Gospel Story Finder

In March of this year, my wife and I had the privilege of taking some invited guests on a tour of the new Kinshasa Democratic Republic of the Congo Temple during the open house prior to its dedication.
As we stood in the beautiful temple baptistry, one of these guests asked an intriguing question. He said something like this: “In our tribal traditions, our ancestors are so important to us—how is it that you connect your families together through the generations?” It was a beautiful teaching moment as we then shared how in a gift of love and service, many faithful members of the Church perform vital ordinances, such as baptisms, on behalf of loved ones who have died. We then took him to the sealing room where we showed him the altar where families are united for the eternities and had him look into the mirrors which face one another—symbolic of the eternal links made between past and future generations.
This good man had many follow up questions and left the temple deeply affected by what he had seen and felt. He eagerly took a copy of the My Family booklet so he could collect names and stories of his own ancestors. With great sincerity he expressed gratitude for being in the temple and left with a new understanding of God’s plan for eternal families and the importance of sacred temples in that plan.
Another guest was so moved by the feelings of peace he had felt while sitting reverently in the celestial room that he asked: “I am a Catholic, but can I still come back to the temple to pray with your members, because I have felt so good in this special place of worship?” We invited him to bring his family as often as he wanted during the open house but explained that coming to the temple after it had been dedicated would require him to be a faithful member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

The “bus sisters” who come all the way from Utah to be in pageant are almost a legend. This year, six buses started out from Salt Lake City. Only three hours later one bus broke down, which meant a crowding of the girls all the way to Palmyra. It warmed my heart to learn of the pioneer stoicism and fortitude these girls displayed. “Rest stops would take two hours,” said bright-eyed Nancy Cox from the Lynwood (Oregon) Ward. “It was really crowded on the bus until someone finally bought some little kids’ chairs to sit on in the aisles.” What did they do to relieve the monotony and keep discouragement at a minimum? “We sang a lot and prayed. I feel very close to all the girls on my bus,” said Nancy. No doubt “Come, Come, Ye Saints,” with its trek-to-Salt Lake origin, was a favorite.

The Polaradome’s transparent bubble loomed high into the afternoon sky, dwarfing the cityscape on all sides of it. The people thronging the giant entry doors looked like armies of ants converging on an inverted fishbowl.
“My, but it’s big,” said a trim young lady to her escort. “How many does it hold?”
He looked upward at the sweeping curve of the dome. “A quarter of a million.”
She caught her breath. “Tom, you’re kidding!”
He shook his head. “When they designed the Games Machine, they designed the Polaradome to go with it. They have such a huge investment in all this, the only way they can show a profit is to house it in a stadium the size of the Polaradome.” He grinned. “And hope the people come out and fill it up.”
She looked around at the sea of people engulfing them. “I think they’re going to make a profit on today’s game.”
They walked down a wide aisle and took seats very near home plate. She turned to him and said, “You believe in getting close to the game, don’t you?”
He nodded, smiling. “I like to get involved, Marci.”
“What about those people back there in the last rows? As enormous as the Polaradome is, I’d think they’d have some difficulty seeing the plays sometimes.”
“They would, except for these.” He leaned forward and pressed a button on the back of the seat in front of him. A television screen as wide as the seat slid up into view. “If you can’t see the play by looking at the field, you can always see it on the screen.”
Marci looked up at him with innocent blue eyes.
“Then how is this any better than staying at home and watching it on television?”
He looked at her the way he had looked the she’d asked him what good it did to send men into space. “Because,” he said “you’re here! And besides,” he added, adjusting the dials, “you have absolute control of the picture yourself. There are cameras all over the stadium, giving different views of the field, and you can increase the magnification to suit yourself. You can zoom in on the pitcher, the batter, the dugout—anywhere. And you can pick up the sound there, too, through the parabolic listening devices. You even have your own split-screen control; you can put any or all of the pictures on the screen at the same time.”
He demonstrated by showing both dugouts, the outfield, and the pitcher’s mound on the screen at the same time, watching her out of the corner of his eye to see if she were properly impressed. She was. At least she seemed to be, and that was good enough.
“And besides all this,” he said with a grin, “how can you boo the umpire if you stay at home?”
She smiled. “Let’s face it; you’re a fan.”
She looked down at the pregame activity on the field. “Tell me something about the players.”
“Well, there’s Babe Ruth, with his 714 career homers, and Cy Young, who won 509 games as a pitcher. And of course there’s Bob Gibson—”
“No, I mean the players. The robot-men, or whatever you call them, that will actually play the game today. Tell me how that part of it works.”
“Oh, the Games Machine players. They’re just robots that look like men. Once they begin to play ball, you forget they’re not human.”
She shook her head. “But what purpose is there in calling a robot Babe Ruth? That doesn’t give it the ability to hit more home runs than any other robot.”
Tom switched off all the pictures on the screen except one; that one he magnified till it showed a close-up of the Babe Ruth robot warming up. “All right; take a good look at him.”
She looked closely. “He looks just like the pictures I’ve seen. But can he hit home runs?”
Tom nodded. “He can hit home runs. He can hit home runs with just exactly the same ability that the real Babe could hit them. And he can run and field and throw just like the Babe could. If the Babe could do it, this robot can do it. If the Babe couldn’t do it, this robot can’t do it.”
“Remarkable. Then every robot out there has the actual abilities of the man it represents?”
“Right. It has the same body-build, the same strengths—even the same weaknesses. It can feel pain and fatigue just as though it were the real man.”
“Amazing! How do they do it?”
The Games Machine computer has all the data on every player who ever lived, and it programs everything, including intelligence and personality, into the robot that represents the player. So the Games Machine players will play ball out there today just the way the real men would have played it if each one were alive and in his prime.”
She arched an eyebrow. “This is eerie. The Games Machine almost resurrects them from the dead.”
She sat quietly for a while, thinking. “How do they decide which players are going to play?”
“The fans vote on them.”
“Which fans?”
He grinned. “The fans that pay to see the game. That’s the kind of vote that counts the most.”
She laughed. “That sounds logical. People who pay money for something are very sincere.”
She opened her program and glanced at it. “Let me see if I can recognize anyone down there. Babe Ruth is just about the only baseball player I’ve ever heard of.”
He looked at her with infinite patience. “Watch this.” He focused the screen on one of the players and punched a switch; the split screen to the right flashed a still picture with a name below it—“Cy Young.”
Marci looked carefully at both pictures. “Why—it’s the same player! Do you mean that the Games Machine can recognize every player and identify him for you?”
“Not only that; look at this.” He turned a small knob beside the switch. More reading appeared on the screen.
“Cy Young, the starting pitcher today for the American League All-Stars, won a total of 509 games during his 20-year career.” There followed a brief history, loaded with statistics.
“If you have any questions,” said Tom, “just push this other button and speak into the diaphragm. The computer will give you your answer on the screen. Go ahead; ask it a question.”
She pushed the switch for her own screen and leaned forward. “Who will be managing for the American League today?”
A picture flashed on the screen; under it was the name “Casey Stengel.”
“And who’s managing the National League?”
Another picture replaced the first; below it was the name “John McGraw.”
Tom leaned forward. “Show us the won-lost record of each manager, season by season, with asterisks beside pennant-winning teams.”
The requested information flashed on the screen.
“Now place double asterisks beside teams that won World Series.”
Again the computer obeyed.
Marci read the records. “Fabulous! Along with everything else, the Games Machine is a private tutor.”
Tom smiled. “Nothing is too good for the fans in the Polaradome.”
He singled out each American League player on the squad and flashed his picture and information file on the screen. There was Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, Mickey Mantle, Ty Cobb, Ted Williams, Jimmie Foxx, Joe DiMaggio, Tris Speaker, Yogi Berra …
Marci studied the records. When she had finished, she looked at Tom. “What a formidable baseball team! Putting all that home-run power into one lineup doesn’t seem fair; they’ll simply mop up the planet with the poor National Leaguers.”
“Over my dead body,” Tom muttered grimly. “Why, Tom! Don’t tell me you’re rooting for the National League? I know you always stand up for the underdog, but this is ridiculous.”
Tom said nothing. He brought into focus a player who was throwing warm-up pitches on the National League side of the field. He switched to instant replay and showed in slow motion the long, smooth, powerful pitches of the black-skinned athlete.
“Who is he?” asked Marci.
“He’s the reason why nobody is going to mop up any planets with the National League today. His name is Bob Gibson.”
Marci looked more closely at the face on the screen. “Oh, I recognize him now. He’s the one in that picture you have on your living room wall.”
She looked up at him suddenly. “Ah,” she said gently, “I think I see. Your boyhood hero?”
He nodded. “My boyhood hero.”
Marci said nothing more, but her eyes softened. She spent the next several minutes scanning the National League players on the readout screen. There were Willie Mays, Stan Musial, Ralph Kiner, Jackie Robinson, Duke Snyder, Roger Maris, Eddie Mathews, Henry Aaron, Gil Hodges, Richie Allen, Rogers Hornsby, Honus Wagner, Roy Campanella, Johnny Bench …
“Just a minute,” she said. “Bench and Campanella are both catchers. Is there some mistake?”
“No. They’re both on the squad. They can’t both be playing catcher at the same time, but one could start in that position and be relieved by the other later on. Or if the manager wanted to keep them both in the game, he could let one catch and the other play another position, like first base or center field. He just can’t have more than nine men on the team at any one time.”
She turned off the screen. “This could be a very interesting game. There’s enough home-run power on both teams to knock down the Polaradome. Pity the pitchers.”
Then she looked at Tom and wished she hadn’t said it.
“You’re right,” he said. “They both have to face some terrible power out there.”
The “Star-Spangled Banner” sounded through the Polaradome; the people rose to their feet.
Then the umpire yelled, “Play ball!”
The game was on.
The National Leaguers came to bat in the top half of the first inning. Cy Young’s pitches cut them down with methodical, errorless precision.
Then the American League All-Stars came to the plate, and Bob Gibson walked out to the mound to face them. His pitches whipped across the plate like will-o-the-wisps, dazzling, deceiving, overpowering the batters. He threw eleven pitches and struck out the side.
The game was power. Power on the mound, power at the plate, power in the field. Cy Young and Bob Gibson matched each other strike for strike, out for out, inning for inning, shutting out the legendary batting kings of the game.
At the end of nine full innings of play, Young and Gibson had pitched a dual no-hit, no-run game.
“Incredible!” said Marci. “I certainly expected to see some hits and runs from all those champions out there.”
Tom grinned. “It’s hard to hit a blur.”
“Nine innings is normally the end of the game, isn’t it? What happens now?”
“They go into extra innings and keep on playing until one team is ahead at the end of a full inning. They call it ‘sudden death.’”
The sun went down and the great lights came on inside the Polaradome, and the duel of the pitching titans continued. At the end of fifteen innings, there were still no hits, no runs, and no errors.
In the top half of the sixteenth, with two men out and none on base, Jackie Robinson came to bat for the National League.
Cy Young’s first pitch was high and hard; Robinson tagged it squarely and drove it into center field just over Tris Speaker’s head. Robinson rounded first base and raced for second as Speaker came up with the ball and fired to second base. Jackie slid for the bag;
Ty Cobb fielded the ball—
“Safe!” yelled the umpire.
“What a runner!” exclaimed Marci. “That looked like a long single to me.”
“It was,” laughed Tom. “Except when Jackie Robinson’s running the bases.”
Stan Musial came to the plate.
Robinson danced back and forth along the second base line. Cy Young watched intently. Suddenly he threw to second, and Jackie slid back in, safe.
Young’s first pitch to Musial was low, and Stan swung for a strike. Robinson took an even longer lead off second as Young prepared for the next pitch.
Young whirled and threw to second!
Jackie slid into the bag, safe by inches.
Cy Young stood on the mound and prepared for his second pitch to Musial. Again, Robinson danced up and down the line, taking an ever more daring lead.
Young watched him, turned back to face Musial, and then watched Jackie again.
“Poor man,” said Marci. “He doesn’t know which way to throw the ball.”
“That’s part of the game,” said Tom. “When Jackie Robinson gets on base and starts dancing back and forth along the line, he has a tendency to drive the pitcher crazy.”
Young looked at Robinson, then wheeled and fired a fast pitch to Musial; Musial met it with the bat and laced it over the first baseman’s head and on into short right field. Mickey Mantle fielded it on one hop and threw to Lou Gehrig at first; Musial slid in just ahead of the throw.
And Jackie Robinson rounded third base and pounded down the line for home!
The crowd rose to its feet and screamed; Gehrig fired a strike to the plate; Yogi Berra gloved it.
In time!
But Robinson simply wasn’t there; he was racing back for third; Berra heaved the ball to Jimmie Foxx.
And Jackie reversed again and streaked home!
He slid across the plate inches ahead of the throw!
The fans were in a frenzy; Tom pounded the arm of his seat and yelled incoherently.
“Wow!” said Marci.
Duke Snyder came to bat next and hit a hard line drive to center field; Tris Speaker made a spectacular running catch and the top half of the sixteenth inning was over.
But the National League led now, one to nothing.
Bob Gibson walked out to the mound.
“This is it,” said Tom. “If he can hold them off just one more inning, it’s all over. Sudden death.”
Ty Cobb came to the plate, swinging a bat viciously.
Gibson’s pitch was a low, breakaway curve; Cobb swung and missed.
The next pitch was fast and belt-high; Cobb stepped into it and bunted, laying it down the first base line. Gibson raced for the ball; he fielded it right at the edge of the base path.
And Cobb’s shoulder smashed into his face!
Gibson staggered; the ball rolled to the ground. He brought his hands to his face in agony as Cobb crossed first base and looked back.
Tom was on his feet. “That was deliberate!”
But Cobb was safe at first.
And Gibson was hurt. He stood where he was for several moments. Then he picked up the ball and walked heavily back to the mound.
Mickey Mantle was standing in the batter’s box. John McGraw walked out to the mound to talk to Gibson. They talked for a while; then McGraw nodded, looked once at Mantle, and went back to the dugout.
Gibson went through the motions of his pitch; the ball sailed down the strike groove and hung there, with nothing on it. Mantle blasted it all the way to the wall in left center.
Willie Mays raced for it, leaped high in the air, and took in on the carom. He heaved it to the infield in time to keep Cobb from scoring. Cobb scampered back to third base. And Mantle was in at second with a standup double.
McGraw went back out to the mound.
“Take him out, McGraw!” yelled one of the fans.
“Leave him in!” shouted another.
“He’s hurt, Tom,” said Marci. “He can’t pitch anymore. It would be cruel to make him try.”
Then a tall black man with white hair and broad shoulders descended from the stands and walked out to the pitcher’s mound.
McGraw stared at him. “Who do you think you are?” he demanded. “And what do you think you’re doing on the playing field?”
The old man looked at him quietly. “My name is Gibson. I came to pitch.”
“Gibson!” shouted Tom. “The real Gibson!”
Some of the fans began to chant, “We want Gibson! We want Gibson!”
“But he’s an old man now,” said Marci. “What can he do against those—machines?”
“He may be old,” said Tom, “but he’s still a man. And more than that, he’s still Bob Gibson.”
Down on the field, McGraw, player of the Games Machine, appraised Gibson, the man.
He was old.
But he was tall and tough.
“All right, Gibson,” said McGraw. “Go put on a uniform and get back out here. But I want a win!”
Gibson’s eyes were dark and steady. “So do I.”
Gibson stood on the mound. The real Gibson, muscle, blood, and bones; old, white-haired, and full of fight.
He faced Lou Gehrig at the plate. The Iron Horse. Tris Speaker knelt in the on-deck circle, and Babe Ruth stood near the dugout. There were three outs to go, and that was the batting order.
And any one of the three could end this game with one swing of the bat.
He checked the runners. Mantle stood quietly just off second base; Ty Cobb jittered up and down along the third base line, chattering incessantly.
“Hey! Hey! Hey! Come on, old man, see if you can throw it this far! You’ll sure never get it as far as home plate!”
Gibson ignored him. He was watching Lou Gehrig in the batter’s box.
He wound up and pitched. His fast ball hopped across the plate and Gehrig cut through empty air.
“Strike one!”
Cobb, who had been coming down the line, ran back to third.
The next pitch was just as fast, but a little low.
“Ball one!”
Cobb trotted back to third. “What’s the matter, Pitch? Blown up after one toss?”
Gibson fired the next one down the middle, hard. Gehrig swung, the bat cracked, and the ball sailed off to the right, foul.
“Strike two!”
“Hey, Gibson!” shouted Cobb. “You look a little older after every pitch! Careful on the next one; it’s going into the bleachers—if you can get it as far as the plate!”
Gibson rested a moment. Then he put everything he had on a pitch down the inside corner; Gehrig swung for the fence—
And missed!
The crowd cheered heartily.
“The Iron Horse!” said Tom. “He struck out the Iron Horse!”
The next batter was Tris Speaker. Gibson whizzed the first pitch past him as he tried to bunt and missed.
Cobb, who had been rushing the plate, turned and dashed back to third.
Marci gasped. “Tom! Do you see what they’re doing? They’re going to make Bob Gibson field another bunt! Only this time he’s an old man! He doesn’t have a chance if one of those machines tramples him!”
She tugged his arm. “Tom! He may be killed!”
But Tom was already on his feet. “Stop the game!” he shouted. “Mr. Gibson! Don’t throw that pitch!”
Too late!
Gibson pitched the ball; Speaker bunted, not down the first base line, but down the third base line, right in the path of the onrushing Ty Cobb!
Gibson raced for the ball as the Games Machine player thundered down on him in a collision course; he scooped the ball up and the robot’s hunched shoulder hammered into his chest with a sickening thud. He went down backwards, a steel knee ramming into his stomach and an elbow grinding into his face.
Man and robot lay tangled together, unmoving.
And then the man stood up.
His face was bleeding and twisted with pain, but he stood tall and straight. And still clenched in his right fist—the ball!
He limped slowly back to the mound. He stood there for a few moments, breathing heavily. Then he ground the ball into his glove and checked the runners.
Tris Speaker had gone all the way to second on the play, but Mantle had held at third, not caring to challenge Bob Gibson’s defense of home plate.
There were two outs now.
But Babe Ruth stood in the batter’s box, waiting.
Gibson went into his windup and pitched; the ball sank lifelessly across the plate just above the ankles.
“Ball one!”
He rested for a few more moments. His next pitch was a little faster and a little higher, but inside.
“Ball two!”
“Take him out McGraw!” someone yelled. “If he ever gets it across, the Babe’ll murder it!”
Marci bit her lip. “It’s too cruel. They shouldn’t let him pitch anymore. He’s hurt. He’s an old man, and he’s hurt.”
Gibson stood unmoving on the mound, looking down the pitching lane at Babe Ruth.
Then he blazed a fast ball across the plate, belt-high; the Babe swung, connected sharply, and dribbled it off to the left, foul.
“Strike one!”
Gibson stood a little easier now, a little taller. He ground the ball into his glove, hauled his arm back, and pitched the fastest ball of the day, straight for the heart of the strike zone.
The Babe swung, and didn’t come close.
“Strike two!”
Blood and sweat streaked Gibson’s face; his white hair shone in the lights of the Polaradome. The crowd hushed, electric with tension, waiting for the pitch.
Gibson stood on the mound like Zeus of Mount Olympus, poised to hurl a world-splitting thunderbolt down through the clouds.
Then he leaned back and let his lightning fly!
It blitzed down the strike lane and thunder-clapped into the catcher’s mitt, and the Babe’s bat met nothing but the wind!
“Strike three!”
The crowd erupted onto the field, shouting jubilantly; the players of the Games Machine converged on Bob Gibson, lifting his human bulk to their steel shoulders, carrying him triumphantly around the diamond.
Tom stood where he was, unable to utter a sound.
Marci cried.
The lights of the Polaradome glowed against the night sky, towering over the other lights of the city.
Tom and Marci climbed into his car near the edge of the parking lot. She leaned her head against his shoulder. “Thank you for bringing me, Tom.” She looked out at the Polaradome. “It was one of the most wonderful experiences of my life.”
“Oh—the Games Machine?”
“No. That magnificent old man.”
He smiled.
“Gibson is tough.”
“But how could a man do more than his own robot image?”
He watched the Polaradome lights wink out, one by one. “I think they didn’t get all of Gibson into the Machine.”

In February 1846, Elder Pratt left the branches in Anaa and Tubuai, bound for the United States. He promised to return with additional missionaries. Four and a half years later, on October 21, 1850, 21 travel-weary Latter-day Saints—seven men, five women, and nine children—arrived on the shores of Tubuai.11 Elder Pratt, called to lead a contingent of missionaries back to the islands, had returned in advance of the rest of the group but was detained by colonial officials in Tahiti who were suspicious of the missionaries. Louisa Barnes Pratt, Elder Pratt’s wife, and their four daughters, however, were with the company. Louisa immediately asked to be introduced to her husband’s “old friends” Telii and Nabota. An older man guided her and the other missionaries to Telii and Nabota’s home, where, despite having been sick for several days, Telii had prepared a feast of pork, fish, po’e (a local dish made from taro root), and fruit. The rest of the evening was spent celebrating their arrival by singing himene late into the night. “The music was delightful,” Louisa said. “Their voices are loud and clear.”12

Sometimes Eugene’s world got awful noisy. There was the rattle of Clancey Sawyer’s milk wagon and Hector Moore’s ice truck over the rutty dirt road in front of his house. The clatter of Mr. Gunnerson’s old Model T. His Aunt Althea’s loud laughter and nonstop talking whenever she came to visit. (Eugene loved Aunt Althea, but she could outtalk any salesperson he’d ever heard!) And all the other noises the world had to offer in 1932.
His four brothers and two sisters could cause a lot of racket, too, especially when they all wanted to listen to different radio shows at the same time. Or when their friends came over to play and they fought over the stereoscope. If that wasn’t enough, sometimes Widow Willowby’s hound dog howled and barked all night. All that noise was enough to drive any kid up a tree.
And that’s just where Eugene’s favorite quiet place was—in a tree. Not just any tree, but the big old fig tree in the field, a little way behind Eugene’s house. His father and older brother, Vern, had built him a tree house in its strong, leafy branches. And just last week, his father slept with him in the tree house.
They played the imagination game before sleep overtook them, his father telling him that the fireflies that danced in the night reminded him of children’s prayers on their way to heaven. Eugene said that the moon and stars were holes in a big black curtain in God’s window. On the other side, God was staying up late with a big lamp on, sitting in a rocking chair and making a list of all his children who had problems. And that the creaking they heard was not the fig tree limbs in the stiff night breeze but the creaking of His rocker.
Just as Nephi and other prophets of old at times had gone high into the mountains to be alone in order to pray, Eugene liked to climb up into his quiet place in the big fig tree. Sometimes it was to think out his thoughts, sometimes to read his scriptures, sometimes to just relax, and sometimes to pray about things. …
Like the time Grandpa got real sick and had to go to the hospital. Everyone fasted and prayed for him, including Eugene. He climbed up into his quiet place and prayed for a whole hour.
Two weeks later, Eugene’s father lay in the tree house and cried. Eugene heard him because he was there, too. Everyone was happy because although the doctor had said that Grandpa was going to die, he got better. Eugene climbed up into the tree and lay close to his father. Neither of them spoke. At least not out loud. They were busy thanking Heavenly Father in their hearts, warm tears trickling down their faces.
After a while, Eugene asked his father why he had come to the tree instead of staying at the house with everyone else. “Everyone needs a quiet place where they can go to be alone sometimes. Even grown-ups. I don’t have one,” he said. “I was hoping you wouldn’t mind if I came up here for a few minutes.”
Eugene was happy that his father thought having a quiet place was important.
“Besides,” his father added with a wink, “with Aunt Althea at the house to greet your grandpa coming home from the hospital, it’s a bit noisy there. I needed a moment alone to thank the Lord for your granddad’s recovery.”
A few moments later, Eugene walked back to the house with his father. The back screen door whined as they joined the others. Eugene paused to look back over his shoulder at the old tree. It was like an old friend—warm, inviting, peaceful. And always there when he needed it. He smiled, went inside, gave Aunt Althea a big hug, then hurried over to Grandpa’s bed.
“Now, some things are best prayed about in private. … Praying alone … helps us open our hearts and be totally honest and honorable in expressing all of our hopes and attitudes. …
“The Savior at times found it necessary to slip away into the mountains or desert to pray. …
“We, too, ought to find, where possible, a room, a corner, a closet … where we can [pray] in secret. …”President Spencer W. Kimball(Ensign, October 1981, pages 3–6.)

My husband and I were living in on-campus housing at the Texas State Technical Institute when our two oldest children were four and two. It was our first experience in Texas hill country, and I loved it! Every spring, central Texas is awash with flowers. In gardens, woods, vacant fields, on roadsides, everywhere I looked there were more blossoms to see.
I took my children on stroller rides nearly every day. We’d find new places to explore, and I let the children pick as many wildflowers as they wanted. We’d finish our ride through a neighborhood where most of the houses had beautifully maintained flower gardens.
One day we came around a corner to discover a large mass of papers spread across one of the flower gardens. The wind quickly scattered the paper all over the yard. I decided to tidy up the litter before it spread further. I grabbed handfuls of pages and stuffed them in my diaper bag.
As I looked down, I realized I was holding pornography. Appalled, I asked my children to stay in the stroller as I snatched up the rest of the pages. I became upset as I saw glimpses of things I never wanted to see. In my heart, I began complaining, “Why didn’t God warn me to go another way home?”
Then I heard the unmistakable huff of school bus brakes. About a dozen kids got off the bus. They all moved past the yard that had been filled with pornography only moments before.
In that moment, my whole perspective changed. I now knew why I hadn’t been warned to go another way. I was grateful I was there to pick up those pages so those children could be spared seeing those damaging images. As I made my way back home, I thought, “What if the school bus had come later? What if I had never found out why I had that experience? How long would I have been upset with God?”

Wendy and James were devastated when their first child was born with Down’s syndrome. Questioning their belief in a loving Heavenly Father and fearing rejection by others, they withdrew from Church and social activity, and eventually their marriage suffered.
Wendy’s life was at its bleakest when Margaret moved in next door. Slowly, Margaret, who had herself lost a child a few years earlier, was able to understand the sorrowing heart of her neighbor. She helped Wendy find the confidence she needed to lift herself out of her despair, return to full Church activity, and give both her husband and child love and acceptance.

Brian R.
Twelve-year-old Brian R. of Arizona, USA, was preparing to pass the sacrament for the first time. He didn’t want to make a mistake, so he asked the other Aaronic Priesthood holders in his ward to explain things to him.
“They were great,” he says. “They told me where to stand, where to go, and how to pass the trays.”
But even more important, they reminded him to be reverent. “We need to remember the Savior as we pass the sacrament,” Brian says. “If we are reverent, it helps others to remember Him too.”
Brian learned that others are happy to help him to understand his duties and to learn to do them well. “Just ask,” he says. “Moving from Primary into Young Men is easier than you think.”

Brigham Young was in Peterborough, New Hampshire, when he received news that the Prophet Joseph Smith had been killed. He immediately left New England and returned to Nauvoo. Within two years, he would start leading groups of Mormon pioneers to the West.
Not far from Peterborough—in an area that today is in the Nashua New Hampshire Stake—Latter-day Saint youth had their own pioneer trek in 2009. But the journey began long before anyone started pulling a handcart.
To gain spiritual strength, many of the pioneers sought temple blessings before leaving Nauvoo. Like those early Saints, members of the Nashua stake took the opportunity to participate in temple work and other activities that would strengthen them. They focused on preparing for two journeys: the 17-mile handcart trek they were about to make and the spiritual journey they would undertake.
They did this through the “Trail of Faith Award,” which stake leaders invited all members of the stake—not just the youth—to participate in. Many of the goals of the program, which began in January, overlapped with requirements from Duty to God, Personal Progress, and the Brand New Year fireside. Other challenges were specific to the stake. All of them helped participants draw closer to Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ.
“Trail of Faith helped me realize that we weren’t just going on a 17-mile hike or having another youth conference,” says Alexander Petrie, 16. “This was something a little bit different.”
One of the things that made it different for Alexander was memorizing several hymns, including “Press Forward, Saints” (Hymns, no. 81). “Later, when I was on trek and it was getting a little bit tough, the words of that hymn kept going over and over in my mind,” he says. “I really felt strength from its words. I’ve realized that hymns are a good thing to memorize and to have in our mind anytime we encounter something difficult. I’m so grateful that the Trail of Faith Award helped me prepare.”
Alden Durham, 12, was not yet old enough to participate in the trek, but, along with his family, he completed the Trail of Faith Award. Two of his most memorable goals involved daily scripture study and journal writing. “When I do these things, I feel the Spirit more, and I definitely act different when I feel the Spirit. I try to be a better brother to my four sisters.”
Alexander Jeffrey, also 12, said his favorite goal was performing baptisms for the dead at the Boston Temple, something he had done only once before. “Doing the Trail of Faith gave me a new understanding and got me better prepared for doing some of these goals and habits on my own,” he says.
Participating in temple work was meaningful for Julia Parker, 16, as well. “It was really neat to take names of people who were related to us—our own ancestors,” she recalls. “When I went to the temple, I thought about them as individual people with individual lives and individual interests. I thought about their testimonies and their experiences and their trials. It was really cool to feel connected with them.”
Upon completing the Trail of Faith Award requirements, stake members were given a small medallion so they could remember things they had experienced and felt. “I came out with a medallion at the end,” says Emily Durham, 17, “but I also came out with a stronger testimony.”
After months of preparation through the Trail of Faith Award, firesides, and other stake-wide activities, the group was ready to embark on its three-day, two-night, 17-mile journey.
The area they live in is rich in American history, so in many ways, the trek experience wasn’t much different from things that youth in the Nashua Stake participate in regularly at school. After all, Emily points out, “Those of us who grew up here have gone on walks at Walden Pond and taken field trips to Sleepy Hollow Cemetery,” she says. But remembering pioneer heritage at youth conference was somehow different.
Elizabeth Jeffrey, 15, agrees. “You dress up, pull handcarts, and have a fun, spiritual experience with your friends,” she says. “I expected that. What I didn’t realize was how hard it would be—the actual, physical pulling over hills and rocks and things.
“We were only walking 17 miles; the pioneers walked over a thousand miles to Utah,” she continues. “I think about them differently now. Instead of a Sunday School story on a page, I believe I can now feel a little bit of their struggles and their pains and their great joy. It all became more real when I went on trek.”
As the youth and their leaders completed the trek, other stake members gathered at a local park for a “Welcome to the Valley” celebration. McKenna Gustafson, 14, remembers feeling “so happy” when she was greeted by the cheering of more than 900 people.
“I saw my younger brothers and sisters running toward us, and I started crying,” she remembers. “I thought about what it will be like in heaven when we see our family and friends who have gone before us and what an awesome reunion that will be.”
As exciting as “Welcome to the Valley” was, it wasn’t the end of the trek experience—not really. In many ways, the trek started friendships with neighbors and community members who had watched the youth over the last 72 hours or heard about the trek through local news coverage.
Anna Parker had an opportunity to connect with neighbors as she and her peers passed through one community. Anna immediately noticed that some of the women there were on horseback, so she told them how much she loved horses. She also explained to them what the youth group was doing and then invited the women to join the youth that night for country dancing. One of them came and even stayed for a short devotional afterward. She was so impressed by the youth that she asked to learn more.
Other youth shared the gospel by telling their friends how they were spending three days of their summer vacation. Others got to know people in the community who had made the trek possible. Youth and adults became friends with kind community members who agreed to let the 150 youth and adults camp on their private property; one of the couples who did so came to a testimony meeting, shared their own feelings, and invited the youth to return.
“In planning trek, we wanted the youth of the stake to recognize that they can do hard things,” says President Mark Durham of the stake presidency. “Trail of Faith and trek were both part of that.
“What the pioneers did is just unbelievable, but they took it a little bit at a time, and they had their testimony and their faith as a foundation. We can also move one foot in front of the other foot, just like they did.”
James Parker, 18, says that his experiences last summer have helped him to be more diligent in living the gospel and to have a better attitude about the things he is asked to do as a Church member today.
“The pioneers had to get up every day and make a conscious decision to pull their handcarts miles and miles. Trek was a good reminder of the sacrifices they made for the gospel,” he says.
“We’re not asked to do anything as dramatic as that, but I can get up every day and consciously decide to pray and read my scriptures and be reminded of what the gospel is worth to me. Because of trek, I know how much the gospel of Jesus Christ was worth to the pioneers, and their sacrifice makes it more valuable to me.”

Recently a mission president asked me to speak to a troubled missionary who was having extreme homesickness problems. His intense yearnings were causing poor performance, a waste of time, a lack of concentration, and a dislike for his present assignment. I took the occasion to tell him that some of the right kind of homesickness could be desirable, but it must be kept under control. Let me say at the outset, yearning is defined as “to have a strong or deep desire; be filled with longing” (American Heritage Dictionary, second college edition, 1982). This missionary seemed very sincere in wanting to do better. Proper yearnings for home can be beneficial.
Not just children but all of us will want to think of home under joyous or trying circumstances. We let ourselves become homesick for love, acceptance, security, understanding, and guidance that generally are taught and shared there. Home should be the place in which a person can unburden his soul and find renewed strength to face the world; where there is comfort, joy, and understanding; where best friends live; and where we can learn to be our best selves.
There is a certain kind of yearning for home we should never want to lose. Home should be an anchor, a port in a storm, a refuge, a happy place in which to dwell, a place where we are loved and where we can love. Home should be where life’s greatest lessons are taught and learned. Home and family can be the center of one’s earthly faith, where love and mutual responsibility are appropriately blended. Thinking of home with its pleasant and happy memories can make us stronger during our present and future days here upon the earth.
President Benson has always loved his childhood home. He loves Whitney, Idaho, his birthplace. He loves the homestead where all eleven children were born and reared by noble parents.
Over a lifetime of worldwide travel, he yearned to return often to his home, and he did so. His heart has always been in Cache Valley. He loved going back and visiting with family members still there and seeing the friends of his birth, his neighbors, his teachers, his bishops, his kin who had such an impact for good on his life. He calls them “the finest people in all the world,” and Whitney “the ideal farm community.”
It revitalizes President Benson to go back to his roots, to go back to the land that nourished him and built character in him and provided him the sacred beginnings of a life devoted to God, family, and country. Truly, President Benson loves his childhood home.
I am concerned for people today who do not have a longing for or thoughts of home. It is unfortunate that among us we have people who have never experienced home life that has been and is desirable so that there can be an anxiousness under control for thoughts toward home. Our responsibilities are to share the warmth of our homes by being good neighbors and friends.
To know who we are is important, but to know where we are in relationship to our earthly home and heavenly home is essential if we are to receive all the blessings our Father in Heaven has for those who love him and keep his commandments. Our eternal home is our ultimate destination. A proper yearning for home can prevent our getting lost in detours or paths that lead us away.
It is reported that one summer at a Young Women’s conference in Alberta, Canada, three hundred girls were camped in tents scattered among tall pines. It rained every day and was very cold and wet. Even so, there was no murmuring in the camp. The last day of the conference, the leader addressed the young women under cloudy skies. Despite the unseasonable cold, there was a feeling of warmth among them for this their temporary home. Maybe because of the cold they were all drawn together and felt warm from the inside out.
The speaker began her remarks by asking, “Where are you going following this outdoor conference?” The united chorus of three hundred young women resounded through the tall pines. “Home!” they cried out. “Where?” they were asked again, and they responded with even greater conviction: “Home!” They knew where they wanted to go most of all and were anxious to get there.
The most attractive home that we will ever share will be that abode with our families with appropriate relationship to our Heavenly Father and his Son, Jesus Christ. Even the prodigal son could not resist the pull of home. He spurned his father, his home life, and his heritage, lavishly wasting his inheritance on riotous living. When he had nothing and was reduced to living off the spoils that only swine would eat, his thoughts turned homeward. Could there have been moments, as he gleaned the fields for husks to eat, when he longed for the security, safety, and acceptance he’d had before? Might he have been deeply homesick? Repentant, and hoping his father would accept him as a servant, he finally returned home. His father rejoiced, welcoming him back with open arms and complete acceptance. He no doubt knew that welcoming his wayward son was crucial if he hoped to ever return to his heavenly home. (See Luke 15:11–32).
Over the years I’ve counseled with many whose homesickness threatened to interfere with their missions, marriages, and families.
But I’ve come to see that being homesick isn’t all bad. It’s natural to miss the people you are closest to. It’s normal to long to be where you feel secure, where those you love have your best interests at heart. It’s understandable to want to return to the place where you learned how to walk and talk, where you felt loved even when friends turned away, and where you were accepted, regardless of the situation. There’s no place on earth that can take the place of a home where love has been given and received.
Recently we’ve witnessed the tragic devastation that Hurricane Andrew left in its wake in southern Florida and Louisiana. Tens of thousands of people have lost their homes. Armed forces personnel have raised tent cities to try and at least provide these victims with shelter. But the sobering fact is that, at least for a time, many of these people literally cannot go home. I cannot imagine how they must yearn for what they so recently had.
I have known other men and women who, for one reason or another, could not go home or who had no home to go to. I have felt their pain and seen their tears. It is, at best, a heartbreaking situation.
In another application, I have also known men and women who have jeopardized the privilege of returning to their heavenly home. Some were dealing with problems that made them ineligible to enter the temple and make the eternal covenants that bind us to our eternal home. I have felt their heartache and their longing for opportunities that, at least for a time, were beyond their reach.
The ramifications are poignant and endless. Perhaps we’ve all had these overwhelming thoughts come to mind: What if I am unworthy? What if I could never go home?
If he could have his way, Satan would distract us from our heritage. He would have us become involved in a million and one things in this life—probably none of which are very important in the long run—to keep us from concentrating on the things that are really important, particularly the reality that we are God’s children. He would like us to forget about home and family values. He’d like to keep us so busy with comparatively insignificant things that we don’t have time to make the effort to understand where we came from, whose children we are, and how glorious our ultimate homecoming can be!
We are literally the children of our Heavenly Father. We kept our first estate. During our experience in premortality, we lived with and were cared for and taught by a loving Father. Among other things, we were schooled in what had to be a perfect spiritual and educational environment. And we rejoiced when told of the plan whereby we could prove ourselves. Hence the day arrived when it was our turn to experience a period of probation and testing, a period during which a veil would be drawn over our memories so that we would be free either to walk by faith and by the Spirit or to forsake our spiritual heritage and birthright.
Now we’re here. And I’m sure we would all agree that this second estate has lived up to its billing. It is a time of testing, of probation. The challenges and duties and responsibilities, at times, seem to overshadow almost everything else. Sadly, it’s easy to become so encumbered by the press of daily life that we lose our focus.
One definition of the word focus is “directed attention” or “emphasis” (Webster’s Ninth New Collegiate Dictionary). Perhaps as much as anything in this day and age of mass media, instantaneous worldwide communications, and modern conveniences that seem to help us pack more into each day than would have been considered possible just a few decades ago, we need to focus on and direct our attention to the things that really matter. And simply, what really matters is a personal testimony of Jesus Christ, an understanding of who we are and what we’re doing here, and an absolute determination to return home.
What young musician, finally scheduled to debut in a capacity concert hall after years of agonizing rehearsal, would, while en route to the performance, stop to join a long line forming at the latest hit movie, forgetting the thousands of people waiting to hear her?
What world-class runner, after training for well over a decade, would find himself in the Olympic finals, only to stop running halfway through his race to watch the high-jump finals taking place on the other side of the field?
These examples may seem preposterous—but how much more tragic it is for someone who, equipped with a testimony of the truth and a knowledge of the purpose of life, becomes more absorbed in life today than in life forever. Who’s just a little more concerned about his or her status and standing in mortality than in eternity. Whose focus is not directed to God the Father and his Son, Jesus Christ, with whom it is possible to have a glorious connection and bond.
I fear that, at times, we run the risk of acting like seasoned, conditioned athletes who are more interested in what kind of jogging suits we’ll wear than in buckling down to train for the race. C. S. Lewis had an intriguing way of evaluating this dilemma: “We are half-hearted creatures, fooling about with drink and sex and ambition when infinite joy is offered us, like an ignorant child who wants to go on making mud pies in a slum because he cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday at the sea. … We are far too easily pleased” (A Mind Awake: An Anthology of C. S. Lewis, ed. Clyde S. Kilby [New York: Harcourt, Brace and World, 1968], p. 168).
The prophet Mormon put it another way: “Why are ye ashamed to take upon you the name of Christ? Why do ye not think that greater is the value of an endless happiness than that misery which never dies—because of the praise of the world?” (Morm. 8:38).
When we have a yearning and don’t know what it is for, perhaps it’s our soul longing for its heartland, longing to be no longer alienated from the Lord and the pursuit of something much higher, better, and more fulfilling than anything this earth has to offer.
After Joseph, son of Jacob, had been reunited with his brothers, he asked them to return home to Canaan to bring his father, Jacob, to him in Egypt. As the brothers were preparing to depart, Joseph said to them simply, “See that ye fall not out by the way” (Gen. 45:24).
Might our Heavenly Father have given us much the same counsel as we departed his presence to begin our earthly sojourn?
May our yearning for home be the motivation we need to so live that we can return to our heavenly home with God our Father on a forever basis, I humbly pray in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

In November 1999, my brother David and I were practicing our volleyball serves on a hill in our front yard. My six-year-old brother, Luc (Luke), was leaning on the screen in the window above the garage. He fell through it 13? (4 m) to the driveway. I ran in and told my mom and dad, and they came out and picked him up. No one knew he had landed on his head.
My mom took him to the hospital and called my dad half an hour later, saying that Luc’s skull was practically shattered. He was life-flighted to Primary Children’s Hospital in Salt Lake City, Utah. He was in a coma for three days. The doctors said that he had a huge blood clot behind his right eye. He couldn’t see for a couple of days. The doctors also said that he’d be in the hospital for two months.
While Luc was in the coma, our ward fasted and prayed for him. We fasted after sacrament meeting on Sunday until Monday night. People we knew in India and France did, too, even though most of them weren’t members of the Church. Luc woke up from his coma and got better and so did some other kids in the hospital. Luc was known as the “Miracle Boy.” He was in the hospital for only a week!
He’s OK now but has to go for a couple of checkups. I’m so glad that he survived his accident, and I know that fasting and prayer really work.

Ellie pulled the zipper up to her chin and shoved her hands deeper into her jacket pockets. Her worn tennis shoes scuffed along the sidewalk. The Saturday morning was dull and overcast. The cold rain had stopped, but everything was wet; her bike had a flat tire, and none of her friends could play, anyway. I hate days like this! She thought as she angrily kicked a rock.
She didn’t lift her head when Mr. Coriman’s front door slammed. “Hey, you, missy! Come here!” Mr. Coriman’s booming voice made her jump. She froze right there on the sidewalk in front of his house.
Mr. Coriman was a crotchety old neighbor who lived four doors down from her house. Ellie and her friends called him “the crank.” Once Marty had dared Alex to ring his doorbell and run away, but Mr. Coriman had caught them. He had stood on his porch, shaking his cane at them, and had shouted at them to stay off his property. Now he was hollering at her!
“Me?” she asked nervously. “I haven’t done anything!”
“I didn’t say you had! Just come here!”
She wanted to run home; instead her feet walked unwillingly up the worn path to his front porch, where he stood staring down at her.
“Do you know why you’re bored? ’Cause you can’t be loud!”
Ellie looked up at him in surprise. This wasn’t what she had expected. Mr. Coriman’s face was scrunched up and angry. She watched his bristly eyebrows shoot up as he opened his watery eyes wide and tottered toward her, buttoning his heavy sweater against the chilly air as he came.
“All day long you and your friends scream up and down this street with your sleds or on your bicycles, and now that you don’t have anyone around to be loud with, you can’t think of anything to do!”
He leaned so far forward that Ellie wondered if he would tumble down the front porch steps. He spoke more quietly now, and the corners of his mouth lifted in what might have been a smile. It was hard to tell—she had never seen him smile before. “That’s a shame. There’s a lot to see and hear if you’re quiet and listen for a minute.”
He turned away from her and scraped a battered old lawn chair across the porch to the top of the steps. As he slowly settled himself into it, Mr. Coriman pointed to the steps. “Sit down for a bit.”
She really didn’t want to stay here with this crabby old man, but since she didn’t have anything else to do, she sat down on the creaky, weathered step. She glanced up warily at Mr. Coriman, but he wasn’t looking at her now. He was squinting and looking into the distance.
“Look at how many birds there are today in my maple tree over there.” He poked her with his finger and pointed towards the far corner of his yard. The maple tree was huge and spreading, with thorny branches from nearby bushes growing around the trunk. Beneath the tree, she noticed that the grass was long and scraggly.
“I bet you can’t name all the kinds of birds in it!” Mr. Coriman leaned toward her, and she saw with surprise that he really was smiling. He challenged her again. “What do you see?”
“I don’t know—I can’t see that far away. And I don’t know their names, anyway,” Ellie admitted.
Mr. Coriman chuckled, “I can’t see them very well, either. But I listen to them singing. You get to know each bird when you listen to its song.”
They both sat quietly and listened for a moment. There were so many birds singing that it seemed impossible to listen for just one bird’s song. This is stupid! Ellie thought. She shifted impatiently on the cold step and turned toward the old man.
He put his finger to his lips, then whispered, “Just listen. You have to wait and be patient.” He looked into the sky above the tree and closed his eyes. “And maybe close your eyes.”
Ellie scrunched her eyelids closed and sat still for longer than she ever had before. At first the birdsongs all blended, but as she listened, they became separate sounds that split and overlapped. She tried to catch up with them, and for a few seconds, Ellie did hear just one song. Her eyes flew open. “I did! I heard a song! It was a ‘tweet tweet tweety tweety tweet.’”
“That was Mr. Meadowlark. Now we know he’s here this morning. Look on a middle branch.”
Hopping to the end of the branch as if to help Ellie see him better, the little brown meadowlark sang again, and she heard his song above all the others.
Ellie moved to the other side of the post and sat closer to Mr. Coriman’s chair. “What others are there?”
“Oh, no,” Mr. Coriman said, his eyes twinkling, “I’m not going to tell you. You have to hear them for yourself.”
Ellie concentrated and looked at the tree. Soon she ventured, “I hear ‘cheep cheep cheep.’”
“That’s Mr. Sparrow—but he’s not in the tree. He’s up on the power lines with his friends.”
Way up high, Ellie saw two tiny birds perched on the power line that stretched across the gray sky to Mr. Coriman’s house.
He leaned toward Ellie and cupped his ear. “Hear that other one?”
Ellie nodded. “It’s really pretty and ends with a ‘brrr.’” She trilled her tongue.
“He’s one of my favorites, Mr. Red-winged Blackbird.”
Ellie stopped listening for a moment and looked at the long grass and overgrown brambles. Then she wondered aloud, “Why is your yard so messy?”
Mr. Coriman pulled his sweater closer around him. “I can’t keep it up. My heart’s bad, and I have to take medicine.” He looked down and shifted his chair. “My nephew used to mow and trim for me sometimes, but then he had to move.”
The silence hung between them. Ellie thought of the lawn mower and clippers in her garage, and of her three older brothers. She should talk to her mom. It would be fun to surprise him.
“Well, Missy, do you hear any more birds?” the old man’s voice broke into her thoughts.
Just then Ellie’s friend Marty screeched to a halt on his bike by Mr. Coriman’s driveway. He looked puzzled. “Uh, Ellie,” he finally said, “you want to come play?”
“Come here, Marty!” Ellie stood up and waved to him. “We’re listening to the birds. Mr. Coriman is showing me how to tell the birds apart!”
Marty leaned his bike against the rusty mailbox.
While he was coming up the walk, Ellie explained, “You need to sit down and be quiet. Sometimes you have to wait and be patient and listen for each bird’s song. Listen to his song, and then you’ll know who he is!”
She looked up with pride at Mr. Coriman, and his wrinkled smile warmed her.

One of Heavenly Father’s most beloved tools in guiding His children is righteous grandparents. My father’s mother was such a woman. On an occasion that took place when I was too young to remember, my father was disciplining me. Observing this correction, my grandmother said, “Monte, I believe you are correcting him too harshly.”
My father replied, “Mother, I will correct my children as I want.”
And my wise grandmother softly stated, “And so will I.”
I’m pretty sure my father heard the wise guidance of his mother that day.

Like scarlet-robed noblemen and silken-gowned ladies-in-waiting, we paraded up the stone staircase to the turrets of the castle ramparts. There, we gazed out on a meadow where, in our minds at least, armor-clad knights awaited our signal to begin a joust.
Actually, as the Young Men and Young Women of the North Shields Ward, Sunderland England Stake, gathered inside the portcullis of Warkworth Castle, we had many such images in our minds. Swallowed in the immensity of the building, now mostly a rocky skeleton of the once regal residence, we wondered what it would have been like to roam the corridors, feast in the cavernous banquet hall, or dwell in the cold, stone chambers. It was one of the best history lessons I’ve ever received.
But then, in northeastern England, you could say history’s on the doorstep. A short ride in a minibus had taken us from our homes to the banks of the River Coquet, over which Warkworth’s turrets preside. Across the stream, the hermitage also offered a lesson in history, a lesson of a different sort. We had to row across the current to visit what had been used as a chapel and as living quarters for monks supported by the locals of the town. On rock face ruins, carved markings indicated the river level during the floods of 1831 and 1900, marks well over the head of an average person. Inside, the altar, vaulted roof, and wall decorations were all hewn from the same rock that formed the shell of the hermitage. It must have taken years to carve all that detail!
Even in Tyne and Wear (our home shire, or “county”), however, history lessons don’t last forever. We had to wait at one point for the next boat to cross the river, so we played rounders (which somewhat resembles baseball) and quoits (which resembles horseshoes), and some of the group walked an “invisible dog” to a nearby shop. Sister Ann Wilkinson, first counselor in the Young Women presidency, went strolling and found an unexpected mishap when she slipped on the riverbank. “The funniest part of the day was when my mam fell in the mud!” joked her 15-year-old daughter Linda.
Besides those adventures, we also had to take time for photos, and for lunch, and to admire the remarkable trees, ancient and mangled as they intertwined. After a full day of peering at fantasy armies through castle windows and storming up steps despite the worst foes our imaginations could muster, we reluctantly piled in the bus again to head for home, thinking that the weeks of gardening, stripping wallpaper, and doing odd jobs to pay for the excursion had been worthwhile. We had grown closer to each other as brothers and sisters in the gospel. We had taken an opportunity to explore and get to know the part of the world where we live and serve our Heavenly Father. And we had learned a little about history and geography as well.
On the way home, we paused at Druridge Bay to collect shells we intended to make into gifts for our Autumn Fayre. Kevin Murphy and Helen Loynes couldn’t resist the lure of the cold North Sea, and even persuaded a few of the hardier souls, who had been jumping in the sand banks, to join them, fully clothed, for a dip in the waves. Some shivered and others smiled as we rushed, teeth chattering, back to shore, and collapsed in the rocks and sand. We knew we had to get warm, and we knew we had to get back in the bus and head for home, and we knew we had to stop giggling and laughing. But the moment seemed to last forever, and we knew that the memories formed in one day would last us until the next time we got together for a Latter-day Saint weekend in the land that is our home.

Gabriel loved learning about Jesus. He loved hearing stories from the scriptures. His family read the scriptures together every night.
One rainy night they snuggled together in their warm home. Papa said a prayer. Then Mama read stories from the Book of Mormon. Gabriel tried to listen very carefully. Mama read about Jesus talking to children.
“Mama, the children were with Jesus?” Gabriel asked.
“That’s right,” she said. “And He blessed each of them and prayed for them.”
Gabriel felt a new feeling inside. He did not know what it was. He felt warm even though it was chilly outside. He smiled big.
Gabriel wanted to share this special feeling. “I feel so happy and warm!” he said. He was so happy that he almost felt like crying!
“That special feeling is the Holy Ghost,” Papa told him. “He gives you a warm feeling to help you know that the scriptures are true.”
Mama smiled and hugged Gabriel. “That feeling tells you that Jesus loves you.”
“Jesus blesses me,” Gabriel said. “Just like the children in the Book of Mormon! He sent the Holy Ghost to me!”
He couldn’t stop smiling. “I know the scriptures are true,” he thought. “The Holy Ghost told me!”

I hated going without showers, eating half-cooked food, and sharing my living quarters with creepy creatures like spiders, yet there I was at girls’ camp. But the truth was I was having the time of my life.
My group was known as the Pink Ladies, and our leader gave each of us bright pink neon shoelaces as our trademark. After enduring five days of rain and cold in the great outdoors, we renamed our group the Pink Penguins.
The rain subsided just long enough to end the week with an evening testimony meeting. My testimony of Christ had been strengthened that week during evening scripture study and gospel discussions with my new friends. During the meeting I thought of my lifestyle at home. I had become friends with girls who were not living up to Church standards. My best friend, Amy, had been telling me how great smoking is and how fun I would be if only I loosened up a bit.
The Spirit had really touched me at camp, and I committed to myself to live a better life when I returned to civilization. I had never borne my testimony before, but I really wanted to this time. As I struggled to muster the courage to stand, I caught a glimpse of the feet of the girls in my group, all of them wearing their pink laces. One by one the girls’ feet carried them to the front where they bore their testimonies.
I looked down at my laces and thought of the love and unity we felt that week and realized I had a terrific support group all around me. With that I stood and headed toward the front. While bearing my testimony, the Spirit was so strong I remember thinking I never wanted to live without it again.

I have beautiful golden-brown hair. I was watching the news one morning and saw that a little girl was donating her hair to an organization that makes wigs for young cancer patients. One day I was shopping with my mom and sisters when we noticed a salon that took hair donations. We went in and asked the hair cutter how long my hair had to be to donate it. It was long enough! So I sat down in the big chair, and she put my hair in a ponytail and cut it right above the tail. I felt happy and excited because I knew that I had done something to help little kids who were sick.

Stumbling blocks can be complex; let me illustrate.
Many years ago my father built a small cabin on part of the ranch property where he had been raised. The vistas across the meadows were exceptional. When the walls were framed in for the cabin, I made a visit. I was surprised that the window with the view focused directly on a power pole that was a short distance from the house. To me, it was a huge distraction from the magnificent view.
I said, “Dad, why did you let them put the power pole directly in front of your view from the window?”
My father, an exceptionally practical and calm man, exclaimed with some emotion, “Quentin, that power pole is the most beautiful thing to me on the entire ranch!” He then made his case: “When I look at that pole, I realize that, unlike when I grew up here, I will not have to carry water in containers from the spring up to the house to cook, wash my hands, or bathe. I will not have to light candles or oil lamps at night to read. I want to see that power pole right in the middle of the view window.”
My father had a different perspective on the power pole than I did. To him that pole represented an improved life, but to me it was a stumbling block to a magnificent vista. My dad valued power, light, and cleanliness above an aesthetic view. I immediately realized that while the pole was a stumbling block for me, it had great practical, symbolic meaning to my father.
My father saw the pole as a means of providing power, light, and abundant water for cooking and cleansing. It was a stepping-stone to improving his life.

Jodi Carlson (10) and Shaun Orr (7) hurried to Jodi’s grandparents’ grocery store in downtown Rexburg to warn them of the coming flood. Jodi’s grandparents decided the store would be the safest place for them during the flood. They went upstairs to the office and watched the flood enter and submerge the ground floor of the store. Within four hours the water was as high as the fifth step below the office door.
“The back wall had holes in it,” Shaun explained later, “and started to break. The water hit the door, broke the lock, and pushed the door over to the wall. A tractor and a cow washed in and lodged under the office where we were. The cow’s body prevented the office floor from collapsing.”
Four hours later their many prayers were answered when they were rescued by the National Guard.

I was first exposed to pornography at age 13. I found it accidentally on social media, not knowing what it was and not understanding it. I went from unintentional exposure and curiosity to intentionally seeking it out.
At that time, my leaders’ messages about pornography seemed to be saying that it was something only boys struggled with. This left me feeling a lot of shame. I thought I’d never be able to tell anyone about my struggle. I knew about Jesus Christ’s Atonement, but because I thought that I was the only girl with this struggle, I felt like my situation was out of the Savior’s reach. I felt like the exception.
During those years, in places like seminary or devotionals—wherever the Spirit was present—I often felt prompted to set up a meeting with my bishop. For so long, what kept me from doing this was the idea that I had a reputation to uphold as a good kid from an active family. I thought he would see me for who I was—and I didn’t believe that person was lovable. I thought I would be met with instant punishment.
When I finally set up that meeting, it went very differently from how I expected. Instead of handing out punishment, my bishop told me: “You are still a daughter of God. You are still just as loved, and you are still just as valued.”
My bishop told me: “You are still a daughter of God. You are still just as loved, and you are still just as valued.”
I remember feeling overwhelmed with love. That was the first time I had felt the power of the Savior’s Atonement so strongly in my life. Looking back, I understand why those words my bishop said were so important.
When you’re struggling with pornography, you go through a cycle of shame. For me, I would feel out of touch with my own identity and then use pornography to deal with those negative emotions. Then I would feel shame and isolate myself from others, and the cycle would repeat.
For so long, I tried to rely on my own willpower to “just stop.” But I couldn’t do it on my own. My bishop helped me remember my identity—that I am a beloved daughter of God. As I met with him and remembered that truth, I started to make genuine progress.
Understanding God’s nature also helped me understand Satan and his tools and how they work in direct opposition to God. One of Satan’s most powerful tools is shame, which is different from guilt or “godly sorrow” (2 Corinthians 7:10). When you feel guilt, you realize you’ve made a mistake. But shame links the negative feelings you have about yourself when you sin to your identity, like you are those feelings.
Satan wanted me to believe that I could overcome this challenge on my own. This lie was something that kept me from talking to my bishop about my struggle with pornography. I felt like I couldn’t meet with him until I could say it was something I had struggled with in the past. Satan uses your individual weaknesses to make you feel unworthy to seek the Savior’s healing power.
I learned that Satan works on us when we’re isolated, so our best defense is connection. Sometimes it’s as simple as reaching out to others and spending meaningful time with good friends. Connecting with Heavenly Father, with yourself, and with others (especially with those who see you the way Heavenly Father does) is the best way to remember your true identity: a valued child of God.