Gospel Story Finder

As a young Honolulu teenager, my mother, Jean Char Gong, met missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, recognized gospel truth, and was baptized, the only member of her family to join at the time.
She later married in the temple, raised and nurtured three children, 11 grandchildren, and now 11 great-grandchildren. She has served faithfully in Church callings, including arranging flowers for the chapel and typing patriarchal blessings for her husband, who served many years as a patriarch.
My mother’s lifelong faith, hope, and charity make her a pioneer in our now four-generation gospel family. She has walked with faith in every footstep throughout her life.

In what we call the west boardroom of the Church Administration Building, there hangs a lovely painting rendered by the artist Harry Anderson. The painting depicts Jesus sitting on a small stone wall with numerous children gathered around, knowing they are the object of His love. Each time I gaze at that painting, I think of the passage of scripture, “Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of God.”
On one occasion, I had given a priesthood blessing in that room to a small lad who was soon to undergo major surgery. I directed his attention and that of his parents to the painting of Jesus and the children. I then made a few remarks concerning the Savior and His never-failing love. I asked the boy if he had any questions. “Yes,” he replied seriously. “Brother Monson, how does a boy go about getting a little goat and a leash for it like that one in the painting?”
For a moment I was stunned by the unanticipated question, a little deflated concerning my teaching ability, but then I responded: “Jesus gives to you and me gifts far more important than a goat on a leash. He provides a road map to heaven. His teachings, His example, His love are far greater gifts than that offered by the world.”
“Come, follow me,” He invited. And we are wise when we follow Him!

You may remember a story about a ship’s captain who had a problem with his pride. One night at sea, this captain saw what looked like the light of another ship heading toward him. He had his signalman blink to the other ship: “Change your course 10 degrees south.” The reply came back, “Change your course 10 degrees north.” The ship’s captain answered, “I am a captain. Change your course south.” To which the reply came, “Well, I am a seaman first class. Change your course north.” This so infuriated the captain, he signaled back, “I say change your course south. I am on a battleship!” To which the reply came back, “And I say change your course north. I am in a lighthouse” (adapted from Hope Health Letter [Kalamazoo, Mich.: Hope Health Institute], Oct. 1993, p. 1).

Amherst Ward, Springfield Massachusetts Stake
My name is Nichole Jewkes, and I am eleven years old. I live in Belchertown, Massachusetts. I am one of only three Latter-day Saints in my middle school. This has been a big change for me because I just recently moved here from Utah. Since not many people in my school know about the Church, I have a great opportunity to do missionary work.
I wear my CTR ring to school every day. People look at my ring and ask what CTR stands for. I always reply, “Choose the right.” And they say, “Cool!” and move on.
One day, my friend Christine noticed my CTR ring and asked what it stands for. I answered, “Choose the right.” Christine said, “Wow! This is so cool!” Then she asked me where I had gotten it. I said that I got it from my church. She asked me how much one costs and if she could buy one. I said that I’d get one for her for free. She acted surprised and said, “Thank you so much.”
I got a CTR ring from my Primary president on Sunday and took it to school on Monday. Christine was very excited and said thank you so many times! She continued to wear it every day and was always telling me how neat it was and how much she loved it.
A few days later, another friend named Julie also noticed my CTR ring. She noticed that Christine had one, too. Julie thought they were neat and asked where we had gotten them. I asked her if she would like one, and she said, “Oh yes, please!”
Now when Julie sometimes says the Lord’s name in vain, she’ll remember and say, “Sorry.” And when older kids swear around me, she’ll say, “Don’t swear around Nichole; she doesn’t like it.” It is nice to know that even though my friends do not belong to our church, they are still trying to choose the right and stand up for me.
I have learned from living here and having many friends who are not LDS that most people are still really good people, trying to do good things with their lives. I hope the CTR rings continue to strengthen Julie and Christine and that I can continue to invite them to church and Church activities. I hope we can all continue to be good missionaries, no matter how old we are.

Lights! Camera! Action! Will Norman Mormon (yeah!) be able to foil Sam Snitch (hiss!) and rescue Lora Lovely from his evil clutches?
The Cody Second Ward, Cody Wyoming Stake, filmed the answer to this and other pressing questions, with the Aaronic Priesthood and the Young Women getting into the act. The script for “Norman Mormon Bites the Dust!” was written by two members of the Laurel class, but the whole group helped brainstorm the plot, characters, and dialogue.
In addition to acting chores, the young people worked on lettering, make-up, props, costumes, or filming committees. Except for the horses that were of the stick variety, everything was authentic. The film was a special high-speed film made to run slightly faster and look a little grainy. The setting—at nearby Trail Town—was an old, rebuilt western street complete with wagons, boardwalk, and cabins filled with brass beds, old quilts, antique chests, chairs, and a player piano. A costume shop loaned them many old, gay nineties costumes. Of course, the hero dressed in white and the villain in black. And even their fake mustaches were made of real hair. The only requirement to act in the play was a willingness to be a ham!
After the action shots were completed, the film crew, working with their specialist, took still photos of written conversation placards. Cards included “Ladies, please remove your hats” and “Please keep your laughing to yourself. It might disturb others.” An introduction shot of a “roaring” toy tiger was also added. The stills were spliced into the film as it was edited. A talented musical specialist helped work out a sound track of old-time songs and ragtime music appropriate to each scene.
The melodrama premiered at a two-ward party, and if enthusiastic hurrahs, yeahs, hisses, and boos from the audience are any indication, the film was a huge success. But that wasn’t the end of Norman Mormon. The young people immediately made plans to show the film at the local nursing home.
Everyone involved in “Norman Mormon Bites the Dust” agreed that it was a fun way for young people to learn new skills and create unity.

Throughout many years of service in the Church, I have seen faithful members who have consistently applied these principles in their lives. This is the case of a single mother whom I will refer to as “Mary.” Sadly, Mary went through a tragic divorce. At that point in time, Mary recognized that her most critical decisions relating to her family would be spiritual. Would praying, scripture study, fasting, and church and temple attendance continue to be important to her?

Mary had always been faithful, and at that critical juncture, she decided to cling to what she already knew to be true. She found strength in “The Family: A Proclamation to the World,” which, among many wonderful principles, teaches that “parents have a sacred duty to rear their children in love and righteousness” and to teach them to always observe God’s commandments.21 She continually searched for answers from the Lord and shared them with her four children in every family setting. They frequently discussed the gospel and shared their experiences and testimonies with one another.

Despite the sorrows they went through, her children developed a love for Christ’s gospel and a desire to serve and share it with others. Three of them faithfully served full-time missions, and the youngest is now serving in South America. Her oldest daughter, whom I know pretty well, who is now married and strong in her faith, shared, “I never felt like my mom raised us alone because the Lord was always in our home. As she bore her witness of Him to us, we each began to turn to Him with our own questions. I am so grateful she brought the gospel to life.”

Brothers and sisters, this good mother was able to make her home a center of spiritual learning. Similar to the Ethiopian’s question, Mary asked herself several times, “How can my children learn except a mother should guide them?”

During the summer of 2001, I had the opportunity to serve as a young performing missionary in Nauvoo, Illinois. That summer I learned that when you devote your time to the Lord, you can have amazing experiences.
Every day the young missionaries performed in the “Nauvoo Adventure”—a musical depicting the pioneers’ life from Quincy, Illinois, through their journey west. After performances people would often tell me, “It looked like you were really crying up there. You should go into acting as a career.”
I never really knew how to respond to this statement. I was crying—but I definitely wasn’t acting. When you reenact the martyrdom of Joseph Smith once and sometimes twice a day, six days a week for over three months, something happens to you.
I remember the first time I cried on stage. There I was on the ground, at the foot of a coffin made to look like Joseph Smith’s, and my body started to shake. I was no longer acting the part of a missionary. I was a missionary. I loved this man, Joseph Smith, with whom I had never talked.
Day by day I became less ashamed of my tears. Toward the end of the summer, I no longer wanted to hide under a bushel, or under my bed. I wanted everyone to know the peace I felt, to know the peace that comes from having the Holy Ghost confirm the gospel is true.
I know that Joseph Smith was a prophet of God. He still is. I felt his humble spirit pervade Nauvoo and know that he could have only done what he did by a power larger than what mortal man can muster. I know the Book of Mormon is true. I know Jesus Christ is the Savior of all mankind.

When Elder Marcos Antony Aidukaitis’s oldest son was eight, he drew a picture of his family for a school assignment. At the time, Elder Aidukaitis was putting in long hours as general manager of a company in São Paulo, Brazil. “I was working a lot and was traveling to many places around the world,” he recalls.
Elder Aidukaitis was noticeably absent from his son’s illustration. “Where is your father?” the teacher asked the boy. “Oh, he’s working,” he replied.
For Elder Aidukaitis, the experience was a wake-up call. “I changed jobs and fixed what had to be fixed,” he says, renewing his efforts to put family first.

I was baptized in Comayaguela, Honduras, in February 1992. After serving a mission in El Salvador, I moved to San Pedro Sula, Honduras. There I met Brenda, a beautiful young woman who had been home from her mission for only nine days. Some months later we were married in the Guatemala City Guatemala Temple.
We established our home in the Fesitranh Ward in Honduras, and before long I was called as the first counselor in the bishopric. At a priesthood executive committee meeting, the bishop informed us that one of our ward members, Brother Fidel Durón, was moving to another ward in the stake. He told us that Brother Durón was a very service-minded person and that every ward member no doubt had something to thank him for.
Brother Durón helped anyone in need, whether it involved an electrical problem, some construction work, a broken pipe, or an early-morning trip to the hospital. His service was not limited to Church members but was also extended to his neighbors and acquaintances. He was loved and respected by all. The bishop gave us an assignment to find all those members who had something to thank Brother Durón for. A meeting was planned to honor him for the selfless service he had given for such a long time.
I said to myself, “I don’t have anything to thank Brother Durón for.” I had lived in the ward for just a short time and had spoken with him on a few occasions. He seemed to be a pleasant person, but I didn’t think I had had the opportunity to be the recipient of an act of service at his hand.
Some time later I was called to be a member of the high council and assigned to the López Arellano Ward, the ward Brother Durón now attended. One Sunday I was in Sunday School in this ward, and the teacher asked class members to share personal experiences regarding service.
I happened to be seated to the left of a sister named Adela Rosa de Santos. She started to tell how the man at her right, Brother Durón, had served as her home teacher when she and her family were new members of the Church. She told how his kind service had given them strength and encouragement when they needed it and how he had blessed their lives. She concluded by saying, “If it weren’t for you, Brother Durón, I wouldn’t be here.”
I could hardly believe my ears. Sister Adela’s daughter, Suyapa, was the missionary who had knocked on my door five years earlier, and now I was a member of the Church and my life had been filled with the richest possible blessings. I had been given the opportunity to serve a mission, the privilege of receiving my temple ordinances, and the glorious hope of having an eternal family.
At that moment I learned that 20 years before, a humble man who was true to his commitment to serve others had unknowingly labored for the welfare of my soul. I was filled with a joy that is hard to express and with love for my brother, Fidel Durón. I had once thought I didn’t have anything to thank Brother Durón for. Now I considered myself to be first and foremost on the list the bishop had asked us to make.
That special meeting for Brother Durón was never held, because he returned to the Fesitranh Ward for a time. We now have a beautiful friendship. I have so many reasons to be grateful to Jesus Christ for all He has done for me and also to Brother Durón for the love he showed me 20 years before he ever met me.

When Elder D. Todd Christofferson was about 12 years old, his dad decided to run for city council. He asked Todd to help. Todd and his brothers walked around the community handing out flyers and knocking on doors. When someone opened the door, Todd and his brothers gave them a flyer and asked them to vote for their dad, Paul Christofferson.
When Todd handed people flyers, sometimes they would say, “Paul is a good and honest man. I would have no problem voting for him.”
People knew his dad was a good person, and Todd felt proud of his dad.
Todd also knew that his dad wasn’t perfect. No one is perfect. But because of his dad’s example, Todd wanted to be a good man and a good father too when he grew up.

Early in my professional life, Sister Homer and I were asked to accept a change in job assignment. At the time, it seemed to us a huge decision. We studied, we fasted, and we prayed, but an answer was slow to come. Eventually, we made a decision and pressed forward. As we did, we felt settled and soon learned that it was one of the best decisions we had ever made.
As a result, we have learned that answers are sometimes slow to come. This can be because it is not the right time, because an answer is not needed, or because God trusts us to make the decision ourselves. Elder Richard G. Scott once taught that we should be grateful for such times and made this promise: “When you are living worthily and your choice is consistent with the Savior’s teachings and you need to act, proceed with trust. … God will not let you proceed too far without a warning impression if you have made the wrong decision.”

Renee Holloway, a member of the Bonifay Ward, Panama City Florida Stake, is a goal setter.
At the beginning of her senior year she set several goals that helped her throughout the year. She decided she would read her scriptures every night and devote time to seminary study. She also achieved a goal to complete her Young Womanhood Recognition.
Renee received an award as the outstanding senior band member at her high school. She also received an award for being the most outstanding senior in her graduating class, an accomplishment she believes she couldn’t have achieved without setting goals. Renee said she was often inspired by the many faithful Latter-day Saint teenagers she read about in the New Era.

When I was eight, my two cousins and I were sent on horseback to a nearby town to get groceries. Looking back, I am amazed how much confidence my grandmother and my aunt and uncle had in us. The morning skies were bright and clear as we left on our three horses.
In the middle of the prairie, we decided to get off our horses and play marbles. We were so interested in our game that we did not look up to see the dark clouds covering the sky. By the time we realized that a storm was coming, we didn’t even have time to get on our horses. Heavy rain and hail hit us so hard that all we could do was unsaddle the horses and take cover under the saddle blankets. Then our horses ran away.
Horseless, wet, and cold, we started walking as fast as we could toward a nearby town. It was late when we found a home and knocked on the door. The family there dried us off, fed us delicious bean burritos, and then put us to bed in a room with a dirt floor.
My cousins and I woke up in the morning to a bright sun and beautiful sky. A man knocked on the door looking for three lost boys. I will never forget what we saw on our way home—a crowd of people who had been looking for us all night. In front of them all were my loving grandmother and my uncle and aunt. They hugged us and cried, happy they had found their lost children.

Not long ago I visited a high priest in his home. He is no longer able to come to our quorum meetings. He lives alone. His beautiful wife died, and his children live far away from him. Time and illness limit his ability to serve. He still lifts weights to keep what he can of his once-powerful strength.
When I walked into his home, he stood up from his walker to greet me. He invited me to sit in a chair near him. We talked of our happy associations in the priesthood.
Then with great intensity he said to me, “Why am I still living? Why am I still here? I can’t do anything.”
I told him that he was doing something for me. He was lifting me with his faith and his love. Even in our short visit, he made me want to be better. His example of determination to do something that mattered had inspired me to try harder to serve others and the Lord.
But from the sad sound of his voice and the look in his eyes, I could sense that I had not answered his questions. He still wondered why God let him live with such limitations on his ability to serve.
In his usual generous way, he thanked me for coming to see him. As I got up to leave, the nurse who comes to his home a few hours every day walked in from another room. During our private conversation, he had told me a little about her. He said she was wonderful. She had lived among the Latter-day Saints most of her life but was still not a member.
She walked up to show me to the door. He motioned toward her and said with a smile, “See, I can’t seem to do anything. I have been trying to get her baptized into the Church, but it hasn’t worked.” She smiled back at him and at me. I walked outside and turned toward my home nearby.
I realized then that the answers to his questions were planted long ago in his heart. That valiant high priest was trying to do his duty, taught to him through decades in the priesthood.
He knew that the only way that young woman could have the blessing of salvation through the gospel of Jesus Christ was to make a covenant by being baptized. He had been taught according to the covenants by every president of every quorum from the deacons to the high priests.
He remembered and felt his own oath and covenant in the priesthood. He was still keeping it.
He was a witness and a missionary for the Savior wherever life would take him. It was already in his heart. The desire of his heart was that her heart could be changed through the Atonement of Jesus Christ by keeping sacred covenants.
His time in the school of the priesthood in this life will be relatively brief compared to eternity. But even in that short span, he has mastered the eternal curriculum. He will carry with him, wherever the Lord will call, priesthood lessons of eternal worth.

One of these intrepid souls was Emma Batchelor, a young English girl traveling without family. She started out with the Willie Handcart Company, but by the time they reached Fort Laramie, they were ordered to lighten their loads. Emma was directed to leave the copper kettle in which she carried her belongings. She refused to do this and set it by the side of the road and sat down on it, knowing that the Martin Company was only a few days behind. When the Martin Company caught up, she joined the Paul Gourley family. A young son wrote many years later: “Here we were joined by Sister Emma Batchelor. We were glad to have her because she was young and strong and meant more flour for our mess.” At this time, Sister Gourley gave birth to a child, and Emma acted as the midwife and for two days loaded the mother and the child into the cart, which Emma helped pull.
Those who died traveling with the Martin Company were mercifully relieved of suffering from frozen feet, ears, noses, or fingers, which maimed others for the rest of their lives. Emma, age 21, however, was a fortunate one—she came through the ordeal whole.
When a year later she met President Brigham Young, who was surprised that she was not maimed, she told him: “Brother Brigham I had no one to care for me or to look out for me, so I decided I must look out for myself. I was the one who called out when Brother Savage warned us [not to go]. I was at fault in that, but I tried to make up for it. I pulled my full share at the cart every day. When we came to a stream, I stopped and took off my shoes and stockings and outer skirt and put them on top of the cart. Then, after I got the cart across, I came back and carried little Paul over on my back. Then I sat down and scrubbed my feet hard with my woollen neckerchief and put on dry shoes and stockings.”

Warmed by the medicine man’s healing fire inside the earthen lodge, Little Wind’s all-day vigil is over. For the valiant heart of the old buffalo—injured in a senseless and shameful slaughter two days before—is still beating.
Curled against the shaggy warmth of the great beast, the exhausted boy dreams of the sky people, then sleeps …
The first long, frosted slivers of light pierced the night sky over the tablelands. Ten Days Walking stepped out of his tepee, pulled a buffalo robe around him, and headed toward the earthen lodge. He entered quietly and stood for a long moment in the little bit of night still hiding inside, his eyes upon Little Wind, his son, who lay asleep with his head pillowed against the old buffalo. The ancient beast’s sides no longer rose and fell with a steady cadence.
Ten Days Walking stepped closer and put his ear to the animal’s side, but there was no heartbeat.
Little Wind stirred, then awoke. The look on his father’s face told him all he feared to know. His dark eyes widened and studied the creature beside him, then his vision was blurred by a thin veil of tears. “He only sleeps, Father.” Little Wind whispered with wishful uncertainty.
“It is the long sleep, my son,” Ten Days Walking uttered with reverent matter-of-factness. “The Great Spirit has called it home.”
“But I prayed so hard. It cannot be!” Little Wind buried his face in the old creature’s soft fur and wept.
Ten Days Walking sat down beside the boy and leaned back against the still warm bison. Gently and slowly he ran his large hand through Little Wind’s long hair, then he spoke. “Was it not this great one’s time, small warrior?” he asked. “No man or beast can remain on this earth place beyond his given time. This old four-legged had fathered countless of its kind and given much majesty and dignity to Mother Earth. Would it not perhaps be wrong now, maybe even selfish, to deny it its blessed rest?”
Little Wind could not—even in his pain—deny the simple wisdom of his father’s words. He nodded through his tears and snuggled himself against the big warrior who enclosed him in his great robe.
For a long while Little Wind watched the new light grow brighter in the lodge, spilling down through the hole in the center of the thatched roof and shedding its glow on the old buffalo. Then he muttered softly, “Grandfather says that life is like a blossom and that death is like the flower unfolding. What does he mean, Father?”
Ten Days Walking smiled knowingly. “Red Owl Watching means that to become like the Great Spirit, we must first become like a little child, like a … blossom … that opens into its greater self in the brighter light of heaven.”
Little Wind looked confused. Ten Days Walking’s smile broadened and he went on. “What your grandfather means is that he is anxious to leave his earth lodge and enter the great lodge of your Father and mine and to share in the wondrous things that await every valiant warrior who has served his Creator well.”
Little Wind didn’t know if he felt better because of his father’s strong arms around him or because of his wise counsel. Maybe it was both. Whatever it was, it was something to cling to every time his eyes returned to the old buffalo or to the lodge where his Grandfather, Red Owl Watching, lay in a long illness. “Will Grandfather die soon also?” he wondered out loud.
Ten Days Walking held his smile. There was a sadness in his voice at the thought of the old man’s leaving, but also the sound of hope. “Yes, it will very soon be his time. But as time rushes by like wind over a bird’s wing, my son, we will soon be together again. It is all part of a very wise plan.”
It was Little Wind’s unusual compassion and regard for the buffalo that caused his father to give the old four-legged special consideration. A great scaffold was prepared and its body carried on a litter to the sacred burial grounds that stood on the high jagged cliffs above the village. It was the first time such a thing had been done for any but a Sioux in the history of their people.
Little Wind climbed the steep trail in the icy November wind to the top of the butte to pay final tribute to the old buffalo. He watched as the mighty beast was hoisted up onto the scaffold, covered with furs, and secured with rope. Little Wind’s mother and little sister, Night Fawn, along with a few other village women, heaped brambles at the base of the scaffold to keep away wild animals. Then Ten Days Walking and the others left Little Wind alone to express his mourning.
When the sun had made its journey across the heavens, Little Wind turned from the wind-lashed scaffold and descended the darkened mesa to the village below.
In the days and weeks that followed, driving prairie rains beat unmercifully upon the little Sioux lodges. Winds howled and thunder boomed like the white soldiers’ cannons. Little Wind sat huddled in his family’s tepee, listening to the strange, wonderful stories spun by his grandfather from within the immense warm hides of his sickbed. The stories were of great battles fought and fine prizes won long, long ago.
Then one day came the great white silence. Little Wind pushed back the door flap and gazed upon it, wide-eyed. Winter had come in all its chilly white grandness.
The boy pulled his fur wrappings tightly about himself and stepped out, marveling at this shivering white Eden. Nothing stirred, and there was not a single footprint or track in sight. Mine will be the very first! he thought as he moved forward across the crusted snow.
The sun had just begun to rise above the huge white cliffs and had sprayed a silvery glow of near-blinding brightness over the valley mist. Suddenly his breathless wonderment was broken by the frightened whinnying of the village horses. He looked through the misty light toward the corral at the far end of the lodges. Vague, ghostly shapes moved stealthily among the ponies. They were the shapes of warriors warmly dressed against the weather … but not of his tribe!
Little Wind dashed quickly and silently into the tepee and shook his father from his sleep. “Father!” he cried in a loud whisper. “There are strangers in our village!”
Ten Days Walking sprang to his feet, grabbed a buffalo horn club and shield hanging next to his war medicine bundle, and bolted outside. He shouted an alarm to the other sleeping villagers.
Red Owl Watching strained up onto an elbow. “Young Shoshones,” he uttered in a raspy, unworried voice. “They come to take our horses, not to take scalps.” He arched his neck and gazed up at Little Wind, who stood tensely by the door. “It is the way of things. It is honorable to take ponies from an enemy tribe and return triumphant to your village. It shows much courage and brings dignity to any young warrior.”
Little Wind’s mother looked harshly at the old warrior in the ermine blanket. “We cannot let our horses be taken just so some young Shoshone brave can paint victory marks on his leggings, old man! Without our ponies we will—”
Red Owl Watching chuckled and placed a quivery, reassuring hand on Laughing Water’s arm, then beamed at Little Wind. “It is also honorable for a young Sioux brave to disgrace a Shoshone brave.”
“How is this done, Grandfather?” Little Wind questioned.
The ancient Indian broke into a toothless grin. “Simply by keeping him from stealing a Sioux pony.”
“And how is that best done?” Little Wind pressed eagerly.
“It is best done quickly!” was the reply.
Little Wind was gone in the shake of a pony’s tail. Laughing Water argued with motherly concern, “He’s still a boy, old man!”
Again Red Owl Watching softly patted the woman’s arm. “Yes. But do boys learn to become men just by listening to tales of valor, or must they at some point take part in those deeds that lift them beyond themselves to that high, noble place of manhood?”
Laughing Water twisted her face. Can I never win an argument with this old one? she wondered. “Must you always be so wise?” she asked aloud.
The toothless grin once again returned to the old face. “Old age does have its rewards, good mother.” Then the two peered outside through the hide flap where the village was alive with warmly outfitted combatants. The warriors were dashing in and out in a ragged pattern, waving stone clubs and feathered lances. But as Red Owl Watching had testified, there was no noticeable desire to inflict grave injury upon each other. They were just taking coup—the touching or striking of an armed enemy with a lance or any other object and getting away unscratched. It was a deed far more noble than taking a scalp or inflicting a fatal injury.
Ten Days Walking had jumped atop the corral fence and had leaped onto a mounted Shoshone, wrestling man and animal to the ground. The enemy’s horse whirled about wild-eyed, then crashed into and broke a section of fence. Eighteen of the tribe’s twenty-two fine ponies, spooked by all the excited hoots and frenzied activity, plunged through the opening in the crude fence and disappeared into the mist. And with the fading sound of exiting, pounding hooves filling his concerned ears, Ten Days Walking quickly whacked his foe with his shield and sent him sprawling among the four remaining ponies. One of them, the warrior chief’s great buffalo runner, whirled by instinct toward the grounded Shoshone and nickered defiantly. The frightened Shoshone scrambled to his feet and ran off. Ten Days Walking hooted victoriously and gestured tribute to his war-horse. Then he plunged back into the fray.
At the same time, Little Wind darted in a low run through the tinseled fog, scooped up a broken lance, and leaped onto the back of an enemy brave who had pinned down a Sioux tribesman. Holding both ends of the lance in his hands, Little Wind quickly looped it over the Shoshone’s head and pressed it tightly against his throat. The Indian abandoned his grip, yelled angrily, and toppled over backward onto Little Wind, his wolf headdress falling off in the process. Before the startled would-be horse thief could get a fair look at his boy attacker, Little Wind had vanished with his prize, the wolf headdress, into the frozen brushwood.
By now the whole village was swarming with armed Sioux men, and even some of the women were wielding bone clubs and whatever else they could come up with. And the small band of hapless Shoshones, seeing themselves hopelessly outnumbered, reluctantly mounted their ponies and fled in shame, rubbing their wounds and suffering the sting of injured pride.
Joyous shouts burst forth in splendid unison from every lodge in the little community. But there was still an important matter to be attended to—recovering the tribe’s eighteen ponies. They would have to be found quickly before they were adopted by another tribe or before gathering clouds ushered in another storm.
Ten Days Walking sprang onto his buffalo runner and hastily instructed three braves nearby to get the three remaining horses and assist him in the hunt. Then he glanced at Little Wind with a flash of pride that seemed to lift the boy ten feet off the ground. After all, was it not he who first warned the village of the presence of an enemy tribe? And was not that a Shoshone headdress hanging from his belt?
The boy watched his father’s horse plunge away into the frigid whiteness. Then he started back toward his tepee, anxious to share the story of his first coup with his mother, grandfather, and little sister. But he had only gone a few steps when someone pulled at his arm. It was Yellow Fox, a village boy. “Your pony is gone too,” he said excitedly. “I saw it run away when the Shoshones first came!”
“My father will find it, with the others,” Little Wind responded confidently.
“He’ll not find your pony!” Yellow Fox insisted. “I saw your horse go toward the high rock county. Your father and the others rode off in another direction. They’ll not find your pony. But maybe a Shoshone will.”
Little Wind gazed anxiously toward the great mountains veiled in glacial mist. His pony had been given to him as a gift by his father before the big hunt. It was priceless to him. He had to find it before the next storm or he might never see it again. If he hurried, he could be back before his mother even knew he was gone. If he waited for his father to return with the horses, it might be too late. I’m well dressed against the weather in this big otter coat Mother made me, he assured himself. Besides, my pony probably hasn’t gone very far.
Little Wind pulled his wrappings snugly around him, gave a quick glance toward his tepee, and hurried off in the direction of the hoofprints in the snow.
What Little Wind did not know was that a new storm was gathering just beyond the mesas. Hidden behind the fog, it crouched like some huge, nameless beast ready to lunge across the sky and engulf anyone or anything careless enough to leave the fires of home.

There is a story told of an old Cherokee teaching his grandson about life. “A fight is going on inside me,” he said to the boy.
“It is a terrible fight, and it is between two wolves. One is evil: he is anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego.”
He continued, “The other is good: he is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion, and faith. The same fight is going on inside you—and inside every other person too.”
Illustration by Allen Garns
The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather, “Which wolf will win?”
The old Cherokee simply replied, “The one you feed.”

Coach Ken Jenks has some good news and some bad news for the boys on his soccer team. As members of a recreation-league soccer team, they’ve had incredible success. The LDS boys, who have teamed up with nonmember friends, are some of the best soccer players in the area.
The coach starts with the good news. “Well, boys, we’ve got a great team, and the Southern California Soccer League championship is in the bag,” he says. Then his face clouds a bit, and he delivers the bad news. “But we’ll be playing three games, and one of them is on a Sunday. How do you feel about that?”
Five hands reluctantly but firmly go up. Eric Miller, 14, Jeff Jenks, 14, Justin Bonsey, 14, and twins Trent and Travis Weaver, 15, stand up and tell the group, “We can’t play on Sunday.” The boys, who are members of the Cypress First Ward, Cypress California Stake, aren’t happy about the idea of missing out on the biggest game of the season, but they are sure about their decision.
They’re following a precedent set five years earlier by a basketball team of mostly Primary-aged Mormon boys (some of whom now play on the soccer team) from the Cypress Stake. The team, the Cypress Bulldogs, chose to play basketball with the Orange County youth league because games were not held on Sunday.
The Bulldogs won every game and were set for the championship final game play-off. But unlike regular-season play, the championship game was scheduled on a Sunday. When the coach (who is also a member of the Church) found out about the Sunday game, he called the team together. He explained to them his belief that they shouldn’t play on Sunday, but he left the decision of whether or not they should play to the boys. He suggested that they take a vote to see if the team wanted to play on Sunday or not. The team voted unanimously to support their coach, meaning they would forfeit the game.
Richard Wynder, who is now 15, says, “Even though we had won every game during the whole season, nobody had second thoughts about not playing the championship game on Sunday. It was something we all felt we had to do.”
John Harris, one of the members of the basketball team who was not LDS, has since joined the Church because of the examples of his LDS teammates. Also, some of the other basketball teams from the area are now refusing to play on Sunday. This has also influenced several of the soccer teams and football teams who have taken the same stand.
One of the non-LDS coaches said, “I don’t want the league to schedule games on Sunday because some of my best players are Mormons.”
Although the controversy of the games on Sunday still continues in Orange County sports leagues, the boys’ stand is beginning to make a difference. Many local sports organizations are holding Sunday games less often.
So, as expected, the soccer team plays well on Saturday and wins easily. Then the Mormon boys wish their team the best and go to church on Sunday. The non-LDS members of the team play the championship game and lose. The team takes third place.
Eric shrugs his shoulders, “This game is a temporary thing. I really would have liked to play that championship game if it hadn’t been on Sunday, but I know that keeping the Sabbath will help me return to my Father in Heaven.”
Justin echoes Eric, “It was an individual decision for me, too. I know that it is right and so it didn’t bother me either. The next day some of the kids at school were a little upset, but I think they respected me for staying with my standards.”
And respect from peers, parents, coaches, and other players is a valuable by-product of the sacrifice these boys have made. But perhaps even more important than that is the fact that their example does not go unnoticed by the younger boys waiting for their turn to play the game—but not on Sunday.
Editor’s note: Because of the stand these and other LDS boys have made, regular-season soccer games are no longer held on Sunday in Orange County, California.

My bishop helped me in the repentance process itself, but a friend of mine also made a big difference in how I felt about my challenge. He was a great example to me. One day he shared his past struggles with pornography. I was stunned—I never would have guessed we had similar struggles. I wrote him a letter about my experience in repenting for the same challenges and how helpful it was to know that I was not alone. At church on Sunday, he hugged me and told me he was proud of me for working with the bishop and that I would never be alone. He helped me feel the Savior’s love more strongly.

At a recent stake conference a woman handed me a similar letter. Her husband had also served in important Church callings for many years while addicted to pornography. She told of great difficulty in getting priesthood leaders to take this problem of pornography seriously: “I got all kinds of responses—like I was overreacting or it was my fault. The bishop we have now has been great. And now after 15 years my husband is trying to deal with his addiction, but now it is 15 years harder to quit for him and the loss has been incalculable.”

Pornography impairs one’s ability to enjoy a normal emotional, romantic, and spiritual relationship with a person of the opposite sex. It erodes the moral barriers that stand against inappropriate, abnormal, or illegal behavior. As conscience is desensitized, patrons of pornography are led to act out what they have witnessed, regardless of its effects on their life and the lives of others.

Pornography is also addictive. It impairs decision-making capacities and it “hooks” its users, drawing them back obsessively for more and more. A man who had been addicted to pornography and to hard drugs wrote me this comparison: “In my eyes cocaine doesn’t hold a candle to this. I have done both. … Quitting even the hardest drugs was nothing compared to [trying to quit pornography]” (letter of Mar. 20, 2005).