Gospel Story Finder

Soon it was time for Emma’s baby to be born. The pile of manuscript pages had grown thick, and Martin had become convinced that if he could let his wife read the translation, she would see its value and stop interfering with their work.32 He also hoped Lucy would be pleased with how he had spent his time and money to help bring forth God’s word.
One day, Martin asked Joseph for permission to take the manuscript to Palmyra for a few weeks.33 Remembering how Lucy Harris had acted when she visited the house, Joseph was wary of the idea. Yet he wanted to please Martin, who had believed him when so many others had doubted his word.34
Unsure what to do, Joseph prayed for guidance, and the Lord told him not to let Martin take the pages.35 But Martin was sure showing them to his wife would change things, and he begged Joseph to ask again. Joseph did so, but the answer was the same. Martin pressed him to ask a third time, however, and this time God allowed them to do as they pleased.
Joseph told Martin he could take the pages for two weeks if he covenanted to keep them locked up and show them only to certain family members. Martin made the promise and returned to Palmyra, manuscript in hand.36
After Martin left, Moroni appeared to Joseph and took the interpreters from him.37
The day after Martin’s departure, Emma endured an agonizing labor and gave birth to a boy. The baby was frail and sickly and did not live long. The ordeal left Emma physically drained and emotionally devastated, and for a time it seemed she might die too. Joseph tended to her constantly, never leaving her side for long.38
After two weeks, Emma’s health began to improve, and her thoughts turned to Martin and the manuscript. “I feel so uneasy,” she told Joseph, “that I cannot rest and shall not be at ease until I know something about what Mr. Harris is doing with it.”
She urged Joseph to find Martin, but Joseph did not want to leave her. “Send for my mother,” she said, “and she shall stay with me while you are gone.”39
Joseph took a stagecoach north. He ate and slept little during the journey, afraid that he had offended the Lord by not listening when He said not to let Martin take the manuscript.40
The sun was rising when he arrived at his parents’ home in Manchester. The Smiths were preparing breakfast and sent Martin an invitation to join them. By eight o’clock, the meal was on the table but Martin had not come. Joseph and the family started to grow uneasy as they waited for him.
Finally, after more than four hours had passed, Martin appeared in the distance, walking slowly toward the house, his eyes fixed on the ground in front of him.41 At the gate he paused, sat on the fence, and pulled his hat down over his eyes. He then came inside and sat down to eat in silence.
The family watched as Martin picked up his utensils, as if ready to eat, then dropped them. “I have lost my soul!” he cried, pressing his hands on his temples. “I have lost my soul.”
Joseph jumped up. “Martin, have you lost that manuscript?”
“Yes,” Martin said. “It is gone, and I know not where.”
“Oh, my God, my God,” Joseph groaned, clenching his fists. “All is lost!”
He started pacing the floor. He did not know what to do. “Go back,” he ordered Martin. “Search again.”
“It is all in vain,” Martin cried. “I have looked every place in the house. I have even ripped open beds and pillows, and I know it is not there.”
“Must I return to my wife with such a tale?” Joseph feared the news would kill her. “And how shall I appear before the Lord?”
His mother tried to comfort him. She said maybe the Lord would forgive him if he repented humbly. But Joseph was sobbing now, furious at himself for not obeying the Lord the first time. He could barely eat for the rest of the day. He stayed the night and left the next morning for Harmony.42
As his mother, Lucy, watched him go, her heart was heavy. It seemed everything they had hoped for as a family—everything that had brought them joy over the last few years—had fled in a moment.43

For example, in wartime missed messages between commanders and soldiers at the front have resulted in great confusion and serious loss of life. In World War I the 308th Infantry was ordered to the front in a desperate attempt to take and hold part of the Argonne Forest at any cost. The battle was so fierce that the supporting troops on the right and the left of one battalion withdrew, and the battalion was surrounded and isolated. Because headquarters lost communication with them, they became known as the Lost Battalion.
The battalion communicated with headquarters by carrier pigeons that flew from the battalion’s location to headquarters with messages. However, as soon as these pigeons were released, they were shot down by the opposing forces. The Lost Battalion’s own artillery, not knowing where they were, opened fire on their position and inflicted heavy casualties. The battalion ran out of food and water, but they held their ground and did not surrender despite their great losses. Finally one carrier pigeon called Cher Ami, even though it was shot, got through to headquarters carrying the message that identified the battalion’s location. The survivors of the battalion were rescued because that one crucial message got through.

I was trying to prove him stone wrong,” said Diahann Piper, remembering the first time she accepted a challenge from an instructor to attend the small LDS branch on the Caribbean island of St. Thomas.
“Brother Gerald Cox told me, ‘You ask some tough questions. Just go. Nobody will force you to join the Church.’”
Diahann took him up on his challenge. She attended church expecting the worst, but the worst never happened. “Some of my friends were so down on the Church. They told me all kinds of terrible things. When I went I kept waiting to see those things happen, but all I was seeing was love and more love.” Now Diahann is a member of the St. Thomas Branch.
For Diahann, joining the Church has brought some big changes in her life. “I had to change my attitude,” she said, “my style, my friends. I liked to go to the beach on Sundays, and I swore a lot. I had to change. Now I follow the prophet.”

About 10 years ago I felt impressed to paint a portrait of the Savior. Though I am an artist, this felt a bit overwhelming. How was I to paint a portrait of Jesus Christ that captured His Spirit? Where was I to begin? And where would I find the time?
Even with my questions, I decided to move forward and trust that the Lord would help me. But I had to keep moving and leave the possibilities to Him. I prayed, pondered, researched, and sketched and was blessed to find help and resources. And what was a white canvas started to become something more.
The process wasn’t easy. Sometimes it didn’t look as I had hoped. Sometimes there were moments of inspired strokes and ideas. And many times, I just had to try again and again and again.
When I thought the oil painting was finally complete and dry, I began to apply a transparent varnish to protect it from dirt and dust. As I did, I noticed the hair in the painting start to change, smear, and dissolve. I quickly realized that I had applied the varnish too soon, that part of the painting was still wet!
I had literally wiped away a portion of my painting with the varnish. Oh, how my heart sank. I felt as though I had just destroyed what God had helped me to do. I cried and felt sick inside. In despair, I did what anyone would typically do in a situation like this: I called my mother. She wisely and calmly said, “You won’t get back what you had, but do the very best you can with what you’ve got.”
And I Partook, by Kristin M. Yee
So I prayed and pled for help and painted through the night to repair things. And I remember looking at the painting in the morning—it looked better than it did before. How was that possible? What I thought was a mistake without mend was an opportunity for His merciful hand to be manifest. He was not done with the painting, and He was not done with me. What joy and relief filled my heart. I praised the Lord for His mercy, for this miracle that not only saved the painting but taught me more about His love and power to save each of us from our mistakes, weaknesses, and sins and to help us become something more.

Brother Hatch’s daughter, Keilani, had wanted to go to the temple with her dad for as long as she can remember. She prepared and planned, and when she turned 12 last year, she eagerly set her alarm. Then she realized how tired she was. “We went early in the morning and I was really grumpy when I got there, but the temple workers brought my spirits up,” she remembers. “Then, when it was time for my dad to confirm me on behalf of someone else, I could feel the Spirit so strongly. I realized why I was there, and I just felt happy.”
She says going to the temple helps her stay true to her standards because she wants to be worthy to go back. She remembers a time when those standards were tested by some of her friends, who wanted her to help them cheat on an exam. “I wasn’t allowed to help, but I was alone in the room with my friends, and they were begging me to,” she explains. “It’s really hard to tell your friends no, but it was easier because I had gone to the temple that day. I made a choice to put God first in my life.”

“You pray funny!” Lucia said after Whitney finished saying a blessing on their lunch.
“No, I don’t,” Whitney said. “Why did you say that?”
“We don’t say prayers like that at my church,” Lucia said.
“What do you mean?” Whitney asked as she picked off the crusty part of her grilled cheese sandwich.
“When you pray it sounds old-fashioned.”
“It’s just the words you read in the scriptures,” Whitney said. “I don’t think it’s weird.”
A car horn honked outside. Whitney looked at the kitchen clock. “That’s probably your mom to take us to soccer practice.”
The girls grabbed their sandwiches and raced out the door. “Bye, Mom,” Whitney called. “See you after practice.”
Whitney didn’t think much about what Lucia had said about her prayer until later that evening when Dad gathered everyone for family prayer.
“Whose turn is it tonight?” Dad asked.
“I think it’s Russell’s turn,” Mom said.
Russell bowed his head and began to pray. He thanked Heavenly Father and asked for blessings. Whitney listened closely as Russell prayed. His words did sound different from the way people usually talk: “We thank Thee. … We ask that Thou wilt bless. … Help us follow Thy prophet .…” Russell finished and everyone stood.
Whitney went to get ready for bed. She changed into her pajamas and brushed her teeth. Then she opened her closet and chose one of her best dresses for church the next day. She took it off the hanger and laid it across the back of her desk chair.
“Hey, Whit,” Dad said as he came into her bedroom with a stack of folded clothes. “Mom told me what Lucia said at lunch. Did that bother you?”
“No, not really,” Whitney said. “Well, kind of. Why do we pray with fancy words? Why not just talk the way we usually do?”
Dad picked up Whitney’s soccer uniform from off the floor where she had dropped it earlier that day. “Why don’t you wear this to church tomorrow instead of that dress on your chair?”
“Very funny, Dad,” Whitney said as she grabbed her shorts and shirt. “This is what I wear to soccer—not to church.”
“There’s a difference?” Dad asked.
“Of course,” Whitney replied.
“Right,” Dad said. “The reason we wear our Sunday best to church is to show respect and reverence for Heavenly Father. We dress differently than we do for other occasions. It’s the same way with the words we use when we pray. The words we say show love and respect.”
“So when we say those words, Heavenly Father knows we are treating Him in a special way?”
“That’s right,” Dad said. “I’m sure Heavenly Father listens and understands either way, but when we use words like Thy blessings instead of your blessings and Thou hast seen or Thou seest instead of you have seen or you see, it’s kind of like…”
Whitney lifted the dress from the chair. “It’s like our prayers are all dressed up in their Sunday best!”

After a rough day at school, Lucy S. (13, from Utah, USA) finally arrived home. Her brother, David (12) noticed she was upset.
“What’s wrong?” David asked. “Are you OK?”
David’s concern made a big difference for Lucy. “I felt a lot better,” Lucy says. “David has autism, and he often just focuses on what he’s interested in, but when he sees someone who is sad or lonely, he’ll go up to them. He’s very aware of other people. That’s the kind of person he is—he’s good, genuine, and honest.”
Siblings like Lucy know that growing up with a brother or sister with a disability can be challenging, but they also know how wonderful it can be. And they know the many blessings that can come. They can teach us a lot. Read on for examples of what some of these siblings have learned that may also help you.
Anela (14), Chiyo (11), and Daniel (10) from the Philippines have a brother, Bien (12), who has cerebral palsy. They see him as a unique person with his own strengths. They wish others would get to know Bien the way they do.
“Where we live, there’s a steep hill that my siblings and I call a ‘mountain,’” Anela says. “We enjoy riding our bikes up the hill and racing back down. Bien has a hard time going up, so we help him. Sometimes people stare at him. It bothers me when that happens. But Bien doesn’t seem to mind. He smiles and waves at them as we pass by.
“I wish people would know when they see Bien that he’s friendly and enjoys being around other people. He’s shy at first, but he’s a lot of fun once he feels comfortable. He can’t do what able-bodied people can do, but he loves to learn. I’ve learned from Bien that we shouldn’t worry so much about what everyone else thinks about us, and we should treat everyone with kindness.”
“Sometimes it’s hard to be patient with David, especially when he won’t listen,” Lucy says. “Sometimes he can’t help it, so I don’t want to get too mad at him, but I also want to make sure he learns and understands. It’s important to find balance. It helps me know how to help my brother.”
Chiyo has found that patience helps Bien learn. “I help teach my brother the alphabet, colors, numbers, and animals,” Chiyo says. “Sometimes he has a hard time identifying animals. I keep working with him, and after a while, I noticed he’s improved. I’ll name an animal, he’ll point to a photo, and he gets some of them right! Bien’s example teaches me that it takes time to learn new things and it can be hard, but if you have patience and keep practicing, you will eventually get it right.”
“I love that my family thinks about my brother before we do an activity so he can have a good time too,” Anela says. “We also include Bien in helping around the house,” Chiyo says. “He can fold some of his clothes and sweep the floor.”
Lucy has also seen how teachers and friends at church make David feel welcome. “It’s nice to see people try and learn about David’s interests,” Lucy says. “Right now, he really loves Star Wars, so ward members will ask him about it. They know it’s something he’ll be willing to talk about. One of his teachers tries to incorporate what David likes into the lessons in some way. This helps him pay more attention in class.”
Someone may look different, act different, or have different abilities, but we all belong. There are many ways to help everyone feel included and important. The more we strive to do so, the more we will all learn and grow.
We all belong.
Christ and the Palsied Man, by J. Kirk Richards

“The decision I made to go on a mission was the greatest one I made in my life,” says BYU’s star player, Mike Smith. “I made my decision to serve a mission many years ago. I made the decision before other pressures could influence me.”
And the pressure did come. Mike was considered to be one of the best players to come out of any California high school and many large universities wanted him. Mike chose BYU, and in his first year, he was a starting player 27 of 31 games. But id didn’t bother him at all to leave his sports career behind for a couple of years.
There were those who didn’t understand, however. One man in particular, a long-time fan of Mike’s from his hometown, couldn’t understand why Mike would run the risk of sacrificing his career to serve a mission. Mike wrote his non-Latter-day Saint friend a letter from the mission field in which he bore his testimony of the truthfulness of the gospel, the Book of Mormon, and the prophet of the Church. Mike also told him he felt it was a privilege rather than a sacrifice to serve. His friend was so affected by mike’s testimony that he took the letter to a local Catholic priest, who happened to be interested in Mike’s basketball career too. The priest, in turn, read the letter in mass every day for a week, saying it was an example of a youth who was doing all he could to serve the Lord.
“Nothing that happens on the basketball court can compare with experiences in the mission field,” Mike explains. “The feelings you experience on the basketball court are so limited, so temporary. You can make a game-winning shot and the fans love you, but the next play you might accidentally bounce the ball off your foot and that great feeling is gone. But the feelings that you have in the mission field, where the Spirit touches your heart, you’ll never forget.”

McFarlane Phiri first learned about the Church in 1978 and spent the next 14 years studying the scriptures and other books that were sent to him by Church headquarters in Utah. During that time, Brother Phiri taught his friends about Christ, the restored gospel, and the Book of Mormon. By the time senior missionaries, Elder Brian and Sister Betty Peedle were assigned to serve in Malawi by Zimbabwe Harare Mission President Vern Marble in July 1992, 31 others were also ready for baptism. An additional 43 people were baptized a few months later.

I used to look at the Old Testament in sort of the same way I looked at fairy tales—neat stories that didn’t really relate to my life. Separated from me by thousands of years of history, they seemed far removed from reality. However, my seminary teacher loved the Old Testament, and his enthusiasm and humble testimony began to instill in me a greater reverence for these scriptures.
One night as I was studying, I came across this verse: “And the Lord spake unto Moses face to face, as a man speaketh unto his friend” (Ex. 33:11).
I read these words, and at first I wasn’t particularly influenced by them. The Lord spoke to Moses. Of course He did. It seemed only natural for the Lord to appear personally to one of His prophets.
Then I prayed, and I really started to think about that scripture. I knew Heavenly Father wouldn’t appear to me that night, but maybe I could try to speak to Him “as a man speaketh unto his friend.” It was then that I felt His love envelop me.
As I prayed, I restated in my own words what I had read: “Moses spoke to Thee face to face, just like a friend.” I stopped. I said it again and again.
Then it hit me. The realization was so profound yet so simple. Moses saw God face to face. Suddenly Old Testament times were not so distant, and I realized that Moses had been a mortal—just like me. The scriptures came to life in my mind; I knew that Moses had actually lived and breathed, that he, too, had experienced challenges and struggled with a lack of confidence. Yet he talked to the Messiah, the Jehovah of Israel, his Lord and Redeemer—my Lord and Redeemer—in the same manner I spoke to my own earthly father.
“Heavenly Father,” I prayed again, “more than anything else, I want to return to Thee!” I closed my prayer and crawled into bed, feeling His love more tangibly than I ever had in my life.

President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008) once described the experience of a young divorced “mother of seven children then ranging in ages from 7 to 16. She said that one evening she went across the street to deliver something to a neighbor.” These are her words as he recalled them:
“As I turned around to walk back home, I could see my house lighted up. I could hear echoes of my children as I had walked out of the door a few minutes earlier. They were saying: ‘Mom, what are we going to have for dinner?’ ‘Can you take me to the library?’ ‘I have to get some poster paper tonight.’ Tired and weary, I looked at that house and saw the light on in each of the rooms. I thought of all of those children who were home waiting for me to come and meet their needs. My burdens felt heavier than I could bear.
“I remember looking through tears toward the sky, and I said, ‘Dear Father, I just can’t do it tonight. I’m too tired. I can’t face it. I can’t go home and take care of all those children alone. Could I just come to You and stay with You for just one night? …’
“I didn’t really hear the words of reply, but I heard them in my mind. The answer was: ‘No, little one, you can’t come to me now. … But I can come to you.’”
“I can come to you.” He came to her, and He will come to you and me, just as the Savior came to the woman at the well where she labored and toiled through her days (see John 4:3–42). He encouraged her, taught her, declared His messiahship to her, and loved her when perhaps she didn’t love herself. To the woman at the well, to the young mother of seven, to you and me, Jesus Christ stands ready to provide relief. I testify that we can receive relief through our covenant bond with a loving God.

It has taken me six years to forgive a family member who hurt me and others in the family. This person lowered my self-esteem, and I have felt taken advantage of. For a while I felt this person deserved to be hated, but I know I was wrong. I had to find a solution to a four-year grudge. I felt I should pray about it. Every time I prayed I would ask Heavenly Father to help me forgive and stop having bad feelings toward this person. It didn’t come all at once, but took two years of praying and even fasting. In those two years I slowly was rid of those bad feelings of hatred. I had finally forgiven that person. I felt so much better about myself.
Name withheld

The experience of the converting power of the Book of Mormon did not end after my mission. In 2016, I was called to teach institute classes for adults. That year, we were studying the Book of Mormon. One day, as we studied King Benjamin’s powerful and inspired discourse in the book of Mosiah, two brothers in my class, carrying a secret burden of deep family problems, were moved to tears. Without saying a word, they left the classroom, and instinctively, I followed them. In the church courtyard, I found them talking, crying, and supporting each other. Respecting their privacy, I returned to the classroom, but concern tinged with hope accompanied me. At the end of the lesson, the two brothers returned, but this time, their presence was marked by peace. One of them spoke, sharing the miracle that had just occurred. He explained that thanks to the teachings of the Book of Mormon and the words of King Benjamin, they had found the strength to confront their family difficulties. In that testifying moment, I was reminded of Alma’s words, “The preaching of the word had a great tendency to lead the people to do that which was just—yea, it had had more powerful effect upon the minds of the people than the sword, or anything else, which had happened unto them.” (Alma 31:5).
That day, those brothers experienced the testimony of more than one in its fulness through the power of divine words, confirming the universal truth that the word of God can breathe life into the most wounded hearts.

Elder Soares: I remember what a challenge it was during those first five years after marriage when we were trying to have children.
Sister Soares: Those years were very difficult. I couldn’t get pregnant.
Elder Soares: We had many health challenges after so much effort. That’s when we received a priesthood blessing. Later you had a surgery, and a few months later . . .
Sister Soares: Our dream came true.
Elder Soares: You got pregnant.
Sister Soares: We trusted so much in the Lord, and we recognized tangible blessings. It was not easy for the two of us, who were so inexperienced, but it has also been marvelous.
Elder Soares: While we were dealing with life, the Lord provided for our spiritual needs, giving us the peace that we needed, the comfort and ability to work, to continue on, to finish our education. It was a significant time in our lives that completely changed the direction of everything we thought we’d be doing.

Learning to Be a Southerner
Lana Gabrylczyk, 18, Sevierville Branch
When I first moved here, I didn’t think I would ever pick up the accent. Now I live with my mom in a true Tennessee holler. I really picked up the accent. When I went back to Idaho to visit, my friends there all laughed. I would say, “Hey, what ya’ll doing tonight?” They would answer, “We all aren’t doing anything tonight.” They teased me about saying “ya’ll.”
I’ve learned to make biscuits and gravy. There is an old lady that lives at the end of Mom’s holler. I called her one day and said, “Cora, how do you make biscuits?”
She said, “Take about a cup of milk.” Then she kept telling me a pinch of this and a scoop of that.
I asked her, “How much is that?”
She said, “As much as you want.” I just threw up my hands. I finally had to go visit and watch her, but mine still don’t turn out as good as hers.

The blizzard of 1831 was one of the worst ever. The people huddled by the campfires, their hands and feet blue from the freezing cold. They had little food, and tents and blankets were scarce. Most of the children were barefoot; three-fourths of them were naked.
Men, women, and children died in great numbers that winter. These people were the first of the Choctaw Indian Nation to travel the “Trail of Tears,” as it became known among the native Americans who were forced to leave their lands and relocate in Oklahoma.
Throughout that winter, the Choctaw continued to battle hunger and disease, hoping that spring would bring relief. It didn’t. Torrential rains added to their misery, swelling the rivers and turning the roads into muddy quagmires. It took them nearly five months to walk the 800 kilometers from the Mississippi-Arkansas area to their destination in Oklahoma.
A second group of Choctaw left for Oklahoma the following year. This time the United States government provided more food and supplies, alleviating the threat of starvation that had plagued the first group. But an epidemic of cholera swept down the Mississippi Valley and spread throughout the region. Heavy rains added to the suffering, and many of the Choctaw were forced through kilometers of swampland, swollen rivers, and dense forest.
They buried their dead along the way.
I had no knowledge of the pain and suffering of the Choctaw Nation until I developed an interest in family history. I learned that my Choctaw great-great-great-grandmother, Betsy Perkins, had left Mississippi with the tribe and had walked the “Trail of Tears” to Oklahoma. I placed her name in my family records, but I thought that I could do nothing further on that line. As far as I knew, no further information was available.
But on Sunday, 11 September 1983, at about three o’clock in the morning, I had a dream. I dreamed that I saw a native American woman with long braids streaked with gray. She was stirring something in a cooking pot. In my dream, I was in her home. Stretched animal skins formed the walls and roof, and poles of clean natural wood supported the walls, which were lashed together with leather strips. The home was small in circumference, but the roof was high enough for me to stand comfortably.
The woman spoke with me, and we talked for some time. I felt comfortable being with her and felt her warm hospitality. I don’t remember what was said, but she told me her name over and over again—Nanah-ku-chi. Another woman was with her, holding a child about two or three years old, with black shoulder-length hair. Their clothing, simple in design, appeared to be made from animal skins, cleaned and softened.
Three times the Spirit prompted me to get up and write, until I finally climbed out of bed and found paper and a pencil. I then sat at the dining-room table and wrote the words that came into my mind.
The Spirit made known to me that, if I were faithful, I would be led to find my ancestors’ names, and that Nanah-ku-chi, one of the women I had seen in the dream, was my ancestor. I seemed to hear in my mind, “Now is the time to labor for thy dead.”
I felt prompted to go to Philadelphia, Mississippi, where I would be given the names of those whose temple work needed to be done. “Be faithful, and it shall come unto thee line upon line,” the Spirit seemed to say. I have always believed in personal revelation, but this experience carried with it a force far beyond what I had expected.
After completing what I was prompted to write, I returned to bed. I had been asleep only a short while when Bradley, my three-year-old son, suddenly awakened me. “Indians, Indians. I dreamed about Indians,” he said. I was astonished; I felt that his words were an affirmation of my own dream. I was even more astonished when I later asked him about his dream.
“I dreamed an Indian chief came to our house,” he said.
“How did you know he was a chief?” I asked.
“He said he was a chief,” Bradley replied. “He asked me for some bread. I took him to the kitchen to get some. He said, ‘No, not that kind of bread.’”
“Were there other people with him?” I asked.
“Yes,” came the answer. “They were waiting for him.”
Later, as I sat in sacrament meeting thinking about the dreams, I silently prayed for guidance that I might be able to find the information necessary to do my Choctaw ancestors’ temple work. I felt impressed to acquire a copy of a record I had seen some twenty years earlier at the National Archives in Washington, D.C. It was the Choctaw-Armstrong Roll of 1831, and it contained records of the Choctaw before their trek over the “Trail of Tears” to Oklahoma. This census had on record some 3,000 heads of families and represented about 17,000 people. I had photocopied the pages from it that dealt with my ancestor named Betsy.
I wrote to the National Archives, requesting a microfilm copy of the entire record. I also contacted the Church Family History Library in Salt Lake City, Utah, and asked whether temple work could be done for people listed on the record. I then asked for and obtained permission to help do name extraction work on the Choctaw-Armstrong Roll.
I also went to Philadelphia, Mississippi, as I had been prompted. There, on the Choctaw reservation, I learned the story of the Nanah-weya. Archaeologists think that the Choctaw are probably of Mayan descent—from Central America—because their language, customs, and culture are similar to those of the Mayans. Choctaw legends tell of their migration from their old lands, where they had been persecuted. A prophet had told them of a land waiting for them, where they would be safe. Two brothers, Chataw and Chickasaw, led the people out of the old land.
The people followed the “leaning pole,” a sacred pole placed in front of the leaders’ camp each night. Some legends say that a sacred medicine bag was tied to the pole. Each morning, the people traveled in the direction the pole leaned. They carried their ancestors’ bones with them.
When they reached the area that is now Northern Mississippi, there was a tremendous rainstorm. The people thought that in the morning they would find the sacred pole flat on the ground because of the rain. Instead, the pole stood straight, its shaft buried deep in the mud.
That is where the people stayed. In the new land they held a great council to decide what to do with their ancestors’ bones. The decision they made was to build a large mound and bury them there. This mound, called the Nanah-weya, means “leaning mountain,” or “mother mound.”
I asked a Choctaw from Oklahoma if he knew the meaning of the word Nanah-ku-chi. He told me that it means “to bring out of the mountain.”
“You have said it just the way the Choctaw would say it,” he told me. “Nanah means mountain; Ku-chi means to bring forth.” I concluded that the words I had heard must have meant that the names of the Choctaw dead should be brought out of obscurity so that the Choctaws’ temple work should be completed.
My trip to Mississippi bore great fruit. There, in a courthouse, a woman gave my aunt and me a copy of some family records. Later, when I read through it, I was amazed. Before, I had had only three names on that particular family. Now I had more than sixty pages of information! There, at the beginning of the line, was the name of Ikenaby, an Indian chief who had lived during the early 1800s and who had married a white woman by the name of Kearney.
I continued to help with the work on the Choctaw-Armstrong Roll. Lorraine Nievar of Ardmore, Oklahoma, whose ancestors are Choctaw and French, also helped with name extraction work on the record. When the work was complete, 1,500 names from the record were sent to the temple in Dallas, Texas, so that Sister Nievar and her family could help perform their ancestors’ temple work. Another 1,500 names were sent to the Logan Utah Temple, where many of my friends and neighbors have helped with the work.
I believe that many members of the Choctaw Nation who lived during the early 1800s have accepted the temple work completed in their behalf. As I participated in baptisms for the dead one Saturday morning, I felt their gratitude. During one particular temple session, I was asked to speak to the members of a Logan ward. While we sat together in the temple’s chapel, I told them the story behind the names they carried that night. I remember that temple session as one of the most sacred I ever attended.
I recall feeling a vivid sense of light and joy at one particular point in the session. I thought of my son’s dream. My friends and neighbors were now giving the “bread of life” to those who had asked for it. I again felt that those whose work we were performing, though unseen, were grateful for the opportunity to accept the gospel. Though they had once walked the “Trail of Tears,” now they could walk the straight and narrow path of joy that leads to eternal life.
Many native American records have been compiled by various organizations. It is now possible to do more temple work for native American ancestors than ever before; many of them are eager to receive the saving ordinances of the gospel.
I learned just how eager they were one spring day while driving to Salt Lake City to talk with a woman there. Suddenly, I felt that I could hear the sound of drums beating. I seemed to see an Indian woman, dressed in an oversize plaid shirt, a Navajo skirt, and a silver medallion belt. The seat beside me was empty, but I could sense her presence.
When I arrived in Salt Lake City, I felt prompted to ask the woman with whom I had the appointment whether she had any Indian ancestors. But Carolyn doesn’t look Indian; she’s blonde and blue-eyed, I thought to myself. She’ll think I’m crazy.
When I met Carolyn in her office, the prompting for me to ask was just as strong as it had been in the car. So I asked if she had Indian ancestors.
“Yes,” she said. “My grandmother was Cherokee and was adopted by the Navajo.” She told me about how her “Granny” had worked as a nurse for many years with the Navajo in Arizona, Oklahoma, New Mexico, and Texas. Later, I asked Carolyn about the clothing her grandmother had worn, and she described to me the clothing I had seen the woman wearing.
I told Carolyn about the temple work we had done for the Choctaw. She was thrilled about the possibility of doing the same work for the Cherokee. The Cherokee were the second nation to walk the “Trail of Tears”; there is a record of the tribe in its entirety from 1835—before they had settled in Oklahoma. Carolyn is now doing extraction work on that record, preparing names for the temple.
I know that my Choctaw ancestors desired the blessings of the gospel. My love for my ancestors has grown as I have learned about them. Though they suffered great hardship in mortality, they are now receiving the great blessings of the temple.

The bed felt soft and warm. Melissa hoped her sister Shelly wasn’t asleep yet in her bed. As Melissa watched the shadows made by the moonlight streaming through the window and across the dressers and beds, they made curious gray shapes on the wall.
“I wonder what the sharpest thing in the world is,” Melissa said.
“Who cares?” responded Shelly, who thought Melissa was a nuisance when she asked so many questions.
“Well, it couldn’t be shadows,” Melissa said. “Even though they have corners, they’re very soft.”
“Oh, really?” Shelly declared sarcastically.
Melissa lay quietly for a moment, but she kept thinking. Soon she said, “If I wanted to find out what the sharpest thing in the world is, I’d start by letting every single horse bite me.”
“Oh, brother,” moaned Shelly.
“Then I’d let every dog bite me.”
“What a dumb idea,” said Shelly. “You couldn’t do that.”
“Pins are pretty sharp,” Melissa continued, undeterred. “They can go through most anything. Or Mama’s best scissors might be the sharpest thing in the world. Remember how easily they cut my hair?”
“Go to sleep!” Shelly said crossly.
“Our sharpest knife cuts through a loaf of homemade bread in a second. But Daddy’s nails go through wood. Oh!” Melissa cried excitedly, “I bet I know what the sharpest thing in the world is. Great-great-grandpa Johnson’s sword! If you got poked with that it would really hurt.”
“Will you please be quiet, Melissa, so I can get some sleep!”
“If I could try all the horses and dogs and pins and scissors and knives and nails and swords, then I’d know what the sharpest thing in the world is.”
Shelly suddenly sat up in bed. “Melissa,” she shouted, “if you don’t be quiet, I’m going to tell Dad. I wish I had a bedroom of my own. I wish I didn’t have to share a bedroom with a sister who talks all night!” Then she flopped back down, turned her back to Melissa, and pulled the covers over her shoulder.
Melissa was quiet for a long time. Finally, out of the darkness came a wistful voice. “I know what the sharpest thing in the world is.”
“I don’t believe this,” said Shelly.
“It’s words,” Melissa said quietly. “They hurt the most.”
Shelly turned over and looked at Melissa with a mixture of surprise and affection. “Oh, Missy,” she said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean those things I said. I like sharing my bedroom with you. And I like having you for a sister.”
The girls were both silent for a few minutes thinking. Suddenly Melissa whispered, “Shelly.”
“Now what?” Shelly asked laughingly.
“I know what the softest thing in the world is,” Melissa declared thoughtfully. “Softer than shadows and darkness and pillows and marshmallows and teddy bears and blankets and moonlight.”
“OK,” said Shelly good-naturedly. “Tell me. What’s the softest thing in the world?”
“It’s words,” said Melissa.
Through the darkness she could almost see her sister smiling. And then she felt soft arms around her and Shelly whispered, “Oh, Melissa, I love you.”

They came by boat, they came by ferry, and youth from Kodiak Island even came by plane. That’s what you have to do for youth conference in the Soldotna Alaska Stake, located 150 miles south of Anchorage on the Kenai Peninsula. The stake takes in more than 10 cities and small communities, and the teens came from near and far to pull handcarts in the shadow of the Ring of Fire volcanoes. But this reenactment was unique. It was a pioneer trek Alaska-style.
Traveling three hours by ferry, two hours by car, and another hour and a half by bus to get to the trailhead, one Laurel from Cordova, Aubrey Finch, said: “I am so glad I went. It built me as a person to see what my ancestors, the pioneers, went through just for what they believed in.”
Like teens at most pioneer treks, these Alaskans pulled handcarts, cooked their own meals, and enjoyed devotionals. But this group faced its own challenges that gave this trek an Alaskan flavor—like keeping an eye out for bear warnings and dealing with nearly 24 hours of daily sunlight.
The first obstacle was finding a place for the trek. “We had no idea how hard it would be to find land that we would be allowed to cross,” said Marlene Meyer, the stake Young Women president. “In some ways it reminded us of the feeling the pioneers had when they were driven out of every place they tried to call home.”
For months the leaders scoured the state looking for a suitable site that could handle 150 people pulling handcarts and camping along the way. Because much of Alaska is covered in wetland, they knew they needed to find an abandoned road with dry campsites every 12 miles. Fourteen days before the event was scheduled to begin, the leaders were contacted about the possibility of passing through some land in a small area called Anchor Point. Miraculously, it had oil pad sites, areas covered in gravel and suitable for camping, positioned every 12 miles along an old road. With only days to spare, stake leaders got the permits and the trek went forward.
Before the trek began, youth and adults spent hundreds of hours building handcarts, welding wagon wheels, sewing clothing, preparing food, and planning. The youth, wanting to make the trek their own, put much of their own effort into the preparations.
Kaylene Forbes, a Laurel of the Soldotna Ward, said, “I did a lot of sewing to prepare for the trek. The skirts and the aprons weren’t very difficult, but the bonnet was hard. After I was finished, though, especially on the trek, I was glad that I did everything myself.”
Each handcart “family” was led by a young man and young woman, called a Pa and Ma, and were also accompanied by adult leaders. The Mas and Pas even arrived early for special training.
“We worked hard,” Brother Forbes, Soldotna’s Young Men president, said. “Hundreds and hundreds of hours, but it was worth 100 times the effort that went into it. It was better than we could have ever dreamed.”
Throughout the trek, efforts to bring to life 19th-century pioneers included a mock Mormon Battalion march and a women’s pull, but no one could plan for one disheartening element they had in common with the pioneers—the weather. One of the original handcart pioneers, John Southwell, who traveled in the Haven handcart company crossing Iowa in 1856, records that they experienced hail, rain, wind, and ankle-deep mud.
One hundred and fifty years later, when the Alaska participants reached the trailhead on the first day of their trek, rain gushed down. The long, muddy trail wandered up tall hills, and the handcart wheels sunk in deep sand.
On the third day, the group awoke to a terrible storm with winds blowing more than 50 miles per hour. Pegs pulled loose, tents collapsed, the rain pounded down, and dark clouds covered the entire sky. Fearing that the weather would stop the trek, the leaders knelt in prayer. President Randy Eberline of the stake presidency asked the Lord to calm the storm. Throughout the camp, trek families also knelt and prayed for relief from the weather. Suddenly, the clouds parted and a bowl of warm sunlight shone down. Kelly Maxwell, a priest from Sterling, described the answer to their combined prayers: “President Eberline prayed for there to be sunlight, and I was also hoping and praying that it would work. Minutes later we saw a break in the sky, and we started to see blue and then the sun just came out of the clouds.”
Kaylene described it this way: “The wind stopped, and you could see the clouds parting and the sun coming out. It was like seeing Moses parting the Red Sea, except this time God parted the clouds for us.”
Brother and Sister Matt and Jodi Clark arrived that evening to speak at a fireside. They reported that on the 100-mile drive from Anchorage it had been pouring rain. As they crested the last hill before reaching the camp, they saw the most incredible sight. Sunlight flooded the camp while the rest of the sky, as far as they could see in all directions, was full of dark clouds.
James Barrett, a priest from the Kenai Ward, said, “It was wonderful to feel the sun again, the warmth and the light that brought encouragement and hope. It was a miracle. It was as if the Lord had stretched out his hand and protected us from the harsh weather by surrounding our camp with sunlight.”
The next day included special devotionals, a memorial fireside, and a testimony meeting, solidifying the spirit of the experience. It started with a devotional in the wilderness for each handcart “family.” At the devotional the youth received a letter written by their parents. Some of the youth later said that during this quiet time they received their first witness of the truthfulness of the gospel. Cyril Zufelt, 17, of Soldotna said, “When I got my letter, I was touched. That was a huge turning point in my life. I’m never going to forget it.”
Then, after walking for several miles, the group was halted by the trail boss who instructed each person to pick up a rock. In a valley between two large hills, they held a special memorial service dedicated to all of the pioneers left behind on the trail, especially those of the Martin and Willie handcart companies, who had lost so many to the early winter weather and starvation. Each person placed their rock on a small memorial of the earlier pioneers. Sister Meyer remarked, “I couldn’t believe how hard it was to walk past that little memorial and think of the families that left loved ones behind. I don’t know how they had the strength to do it.”
As they packed up their tents, put away their bonnets and suspenders, and returned to inside plumbing, the youth took away more than blisters and soggy hiking shoes—they took with them an appreciation for the Saints who traveled 150 years ago and 3,600 miles away. Most of all, they took with them a stronger testimony of the gospel.
Lyssa DaVaney, a Laurel in the Homer Ward, said, “When I left for the trek, I knew that I would be coming back. The pioneers knew they would never go back to their homes again. The trek was such an awakening experience for me. I learned so much about the pioneers, Heavenly Father, and myself. I wouldn’t trade my experience for anything.”

More than 30 years ago my medical school classmates and I learned that lesson in an unforgettable way. We will never forget it. Our experience took place in the little town of Manzanillo on Mexico’s western coast. The year was 1978. We were attending a meeting with our medical school graduating class and their wives.

One evening after the scientific sessions had been completed, one of the doctors suddenly became seriously ill. Without warning, he began to lose massive amounts of blood from his stomach. Totally stunned, we surrounded him, watching life’s precious blood flow out from him. There we were, medical specialists skilled in various disciplines—including surgeons, anesthesiologists, and internists—with wisdom gained through more than 30 years of experience. What could we do? The nearest hospital was in Guadalajara, more than 100 mountainous miles away. It was night. No planes could fly. Blood transfusions were out of the question because of lack of equipment. All of our combined knowledge could not be mobilized to stop his hemorrhage. We were totally without the facilities or equipment needed to save the life of our beloved friend.

Our stricken colleague, a faithful Latter-day Saint, was well aware of his plight. Ashen and pale, he whispered a request for the administration of a priesthood blessing. Several of us held the Melchizedek Priesthood. We responded to his request immediately. I was asked to seal the anointing. The Spirit dictated that he be blessed to the end that the bleeding would stop and that he would continue to live and return to his home. That blessing was administered in the name of the Lord.

The next morning, his condition had improved. Miraculously, the bleeding had stopped. His blood pressure had returned to normal. In a couple of days he was able to return to his home. Unitedly, we thanked the Lord for this most remarkable blessing.

The lesson we learned was simple: “Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding.”7 We experienced this firsthand. This doctrine, taught repeatedly in the scriptures,8 had now become our sure and certain knowledge.

So let me tell you about my mom because it all started with her!
A few years before she passed away, I spent the summer with my folks in Southern California, where I grew up. One day I said, “Mom, let’s read through your patriarchal blessing.” So we did and by the end, I said, “Gee Mom- looks you did everything you came here to do!”
“I think you’re done!” She didn’t laugh.
So we started knit-picking through some of the details, but I kept going back to this line that read “You will open the doors for many to receive the gospel.” I remember when she received her blessing, we were so new in the church, and someone told her that it meant that she is going to do genealogy work and save her family. So she jumped on the bandwagon and did a lot of family history work. This was back in the 70s genealogy was hard work and took a long time. But looking hindsight, 45 years after her blessing was given, I know without a doubt that my mom’s mission in this life was to bring our family to the gospel; she was directed by the Spirit, and she never gave up—even though she didn’t really know what she was looking for. She was raised Catholic, received every ordinance in the church, attended a private catholic school and that’s when she began to go to church daily. There was a chapel on their campus, so whether it be mass, confession, or having personal prayer - she was there every day.
She loved God and had this undying yearning—almost like a poking or a prodding that kept her looking for more. The funny thing is, her family didn’t go to church. Everything she knew, learned, or attended she did on her own.
So when she met my dad and they talked about getting married, she insisted that he see her priest. My dad would not commit to baptism, but he agreed that all of us kids could. So we were baptized, attended catechism, confirmed, I attended private Catholic school. . . we did everything. But somehow for her-it was never enough. This yearning; this always looking for more—it just persisted with my mom for a long time, until one day we were swimming at a neighbor’s pool. My mom was chatting with their mom and mentioned how she wished my dad would just go to church, even if it was his own church. Of course the neighbor asked, “What church is that?”
“The Mormon Church,” my mom answered. And to our surprise, the neighbor said, “That’s our church too!” And being the good member missionary that she was, she offered to have her husband invite my dad to church and he loved it and has been active ever since. I wanna say “Amen!” at this point, but the journey to baptism was long. My mom was the most dedicated, loyal Catholic you’ll ever meet. So for months, we attended both churches.
One of the things that I loved most about my mom is that she sought out and received revelation long before she became a member. She didn’t understand the bread for sacrament. It was too simple and informal compared to what she was used to. She thought it should be more sacred than a slice of bread broken.
And then there were the scriptures.
My mom owned this bible from her church. It was huge and white, and leather and it was different. . . the books inside were different. She would argue with my dad, “How do you know your bible is correct?” And every week she carried it to church. In Sunday School they would look up scriptures and she could never find it.
So she prayed and asked for help to find the scriptures and understand the sacrament. One night she went to bed and woke up several hours later to a voice who told her to “ open up her bible to page “such and such,” look on the left column in the middle. She did that but found nothing. So she turned off her light and went back to sleep. A few minutes later the voice returned and told her the same thing. “Open your bible to page ‘such and such,’ look on the left column in the middle. She followed the instructions again and again found nothing. My dad heard her and asked her what was wrong. She told him and he said, “Tell me that page again.” And as they both took out their own bibles to search, quickly my dad exclaimed, “Oh here! I am the bread of life!” She needed to see it with her own eyes, but without a doubt, she knew her prayer about the sacrament and the scriptures had been answered. The next morning, she was super excited as she shared that story and announced that we were all getting baptized ASAP!
President Utchdorf reminded us that, “Our Heavenly Father sees our real potential. He knows things about us that we don’t know ourselves. He prompts us during our lifetime to fulfill the measure of our creation, to live a good life, and to return to His presence.”
Without a doubt, my mom filled the measure of her creation. And so at the end of her life, I had an even greater love for her! Not only because she had followed the guidance and persistence of the spirit that brought us to the church, but for instilling in us a love for God and an understanding that God hears us and answers our prayers.
And a funny thing. . . once we were baptized. . . . the yearning stopped!