show was back in its scheduled spot, and both the cable station and the local wards were glad to know they had a program that was missed when it didn’t make it on the air.
The young men have caught on that they are involved in something more than just publicity for the Church. They recognize it as a service project. “Yeah, but it’s fun,” is the quick response. It has involved the community because the subjects of the films and the discussions are of general interest.
Bill explains, “It’s not really a preachy show. It’s about good things that society wants. It’s about human relations. It’s something we can all share.”
Bill also tells about one man that was touched directly from the program. “I know a lot of people call their friends and tell them about the show. One man saw the show and called the missionaries and wanted to know more about the Church. It’s a missionary tool. We aren’t directly teaching people, but we’re helping. I like being a part of that.”
The crew has arrived at the studio ready for another taping. With an air of knowing exactly what needs to be done, they quickly arrange the furniture on the set. Chris and Allen pull cables out of the way of their cameras. Martin clips the tiny microphones to their guests’ lapels. Mike is seated at the switching board, giving instructions over his headset.
Suddenly someone yells, “Quiet.” Bill counts down with the fingers of one hand. “Five … four … three … two … we’re on the air.”

Growing up in my family, we lived as devout members of another Christian faith. I was baptized a member of that church shortly after my birth. Our family went to church each week. For many years my brothers and I assisted the pastors who conducted our Sunday services. I was taught the importance of family prayer as our family prayed together each day. I thought that someday I would enter the full-time ministry in my church. There was no question in our minds that we could define ourselves as devout Christians.
When I was a university student, however, I became acquainted with the members and teachings of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, a Christian faith centered on the Savior. I began to learn about the doctrine of the Restoration of the gospel of Jesus Christ in these latter days. I learned truths that I had not known before that changed my life and how I viewed the gospel. After much studying, prayer, and faith, I chose to embrace beautiful restored truths found only in this Church.

I was sitting in a church meeting one day and caught myself staring at the variety of shoes people were wearing in the chapel. I saw leather dress shoes, black boots, bright sandals, colorful heels, and sparkly flats.
And my favorite pair of shoes? Someone’s pink buckled shoes, complete with embroidered strawberries.
It was then that I remembered the story of Christ washing His disciples’ feet.
In the times of the New Testament, I imagine most people’s feet were dirty, seeing that many wore sandals on the dirt roads and didn’t have access to regular bathing. So washing someone’s filthy feet back then probably wasn’t the most enjoyable act of service.
Thinking about this, I opened my scriptures to John 13 and read the interactions between the Savior and His Apostles as He washed their feet. I found an appreciation for Peter’s response to the Savior when it was his turn to be served. Peter replied, “Thou shalt never wash my feet” (John 13:8).
Perhaps Peter’s reluctance had to do with his love and respect for the Savior. I can imagine that, as a devoted disciple, Peter felt it was wrong to receive such treatment from someone so divine.
I realized then that some of us seem to share Peter’s reluctance to receive the Savior’s help.
The colorful selection of shoes I saw in my ward that Sunday symbolized, for me, what we each bring to our Master.
Everyone is different.
We all come from different walks of life, bringing different struggles, different perspectives, different experiences, and different questions.
However, despite all our differences, we all come to church every Sunday to partake of the sacrament, to renew our covenants, and to allow the Savior to serve us as we repent and, by doing so, accept the gift of our Savior’s atoning sacrifice.
President Russell M. Nelson reminds us that “Jesus Christ … stands with open arms, hoping and willing to heal, forgive, cleanse, strengthen, purify, and sanctify us.”1
So why are we sometimes reluctant to invite His grace and mercy into our lives? And what can we learn from His act of service?
Maybe our reluctance to accept the Savior’s help comes from feelings like shame, unworthiness, or even just our own stubborn pride. President Nelson has taught that “too many people consider repentance as punishment—something to be avoided except in the most serious circumstances. But this feeling of being penalized is engendered by Satan. He tries to block us from looking to Jesus Christ.”2 When we sin, it can be easy to feel like we aren’t good enough or we have too many flaws to be cleansed by Jesus Christ. But this is where we can take a closer look at this specific act of service for His Apostles.
I believe that Christ washing His Apostles’ feet symbolized His great love for us and His willingness to clean the spiritual dirt from our lives. He was willing to humbly serve His Apostles by cleaning one of the dirtiest parts of their bodies. Just hours later, through His atoning sacrifice, He descended below all things so He could wash us clean from the dirtiest parts of our own lives and succor us (see Alma 7:11–12).
This act, along with all His teachings, helps us understand that as we come to Him with repentance in our hearts, accepting His offer of service, we can find healing and redemption through His divine power.
As Sister Amy A. Wright, First Counselor in the Primary General Presidency, recently taught, “Because of Christ, our decision to ‘go forth and change’ can also allow us to ‘go forth and heal,’ for He is the source of healing all that is broken in our lives.”3
After washing His beloved disciples’ feet, the Savior gave them an invitation: “Ye also ought to wash one another’s feet” (John 13:14). In other words, He told them to love and minister to others as He did.
Jesus Christ is our Master Healer and our Savior. As we follow Him, we can also offer love and service to our fellow brothers and sisters in need of healing.
President Thomas S. Monson (1927–2018) taught: “We are surrounded by those in need of our attention, our encouragement, our support, our comfort, our kindness—be they family members, friends, acquaintances, or strangers. We are the Lord’s hands here upon the earth, with the mandate to serve and to lift His children. He is dependent upon each of us.”4
It is my testimony that as we seek the Savior—especially as we renew our covenants on Sunday—we will see that He desires to wash us of our sins, our mistakes, and even our heartaches and sorrows. And we can extend His love to those around us.
We only need to accept His help by exercising “faith unto repentance” (Alma 34:17) and seeking his grace (see Ether 12:27).
We all face circumstances and challenges as different as the variety of shoes on our feet, but we are all in need of the same love and grace our Savior offers.
I am grateful that I can follow in His footsteps and serve those around me who are in need of healing. As I allow myself to be healed and cleansed by Him, He gives me strength to do unto others what He has done unto me.

Anthony sat on the narrow ledge of a rice terrace. He looked gloomily down on the thatched roofs of the huts in the tiny Asian village below. This was supposed to be the happiest vacation of his life, but it was turning out to be one of the saddest.
Grandfather was a hero who had hidden American soldiers in these mountains during World War II. He had kept one soldier alive with native medicines until he could be rescued. When the soldier tried to give him a silver watch, Grandfather had hurried away and returned with his twelve-year-old son—Anthony’s father.
“No watch,” he had said, tears finding salty paths down his cheeks. He thrust his young son in front of him. “Take boy. Make U.S. boy.” When the soldier looked puzzled, Grandfather repeated, “Make U.S. boy,” and put the boy’s hand into the soldier’s.
That was over thirty years ago. The soldier had managed to get Father to the United States, where he had gained his citizenship and a good education. But he longed to return to his homeland to visit Grandfather. On Anthony’s twelfth birthday, Father gave him a watch of his own and the exciting news that they would make the long-awaited journey to his homeland to spend a month with Grandfather.
Two days ago Anthony’s dream of meeting Grandfather had finally come true. But now it seemed that Grandfather wasn’t the man Anthony had been dreaming about at all. How could an old man with only one, blackish tooth be a hero? Why, if Grandfather could stand up straight, he still wouldn’t be as tall as Anthony!
Grandfather’s bones stuck out. His skin was as tough and wrinkled as an elephant’s. His bare feet were so wide that they looked almost like a duck’s. His pants were tied about his waist with a piece of twine, and the pockets had been torn off to patch holes.
How Anthony wanted to be back home! He didn’t like the hut he had to climb up to, to go to sleep. It was more like a playhouse than a real one. He didn’t like having to sleep on the hard wood floor, sandwiched between people who knew only a few words of English. He didn’t like eating rice for breakfast. He didn’t like eating from dishes “washed” with grass “rags.” He didn’t like everyone in the village pointing at Father and calling him “U.S. boy.” Most of all, he felt uncomfortable around the old man who was Grandfather.
“Anthony.” Father’s voice came from the direction of the village. “Grandfather and I are going to the cave where he hid the Americans. Do you want to come too?”
At last! Thought Anthony. Maybe there’ll be a little excitement.
It was a long walk to the cave. His feet were beginning to ache from following Grandfather and Father over the hundreds of terraces. Anthony’s sneakers didn’t curl around the terrace ledges as Grandfather’s bare feet did. Looking at his birthday watch, Anthony noticed that nearly two hours had passed since they had set off for the cave. Would they ever get there? Grandfather is probably lost, Anthony thought.
Suddenly pain shot through Anthony’s leg like lightning. He turned, screaming, and saw a snake slithering into a rice paddie. In the same instant, Grandfather’s knife whizzed past, slicing the snake’s head off.
Anthony’s leg was already throbbing, and dizziness sent him stumbling from the sturdy ledge to the oozy ground nearby. He heard Father and Grandfather jabbering to each other in that strange language. Then Father started to run—away from Anthony.
Anthony wailed in pain and terror as he twisted in the mud of the soggy terrace. “Father! Don’t leave me! Please! It hurts! Oh, it hurts! Don’t leave me!” But Father kept running.
Grandfather quickly retrieved his knife and wiped off the snake’s blood on a clump of grass. Opening a small bottle that had been attached to the twine around his waist, he poured a smelly liquid on the knife. Then he knelt and looked into Anthony’s eyes. “U.S. boy—stop cry!” he ordered. But Anthony continued to scream for Father as if he hadn’t heard.
Grandfather gripped Anthony’s shoulders tightly. “U.S. boy—stop cry!”
This time something in Grandfather’s tone pierced Anthony’s fear. He knew that Grandfather was right. He must stop crying and lie still so that Grandfather could help him. Clenching his teeth and fists against the pain, he choked back his tears and held very still.
Grandfather took off Anthony’s T-shirt and tied it firmly above the bite. Then he cut Anthony’s swollen leg with the knife and sucked out as much of the poison as he could, spitting blood and poison onto the ground. The pain made large tears spurt down Anthony’s face, but he bravely allowed Grandfather to do what had to be done.
When Grandfather finished, he carried Anthony to a dry spot and gathered grass and dirt clods to prop under his head. With another firm look, Grandfather commanded, “U.S. boy, stay! I get medicine.”
Anthony nodded feebly. He awoke as Grandfather patted a mixture of leaves and mud onto the wound. The mixture seemed to relieve the pain a little, and Anthony dozed off again. When he next awoke, Father and two other men were moving him onto a stretcher. As they traveled toward the village, Grandfather jabbered with the men. Several times Anthony heard him say, “U.S. boy” with tones of both concern and pride.
Over the next few days, all the villagers came to help Anthony recover. Several boys near his age showed him the games of their village and taught him a few words in their language. The girls brought him bananas and special mixtures of rice and vegetables. The women showed him how they wove beautiful pieces of cloth.
Grandfather bragged to the villagers about Anthony’s bravery and called him a hero. But Anthony knew who the real hero was.
Each day, Grandfather brought a small present that he had made and wrapped in a banana leaf. After the present was unwrapped, Grandfather gave Anthony a lesson on weaving small baskets or carving wood trinkets.
The day that Anthony no longer needed to rest, Grandfather gave him a knife in a beautiful, carved holder.
Anthony had a surprise of his own. “Close your eyes Grandfather.” Then he buckled his birthday watch onto Grandfather’s wrist. When Grandfather opened his eyes and Anthony saw the look of joy and pride on his face, Anthony knew that he had the best grandfather in the world.

“My dream was to be a humanitarian, and this was the door to it,” Loni reflected. “Working in the library, I always wanted to give back . . . but I didn’t see the [opportunity] until Cyclone Gita hit [Tonga].”
It was in the aftermath of Cyclone Gita, that Loni’s engagement on the national level began. Being a librarian and also Tongan, and well-known for her work in the T?maki community, she was asked to help establish the first public library in her beloved island nation of Tonga and serve as the first librarian.
With schools and educational resources destroyed, Loni worked tirelessly with founders, Kahoa and Brendon Corbett, as donations of thousands of books from over 50 Auckland Council libraries, as well as computers, and even bicycles, were brought to the renovated community fale (centre).
The library opened in October 2019, in the village of Kolovai, with plans for a second library underway in a nearby town.
Loni paid her own fare on her trips to Tonga, lived by herself, and donated her time and talents to establish the library. She started weekend English classes, children’s programs, computer and family history classes, job application skills classes, and even bicycle rentals.
She says, “Tongans now understand that a library is more than a building—it is a safe place for growth and development, connections, and learning for many different reasons.”

I have some health issues that weaken my body and mind, but I am thankful that I can understand and enjoy the New Era articles. Recently I read the February 2008 issue, and I was so impressed with two of the stories that I read them out loud to the rest of the family so they wouldn’t miss out. I really appreciated the articles “Too Fast!” and “What I Learned from Lisa.” They reminded me of an experience when I went to a rental car agency where I had worked 10 years earlier. When I asked if I could test drive a car, the sales manager remembered me and told me that I could drive any car I wanted to. He said, “One thing I remember about you is your integrity and honesty.” I was honored that someone would remember that about me a decade later. I hope I can always be worthy of that type of reputation.

I moved to a small town at the beginning of the school year. I was at lunch with a group of kids when they started talking about an inappropriate word. They were saying that if a teacher heard them say it, they would get in trouble.
Then one of them said, “Everyone says it … everyone but Sarah.” I looked up in surprise. I was glad they recognized that I do not say that type of word. And they respect that I am different.
This happened before those people really knew my standards or which church I belonged to. I know I have to watch what I say because others are listening to me, and I want to be a good example.

I knew a faithful mother who humbled herself and asked, “What is keeping me from progressing?” In her case, the response from the Spirit came immediately: “Stop complaining.” This answer surprised her; she had never thought of herself as a complainer. However, the message from the Holy Ghost was very clear. In the days that followed, she became conscious of her habit of complaining. Grateful for the prompting to improve, she determined to count her blessings instead of her challenges. Within days, she felt the warm approval of the Spirit.

Ethan gazed at the colorful video game covers that lined the shelves. His parents said he could pick one game for a birthday present, and there were so many to choose from! Ethan’s eyes jumped from a car racing game to an adventure game to a dance game. Finally, he picked up the racing game and took it to his dad.
“Did you find one you like?” Dad asked.
“I think I want this racing game,” Ethan said.
“Looks fun,” Dad said. “What is it rated?”
Ethan turned the cover over. He knew he could only play games with certain ratings. When he first got his computer, his parents talked to him about the importance of following their family’s rule about video game ratings. Ethan knew that a lot of games had bad stuff in them, and he wanted to be obedient.
Ethan found the rating on the cover and showed Dad. “It’s rated for everyone,” he said.
“Great,” Dad said. “Let’s go pay for it. Happy birthday, Ethan!”
“Thanks, Dad!” Ethan grinned, excited to get home and try out his new game.
A few days later, Ethan went to his friend Chase’s house to play. He and Chase were in the same Primary class, and they played together a lot. Ethan took along his new video game.
“Hi, Ethan,” Chase said when he answered the door. “Come on in. I got a new video game we can play!”
“I did too!” Ethan said, holding out his game.
The boys settled in front of the computer, and Chase put in his game. The title flashed across the screen, and so did the rating. Ethan froze. It was a rating that he wasn’t allowed to play.
Chase eagerly navigated through the menus with his controller and started the game. Ethan didn’t see anything bad yet. He clicked his own controller to move his character in the game. It was fun, but the longer he played, the more uncomfortable he felt. He still hadn’t seen anything bad, but he wanted to follow his family’s rule.
“Hey, Chase, I’m not allowed to play games with this rating,” Ethan spoke up.
“Oh, it’s OK,” Chase said. “There isn’t anything bad in it.”
“Are you sure?” Ethan asked.
“Yeah,” Chase said. “My family plays it. I think it was given the wrong rating.”
Just then, Chase’s mom stuck her head into the room. “Hi, boys,” she said. “Is everything OK?”
Ethan swallowed hard. “Hi, Sister Murphy,” he said. “It’s just that I’m not allowed to play video games with this rating.”
“I told him there wasn’t anything bad in it,” Chase said.
Chase’s mom waved her hand. “Don’t worry, Ethan,” she said. “I know a lot of the games with that rating aren’t good, but I’m sure your mom would let you play this one.” She smiled and then left the room.
Chase continued playing, but Ethan put down his controller. “Chase, how about we play the racing game I brought?” Ethan asked.
Chase shrugged and kept staring at the screen. “Nah, I’d rather play this.”
Ethan quietly got up and went to Chase’s room, where he found some toy racing cars to play with. They weren’t as fun as his video game, but Ethan felt good knowing he was following his family’s rule.

It’s something like the experience of a young girl who was walking with her grandmother. The song of the birds was glorious to the little girl, and she pointed out every sound to her grandmother.
“Do you hear that?” the little girl asked again and again. But her grandmother was hard of hearing and could not make out the sounds.
Finally, the grandmother knelt down and said, “I’m sorry, dear. Grandma doesn’t hear so well.”
Exasperated, the little girl took her grandmother’s face in her hands, looked intently into her eyes, and said, “Grandma, listen harder!”
There are lessons in this story for both the nonbeliever and the believer. Just because we can’t hear something doesn’t mean there is nothing to hear. Two people can listen to the same message or read the same scripture, and one might feel the witness of the Spirit while the other doesn’t.
On the other hand, in our efforts to help our loved ones experience the voice of the Spirit and the vast, eternal, and profound beauty of the gospel of Jesus Christ, telling them to “listen harder” may not be the most helpful way.
Perhaps better advice—for anyone who wants to increase faith—is to listen differently.

Gary watched his brother Geof giving directions to their two younger brothers. Geof was waving his hands excitedly and talking very fast. Gary could not see all Geof was saying, but he caught the enthusiasm and excitement of his brothers.
Dad had taken Mother to the hospital earlier that morning, and the boys could hardly wait for him to come home and tell them about their new baby sister. They were sure the baby would be a girl, that she would be soft and pink, and they would call her Tammy.
Gary was sure he would love her at first sight. Sometimes his stomach would get all tight inside just thinking about having a baby sister at home to laugh with and to love.
Gary watched closely as Geof stood directly in front of him and carefully repeated what he had been saying. “When Tammy comes to live with us,” he said, “we’ll have to keep our trucks and bicycles out of the way so she won’t get hurt, and we can’t throw balls in the house, and we can’t yell too loud when she’s sleeping. Isn’t that right?”
Gary nodded enthusiastically.
At an important time like this, Gary wished he could talk and hear like everyone else. Sometimes it was hard being deaf, but he tried not to show his frustration.
Gary was learning to read at the school for the deaf, and he could use his fingers when talking in class. But at home his family spoke carefully and directly to him so he could lip-read what they said. With their patient help, he was learning to sound out many words so they could understand him.
Geof usually took charge of the brothers whenever Dad and Mother were away even though Gary was older. And Gary was usually glad because he knew that Geof was a good leader.
Gary was certain that it would be different with Tammy. He wanted to help take special care of her. He wouldn’t mind doing anything at all to help her and make her happy.
Gary and his brothers gave Geof their full attention as they made plans for their new little sister.
It was almost evening before Dad came home. The boys were keyed to a high pitch after the long wait.
They crowded around Dad.
“What does she look like?” Kent asked.
“How much does she weigh?” Karl questioned.
“Does she have dark hair? How long before we can see her?” Geof wanted to know.
Gary looked at his father soberly, “Is she all right?”
Father bent down and gathered his four sons into his long arms and said huskily, “The baby is all right. It weighs almost ten pounds and has dark hair and beautiful dark eyes and looks like Mother. But the baby is a boy.”
“A boy,” Karl said in disbelief.
“But what about our sister? We already have boys,” said Geof.
Gary looked up into his father’s face and smiled. “But if he’s okay, that’s all that matters,” he said with rapidly moving fingers. “When can we see him?”
A few days later Mother came home with the new baby. Gary took just one long look at his red wrinkled face, little clenched fists, and thin kicking legs, and he loved him immediately. Gary let the baby’s fingers curl around his own big finger. He liked the tight way the baby held on.
Here is someone, Gary thought, who can use some special help from me.
The family decided to name the baby Tommy.
Each night while Mother prepared dinner, Gary sat in the big rocker crooning softly to Tommy. Gary felt sure the baby understood him, and he was happier than he had ever been before.
All day long Gary looked forward to this hour before dinner when he could hold Tommy and put into song all the things he felt and had never before been able to say.
One day in school Gary’s teacher said, “I hear something special has happened at your house. Would you like to tell us about it?”
Gary went to the front of the class and began to describe his new baby brother. His fingers couldn’t move fast enough to tell all the wonderful things he felt about Tommy.
That night when Gary went home, he sat down in the big rocker as he did each evening. As he held the baby, Gary tried to sing all the things he had told his classmates. But Tommy was not feeling well. He wriggled and squirmed and cried even though Gary tried to quiet and soothe him.
Finally Mother said, “Perhaps Tommy needs to lie on his stomach. I’ll put him back in his crib for a while.” She took the baby from Gary, and soon Tommy stopped crying.
Mother came back into the kitchen. Gary watched her for a few minutes, and then he quietly went into the bathroom and closed the door.
Even Tommy doesn’t like my singing, Gary thought. He must know I have no real words ever to give anyone. And suddenly all the hidden hurt of a lifetime was inside of him and Gary began to cry. Once the tears started, he couldn’t stop them.
For a long time Gary stayed inside the bathroom, but finally he washed his face, opened the door, and went out to have dinner with the family. Mother gave him a quick hug as he sat down at the table, and Dad gave Gary one of his special smiles.
Later that night when the dishes were done and everything was put away, Gary went to bed in the room he shared with Kent, but he couldn’t get to sleep. A few minutes later Mother came in carrying Tommy, who was all ready for bed and wrapped in a soft blanket.
Mother bent low over Gary’s bed so he could read her lips in the soft night light. “Gary, are you still awake? I know Tommy would love to have you hold him for a few moments and sing to him. Cuddle him close and sing again the song you were singing this afternoon.”
Gary put out his arms and Mother gently put Tommy into them. Gary looked down at his little brother and held him close. Then he began to sing with all the love he had in his heart.
And Tommy seemed to understand. He looked up at Gary and smiled.

During stressful times, should missionary work go on? The Saints in Sierra Leone have a tradition. They continue to share the gospel no matter what.

"Rather than bemoaning our lot or remaining stagnant, we were encouraged to rally the Saints by calling branch missionaries to replace the full-time missionaries," explained President Bai Seasy of the Kossoh Town District. "We had no time to feel sorry for ourselves; we had the work of salvation to do. We paired returned missionaries with prospective missionaries and organized them into zones."

"Each branch mission leader was authorized to have a phone card for proselyting purposes. They must account for its usage, but it has helped the branch missionaries remain in contact with new investigators and recent converts alike, and staying in touch has made a huge difference," said Brian Robbin-Taylor, another special assistant to the mission president.

"We have ‘phone lessons’ with investigators and new converts," he continued. "That supplements weekly missionary lessons held at church. We have adapted to the needs of members and investigators who otherwise might have no contact, due either to quarantine restrictions or apprehensions about getting the disease."

Today convert baptisms in Sierra Leone are only slightly lower than when full-time missionaries were there, many less-active members have returned to activity, and growth of the Church is steady.

I woke up one morning feeling overwhelmed. My duties as a parent felt heavy, and I was very aware of my weaknesses. There seemed to be a large gap between how I imagined I’d be as a parent and how I really am.
I knelt to pray and told Heavenly Father how much I love Him. I told Him how much I love the children He has blessed our family with. And I began telling Him how I was trying to be a good parent, but felt like I wasn’t doing a good enough job. As I prayed, I thought about how much better my children would be if God just raised them Himself.
Then an image came to mind. I pictured my children sweeping the kitchen floor. This is one of many jobs they are assigned to do to help our family. Sometimes watching them do it makes me cringe because they are still learning and miss lots of spots. But I let them do it, as well as other daily chores, because I have a greater vision for them. I know that through all of this imperfect practice, they will learn and grow. Eventually, they will be able to do it just as quickly and effectively as I can. That vision of them becoming responsible and independent is much more rewarding than if I were to do everything myself. I’m not raising children for short-term success—I’m trying to help them be successful in the long run.
And I wondered if perhaps something like this is true for our heavenly parents too. Heavenly Father knows we can’t do a perfect job of being parents. Some things we do probably make Him cringe, but He allows it because He knows we are learning and growing. He has the ultimate long-term perspective. He envisions us someday becoming a parent like Him, able to love completely, teach effectively, and model perfectly. As we fumble, He knows we are developing qualities like patience and charity. And so, in His wisdom, He lets us work and fail and try again.
How I wish I could be a perfect parent already! Like Joseph Smith wrote, I often find myself falling “into many foolish errors” (Joseph Smith—History 1:28). But I find comfort in knowing that God understands my heart, which means He knows I am trying to be teachable. I feel joy when my children ask, “How can I do this better?” and seem to want to improve. At least I can be that way for Heavenly Father.
As all of these thoughts played through my mind, I had one more moment of discouragement. “But what if my parenting mistakes hurt my children?” I asked. “I don’t want to hold them back, even if I become something wonderful in the process.”
Again, the image of my children’s cleaning came to mind. After my daughter earnestly tries to mop the floor and then hurries off to play or finish another task, I usually wash the remaining sticky spots. And I thought of the infinite mercy and power of Jesus Christ, whose Atonement covers every one of life’s sticky situations. His grace makes up for my shortcomings as a parent, just as His grace makes up for the pains my children suffer because of my shortcomings. In a way that none of us can comprehend, His Atonement can heal all of it.
I take great comfort in the personal revelation I received that day. I felt the Spirit teach me that my best efforts, in partnership with the Lord, are enough. I know that Heavenly Father will continue working in the lives of my children, little by little, to perfectly do what I so imperfectly do. With His help, my children can someday shine in their own right, just as brightly as if Heavenly Father had raised them the first time. Except His plan also manages to change me in the process—sanctifying and molding me to become more like Him. How great the wisdom of our God!

I was invited to a friend’s house. I was excited because he had moved to the other side of town, and I didn’t get to see him very often. On the way there, Mom and I reviewed what is expected of me at a friend’s house.
I was having a good time with my friend when he started playing a movie that was rated PG-13. I told him that I’m not allowed to watch PG-13 movies, and that I would not watch it. Then he put in an R-rated movie. I told him I would not watch that either. My friend would not listen to me. This made me sad.
I called my parents, and my mom came and got me. When she found out what had happened, she was very proud of me and took me out to eat. I am sad that my friend chose what was wrong. But I felt the Holy Ghost when I left my friend’s house, because I chose what was right.

It was a bright autumn day in 1850. Dan Bishop moved along the road, proud and pleased to have his friend Jerry Stone going with him on this drive. They were going to the big city of Philadelphia to sell his father’s flock of turkeys to Mr. Burns, the butcher, for city folks’ holiday dinners. Weather permitting, the birds would be delivered a week before Thanksgiving.
Dan was a little worried because he had always gone to market with his father, but now his father was home nursing an injured foot. “Turks are mighty skittish critters,” Dan told his friend.
Jerry watched the flock dodge about, snatching grasshoppers, crickets, worms. “Your pa seems to think we can manage.”
Dan swished a long, light pole to bring back a straying turkey. “We have to be back home before the cold weather sets in. That’s my worry.”
Jerry smiled confidently and said, “Don’t worry. We’ll make it.” Jerry had a long stick of his own to help herd the turkeys. His main job, though, was to lead the old packhorse, Bob. Bob carried camping gear and food, including corn for the birds and oats for himself, for the fifty-mile journey.
That night, over a small fire, the boys camped and ate salt pork and boiled potatoes. The turkeys went to roost in a nearby grove of maple trees. Bob was hobbled and given a bag of oats.
The second day was also fine. The birds liked the deep dust of the road and slowed the drive up by dust-bathing in it. Dan laughed. “That’s a pretty sight—those bronze, red, and green feathers and the big red wattles against the sunset.”
Going downhill went faster, but when a barking dog came at them, the birds scattered and had to be rounded up again. It was twilight when the boys saw old Mr. Birch’s place. “Pa knows him well,” said Dan. “We’ll camp here.” The birds filled up on fallen apples, and Jerry found a few good eating apples for himself and Dan.
The third day was mild, but a cold wind blew the next day. Insects were scarce, and corn had to be scattered for the turkeys. Then the wind came up. Turkey cocks don’t like the wind, so when the boys tried to force the flock onward up a steep hill, the birds began to mill about. One flew away, squawking. Soon they had all taken cover in the thick underbrush.
Again and again the boys tried to poke the turkeys out, but it was no use. Finally Jerry walked back onto the road and began to whistle a certain turkey call. One bird came out, then another and another.
Dan made a count. “All here! That was scary!”
Jerry grinned with relief. “Always heard turks were stubborn.”
Turkeys like to roost in trees, and that day they decided to roost before sundown. Dan and Jerry settled in an old, empty shed.
Pa had told Dan that turkeys often become alarmed at the whiteness of frost, and in the morning he found that it was true. He and Jerry scattered corn to gather the turkeys and get them moving. Cold corn bread and half-frozen buttermilk had to do for the boys’ own breakfast.
The frozen ground was hard on the birds’ feet, and more dogs barked at them as the farms became more numerous. The flock scattered easily. That day a cock and a hen flew over a board fence and disappeared.
“Can’t risk going after them,” Dan muttered. “Pa said we might lose a few.”
At sundown the turkeys weren’t ready to roost. A full moon with a white ring around it bathed the world in light. “That ring means snow for sure,” said Dan. “We’ll let them go on as long as we can. That way we’ll make up for lost time and get to Philly on schedule.”
When they halted at last, Jerry made a fire and began to strew warm mash. The birds stopped to eat, and the warm food made them drowsy enough to roost.
At dawn, the world was white with snow. Dan tied a thin strip of red flannel to his herding stick. After the birds had been fed, he stepped out and held up the lure. The lead cock gobbled and jumped to get the rag. Dan began to walk rapidly, and the herd followed. Jerry smiled and began to eat his cold corn bread. He would relieve Dan soon. Before long they reached Dan’s cousin’s house. Darkness came early, and it began to snow steadily.
When the turkeys had been fed and settled into a shed, the young herders went inside to greet Dan’s relatives. As they ate dinner, Dan said, “Pa said that a couple of these birds are for you. Take your pick.” The tired boys fell asleep as soon as their heads hit their pillows.
Their last day dawned clear and sunny. Dan had had his moments of doubt, but now he was feeling quite good about their adventure. “We’re old hands at turkey driving now, eh, Jerry?” said Dan. “It’s time to get the job finished.”

It seemed an easy-enough project at first, and after mapping out a few ideas, they hurried to find Mr. Baker, who was still watching the Second World War movies. Finally persuading him out into the hall, they asked him for help. "We think it’d be nice if the band gave a Christmas Eve concert for the people stuck here by the storm."
He seemed to be in some sort of a trance. "What was that again?"
"We’d give a concert—just do the pieces we did last night. It’d be a real treat for the kids."
"Are you kidding? Dragging all the instruments and music from the bus? No, absolutely not. Now excuse me, I’ve got to get back."
He staggered back into the room where he entered the battle of Midway.
Their next stop was the sheriff.
"We’d like to organize a little Christmas party for the people stranded here."
The sheriff wiped his brow. "Look, don’t I have enough to worry about without that? How am I going to feed these people? Don’t bother me about Christmas parties. Now why don’t you go watch TV. I’m sure there’s plenty of good specials on."
Back at the vent at the end of the hall, they sat and glumly watched the storm.
"Well, we tried," Steve said.
"That’s all anyone can do."
"Sure."
"Do you want to watch TV now?"
"We didn’t pray about it, Steve."
"It’s too late now; we’ve already bombed out."
"You don’t want to pray about it?"
"No, Cathy, I don’t."
"Why not?"
"Because if we pray about it, and it still doesn’t work out, then it will cause your faith to waver. I never pray about things in front of somebody else unless there’s a pretty good chance for it to happen anyway."
She sat in silence and pouted.
"You can pray about it if you want," he finally suggested.
"I’d feel better with the priesthood saying the prayer."
He sighed, realizing he was going to have to open himself up a little more to her. "Cathy, let me tell you something. The priesthood’s no magic carpet. A lot of things I pray for never work out. Girls always think that guys who honor the priesthood are their tickets to happiness, but we’re stumbling around as much as anybody."
But she wouldn’t let it be. "I think Father in Heaven will honor somebody who holds the priesthood and tries to do the right thing."
They sat for several minutes in silence.
"Okay, I’ll pray with you, but don’t blame me if it doesn’t work out."
It was a simple prayer, offered by Steve. He tried to be as general as possible, not wanting to pin the Lord down to anything specific, but just before closing, she nudged him and whispered, "Ask him about the Christmas party, and the band playing, and the gifts."
And so he did, point blank, with no cop-out clauses that would let them or Father in Heaven off the hook.
A few minutes later they stood at the entrance of the gym and looked at the restless crowd.
"What’ll we do, Steve?" she asked him. He noticed the way she was looking at him. She thinks I know what I’m doing, he thought.
"We’ll just walk around and see if anything happens."
They walked slowly around the gym.
As they approached the trucker’s area, the one who had given Steve a bad time looked up, saw Cathy with him, and made some off-color joke about her.
"Why don’t you be quiet?" Steve snapped.
The guy stood up and started walking toward them. Massive shoulder muscles, a tattoo on both arms. I knew we never should’ve prayed about this, he thought.
Just before the guy was about to punch Steve, a booming voice behind him rang out, "Lay off the kid, Bert, or I’ll get mean!"
Steve looked around to see the biggest man he’d ever seen before in his life standing up. Middle-aged, bald, a little paunchy in the middle, but he must have weighed two hundred fifty pounds, and he spoke with authority.
Bert swore and said he was going to the bar.
The man who helped them said his name was Al and that he had a daughter about Cathy’s age who played in a band in Ohio.
"Al," Cathy said with a big smile, "we’ve got a little problem I think you could help us with."
Steve couldn’t believe the change in the sheriff when Al asked for permission to hold a Christmas party. And Mr. Baker, after he came out of the movie room and looked around to see Al’s figure entirely filling up the doorway, agreed it would be nice to have the band play a concert.
Then Al made a general announcement to everyone in the gym. "I want everybody here to get in the Christmas spirit. There’s no reason for us to sit around feeling sorry for ourselves. We’re going to have a party, and this is what we need. We need gifts for the children, we need some food for a supper, we need Christmas cookies for the children, we need a Santa Claus and somebody to lead us in Christmas carols, and we need enough blankets for everybody. Now get going!"
Within the hour, the preparations were done, including a Christmas tree provided by one over-eager trucker who merely chopped down the tree in front of the school. Some of the truckers went out to their rigs and brought in case lots of canned foods. The salesman from Mity Fine went to his station wagon and brought in his sample assortment of potato chips. Many of the parents went to their cars and brought in Christmas presents originally intended for family and friends at the end of their trip, and they put them under the tree. And the wives went into the school kitchen and began opening cans of ham and vegetables for the meal.
They ate their meal, and then the pep band played. Then Santa Claus arrived, wearing a red jump suit covered with grease from engines and a cotton beard. He passed out the presents from the tree, and they shared the cookies. There was more than enough for everyone.
A traveler who led a Protestant church choir in Abilene, Kansas, then led them in Christmas carols. By that time it was 10:00, and a minister from Polson, Montana, led them in scripture reading and a prayer.
There were blankets left over, even after everyone had taken what they needed.
In the morning they had more ham, and a driver from a bakery provided them with enough bread to make toast. The kids played with their toys, which as the morning passed, gradually self-destructed.
By noon the storm was over and the snow plows had cleared the roads. The truckers were the first to go. The band was delayed because of having to repack all the instruments into the bus.
Steve and Cathy were the last ones to leave.
"It was a miracle, wasn’t it?" she asked.
"Yes, a miracle. For a few hours, we all loved one another."
"Steve, it must be just a small part of the way Jesus feels about all of us all the time."
"How can he do it?"
"I don’t know, but he does."
"Cathy, for a while there, I even liked you."
"Did you?"
"Yes, for a while I did. Could I sit with you on the way back?"
"I’d like that, Steve."
"But look, I’m still going to try and beat you out of first-chair clarinet."
"And I’m still going to show you that I’m twice the musician you are."
"So that hasn’t changed," he said.
"No, I guess not."
They left together, the last ones to leave the now-deserted, paper-strewn gym. The Christmas tree, decorated with Mity Fine aluminum foil, leaned at a precarious angle, and then toppled to the floor with a crash.

Last Sunday, Ruby and I attended a sacrament meeting of a ward here in central Salt Lake. The meeting was most interesting because in that ward there is some affluence as well as people who are living in halfway houses. Just before the testimony meeting, a young lady walked up to the bishop on the stand, holding a little baby in her arms, wanting the baby to receive a blessing. The bishop stepped down and took the little baby, and the baby was blessed.
Later on during the testimony meeting, a little seven-year-old boy, with his five-year-old sister by the hand, walked up to the pulpit. He helped fix a little stool there for her to stand on, his five-year-old sister, and he helped her as she bore her testimony. And as she would falter just a little, he would lean over and whisper in her ear, this little loving seven-year-old brother.
After she finished, he stood on the stool, and she stood watching him, and he bore his testimony. She had that sweet expression on her face as she watched him. He was her older brother, but you could see that family love and relationship with those two little children. He stepped down from the stool, took her by the hand, and they walked back down to take their seat.

“Sarah! Sarah, wake up!” five-year-old Christiana Larsen said to her little sister. “It’s time to leave.”
Three-year-old Sarah struggled to open her eyes.
“But it’s still dark outside,” she complained sleepily.
“I know, but Mama says we have to get an early start. The ship to America leaves soon.”
The Larsen family had joined the Church in Denmark. Now they would be making the long journey to join the Saints in the Salt Lake Valley.
Christiana helped Sarah get dressed. Then the little girls tearfully took one last look around their comfortable bedroom. They knew it would be a long time before they would sleep in a real bed again.
“Don’t forget your parasol, Sarah,” Christiana said as she picked up her own lacy silk parasol. “Mama said she would pack them with the bedding.”
Mama and Papa had said they couldn’t take anything besides necessities on the trip to America. After the bedding, clothing, and tools were packed, there wouldn’t be much room for anything else. But Christiana and Sarah had begged to take just one favorite thing to their new home. After all, they were leaving behind their dolls, books, and toys. Each girl chose her pretty parasol.
As the sun rose, Christiana and her family boarded the ship that would sail to America. They were excited to go to Zion, even though they had to leave friends, family, and their home.
The ocean voyage was long and tiresome. During the hot afternoons on the ship, the two girls used their pretty parasols to keep the sun off their heads. If the wind blew in the right direction, the ship sailed steadily on. But if it changed course, the ship was forced back, often as far as it had already come.
When the Larsens landed in America, they bought a wagon and oxen and began the long journey to the Salt Lake Valley. The ride in the wagon was bumpy and hot, so Christiana and Sarah often walked instead.
Like many other pioneer families, Christiana’s family experienced hardships and tragedy along the way. Christiana’s newborn brother died during their journey and was buried on the plains.
After the Larsen family reached the Salt Lake Valley in 1857, Christiana loved to go to church with other children her age. Christiana and Sarah happily carried their parasols to church every Sunday to keep the hot desert sun off their faces.
As the days and weeks went by, the family’s money and food began to run out. One night Christiana heard her parents discussing the problem. Her father said he knew of a family who had been blessed with a good harvest of grain. The Larsens could trade something they had for some flour. But what did they have to trade?
Christiana spoke up. “You can trade Sarah’s and my parasols, Papa.”
“But you love your parasols, Christiana. I couldn’t do that!”
“It’s all right, Papa,” Christiana said. “We need the food more than we need the parasols.”
The next day Christiana’s father traded the beautiful lacy parasols for some flour. The flour provided food for the whole family.
That night, as Christiana got ready for bed, she looked sadly at the corner where her lovely parasol had stood. But as she remembered the wonderful bread she had eaten for supper, her sadness turned to gratitude. As she said her prayers that night, she thanked Heavenly Father for her lovely parasol, which helped to feed her family.

Indeed, our Heavenly Father has a special love for each person who makes the covenant with Him in the waters of baptism. That divine love deepens as additional covenants are made in the house of the Lord and are faithfully kept.
Nathalie and I experienced this divine love during a very difficult time in our lives as husband and wife and eternal companions. We have been blessed with 10 children. When I mention this, many younger people ask, “How?” And I respond, “This is simply how it is.”
We experienced the death of four of our children at the beginning of our marriage. After the passing of three of our children, Nathalie and I wondered and asked ourselves so many questions, like the Prophet Joseph Smith in Liberty Jail: “Heavenly Father, where art Thou? Do You hear our cries and prayers?”
We soon learned that this was not the end of our trials when Allan Mutombo, our nine-month-old baby, passed away. I found him in his crib. Holding his body in my arms, I cried that day, begging for a miracle. However, as you know, God’s plan for us is perfect, and that day He decided to take Allan back to Him. My prayers did not change His mind and will.
To add to this challenge, after the funeral, our extended families gathered and decided, without consulting us, that tradition required Nathalie and me to separate, and they asked me to take my wife’s belongings outside the house because we had lost many children.
I went into the house and prayed, asking for strength to face this adversity. The words of the wonderful hymn, written by Emma Lou Thayne, came to my mind: “Where can I turn for peace?”
I also remembered the words of our temple sealing and the promises we made to God and to each other. I felt great peace and reassurance that Nathalie and I are a daughter and a son of a loving and caring Heavenly Father.
I felt the Savior’s love and His hand lifting me up.
I came out with empty hands and told the people who were there, “I’m sorry, but Nathalie is my eternal companion. We are striving together to build an eternal family, and the Savior is helping us achieve it.”
They opposed my decision, but exercising my faith in Jesus Christ made me stronger.
The miracle Nathalie and I prayed for happened after we stood for the truth and the light that is in Jesus the Christ. We received a strong confirmation that Christ works miracles according to our faith in Him. Sometimes things do not work out in mortality as we hope, and sometimes we need the faith in Jesus Christ that all will work out in the end.