Gospel Story Finder

The last colorful rays of the setting sun had faded into the western horizon, and the dark of the night was beginning to settle down over the desert. My father and I were finishing our evening meal and making plans for the night and the next day.
Father was a large, strong man with a kind heart, and he was happy to have his oldest son with him on this trip. We were going to drive 500 sheep we had just purchased to their new home on the other side of the 85-mile-wide desert. In the desert there was little water, and the days would be hot and the nights cool. The plan was to drive the sheep in the cool of the night and allow them to rest during the heat of the day. We hoped that by doing this the sheep could go without water for three days. Arriving on the other side of the desert, they would be met by a wagon loaded with barrels of water for the thirsty sheep. Our own drinking water for the journey was carried in a ten-gallon milk can in the back of our Model T touring car.
My father was a gentle and considerate man, and he said to me, “I’ll drive the sheep tonight while you sleep. After you awaken in the morning, eat your breakfast, gather up our camp gear, pack it in the car, and then drive down the trail until you catch up with me and the sheep.”
Everything went as planned. Father drove the sheep through the night into the desolate area. When I awakened the next morning, I ate a hurried breakfast and packed the car. As I drove the Model T along the uncertain wagon trail in the desert, it was difficult to see signs of Father and the sheep, and their trail was especially hard to follow through some of the rocky areas. Still, everything went pretty well for the first few miles until there was a fork in the road. I wished Father were there to tell me which road to take. Finally, I decided to take the better road on the right. I drove along without incident for some miles until I came to a deep washout. There the road faded out completely.
Without a map or road signs, fear gripped my heart. I am lost! I thought. What shall I do? Then I remembered the words of my Scout leader: “If you are lost, stop and wait. Then give some kind of a warning signal.”
I took the old 44-40 rifle from the car and fired three quick shots into the air, praying that Father would hear; then I waited and prayed and waited some more.
After what seemed like such a long time, I saw Father in the distance, running toward me and waving his arms! It wasn’t long after that wonderful meeting until we were safely home with the sheep. How relieved and thankful I was for a father who cared and who could show me the right way to go.
I have taken many journeys since that one across the desert, some filled with hazards and important decisions. How grateful I am that we all have a real and loving Father, a Heavenly Father to whom we can call when there are two roads and no road signs to guide the way.

I asked, "Alex, do you have any idea how much impact you and your book have had on the people of the world?"

He answered, "I think so."

I said, "I haven't been involved in Family History Administration too many years, but it seems to me there is an invisible hand guiding this work, bringing people like you and scientific developments and special events together toward a pre-determined course."

He slammed his fist on his knee and said, "That's right! I felt the guiding hand of the Lord."

How appropriate that one year after the broadcast of Roots, in June 1978, the historic revelation was announced that all the children of God could enjoy the full blessings of the Priesthood.

One other incredible example of the "invisible hand" operating upon the hearts and minds of people: We cultivated relationships with the USSR for about 30 years in an effort to microfilm vital records. In 1989 one of the employees of the Family History Department, Kahlile Mehr, was in conversation with Dr. Patricia Grimsted of Harvard University, recognized as the top scholar on Russian Archival records. Brother Mehr expressed strong interest in the church being able to microfilm public and church records in the Soviet Union. She told Kahlile that in her opinion this church would never have access to Russian archival records. The Lord thought differently.

As President of the Genealogical Society of Utah, accompanied by Sister Clarke and our European acquisition Manager, Lynn Carson, we traveled to Moscow, Russia in April 1992. Sitting around a table in the offices of the former Central Committee of the Communist Party located at the Kremlin, I signed a contract with Dr. Rudolph Pikhoia, Chairman of the Committee of Archival Affairs for the Republic of Russia. This contract authorized the Genealogical Society of Utah to microfilm vital records in 200 regional archives throughout Russia. What in 1989 was said to be impossible was now reality. "Is anything too hard for the Lord?"

Hope Gentile, four days before her first chemotherapy treatment in March 2015.
Photographs of Hope by Nicholas Gentile
A few years ago, a single word—cancer—thrust the young family of Nicholas and Christina Gentile into what Brother Gentile called “the uncharted depths of a life-or-death trial.” Their 19-month-old daughter, Hope, had been diagnosed with a tumor in her lower back.
“Over the next five months of surgeries and chemotherapy,” recalls Brother Gentile, “Hope’s battle for life created a kaleidoscope of experiences that ultimately strengthened our family’s testimony of the Savior’s grace.”
Hope’s trial and uncertain future drew the family closer—to each other and to the Savior.
“We knew that what we saw was only part of the reality that God saw for Hope,” said Brother Gentile. “Despite the darkness, we trusted in Him, regardless of the outcome.”
One dark night during Hope’s second five-day round of chemotherapy, Brother Gentile noticed how much hair she had lost in the previous few days. Her remaining strawberry blonde wisps painfully reminded him of her mortality. Nevertheless, he found solace in the Lord’s promise that “a hair of [her] head shall not fall to the ground unnoticed” (Doctrine and Covenants 84:116).
“I felt that Jesus Christ was deeply aware of Hope’s journey—and our heartache,” said Brother Gentile. “He did ‘not leave [us] comfortless’ [John 14:18].”
During bedtime one evening as he read a board book to Hope, Brother Gentile asked in a silly voice, “What does the owl say?” Giggling, Hope replied, “Hoo, hoo!” Then he asked, “What does the cow say?” Hope proudly responded, “Moo, moo!”
At that moment, a picture of the Savior on the bedroom wall caught Brother Gentile’s attention. The Spirit prompted him to ask, “Hope, and what does Jesus say?”
As he waited for his daughter’s reply, she snuggled into his shoulder, opened her big blue eyes, and whispered, “‘Hold you.’ Jesus says, ‘Hold you.’”
Brother Gentile gently pulled Hope’s tiny body close and hugged her as he sobbed. As Hope hugged back with her tiny arms, she whispered, “Love you, Dada.”
God had given Brother Gentile and his family that moment for a special reason: “Jesus was holding our family in His loving arms,” he said. “Since that sacred night, I have pondered the tender truth God taught me through my daughter’s words: Jesus will hold us and bless us during our trials if we let Him. These blessings come according to His perfect time, way, and will, but they do come. I know these truths because the Holy Ghost helped me to feel them in Hope’s room on that dark night.”2
I am happy to report that the Gentile family’s faith and prayers were answered. Today, Hope is a healthy, happy 10-year-old.
Left: Hope after her fourth chemotherapy treatment in June 2015. Right: Hope at nine years old.

In March of 1977, Errol Bennett joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and then refused to play soccer on Sundays. In response, Napoléon Spitz, the president of Bennett’s club and the Fédération Tahitienne de Football (FTF), called a meeting of FTF members and declared that his entire club would stop playing soccer on Sundays. After some discussion, all the affiliated clubs agreed to reschedule matches during the week.
Bennett’s decision to not play on Sundays did not hinder his success. Central Sport won the Tahitian championship eight consecutive times from 1972 to 1979 and claimed the South Pacific Tournament title four times in a row. The club also made it to the seventh round of the Coupe de France, achieving a memorable 3–0 victory over US Orléans in Papeete during the 1978–79 season.

One of the great leaders of our time, President Harold B. Lee, in a devotional address at BYU, spoke of a Latter-day Saint young man who, during World War II, was in England. He had gone to an officers’ club where they were holding a riotous kind of celebration. He noticed, off to the side, a young British officer who didn’t seem to appreciate the party at all. So he walked over to him and said, “You don’t seem to be enjoying this kind of party.” And this young British officer straightened himself a few inches taller than he was before and replied, “No, sir; I can’t engage in this kind of party because, you see, I belong to the royal household of England.” As our Latter-day Saint young man walked away, he said to himself, “Neither can I, because I belong to the royal household of the kingdom of God” (“Be Loyal to the Royal within You,” in Speeches of the Year, 1973 [Provo: Brigham Young University Press, 1973], p. 100).

When my children were young, we read the scriptures together as a family. Recently, my wife found an old triple combination that we used for years in our family scripture study. She noticed that every page of the Book of Mormon had seven creases in it. That is because when we read together, we folded down the corner of each page as we finished it. The seven creases reminded us that we read the Book of Mormon seven times as a family. Each of our children took a turn reading a verse or two. When the youngest ones wanted to participate, they could say, “And it came to pass,” and then it was the next child’s turn.
It took us five years to read the Book of Mormon for the first time as a family, but we never quit. After we finished using the book with the creased pages, we all continued to read, study, and mark our own scriptures. When we read and study the scriptures often, we can grow closer to Heavenly Father and understand His message to us as His children. Through the scriptures, He teaches us sweet lessons that we can use as a guide for our lives.

I don’t recall with accuracy when I first became aware of James E. Talmage. I know that some of his books were in my parents’ library and that I had used his Articles of Faith book in preparing the two and one-half minute talks that youngsters used to give in Sunday School. For me, the first memorable introduction to him occurred when I was just nineteen and had received my mission call to Great Britain.

My father had a good friend and associate by the name of Burton Talmage. He was not a son of Elder Talmage but was a close relative. I didn’t know Burt Talmage well, although I had met him several times and I knew how highly he was regarded by my father. When Burt learned of my mission call, he did something that was very kind and really quite extraordinary. Even at that time, I realized that he made the effort not because of me, but because of his affection and respect for my father. Brother Burt Talmage presented to me a beautiful, leather-bound edition of the Articles of Faith with this personal inscription inside, “May you find this book helpful to you on missions.” He then signed his name and the date. He had also imprinted my name on the leather cover just like my missionary scriptures.

To this day, I keep this very special book with the set of scriptures that I used as a young missionary. I have by now used several different sets of scriptures and have also had several paperback copies of the Articles of Faith which I have marked and studied and used, but this wonderful volume holds a special place in my heart. When I received this very remarkable volume, I read it through completely before I began my mission and used it as the basis for missionary study and talks. It quickly became a dear and valued friend and resource.

As I read and studied, finally realizing how little I really knew about some basic things that I fully believed, I found helpful kernels and pleasant surprises in every chapter and on almost every page. Because of his vast vocabulary, I had to look up some of the words that Elder Talmage used, but his meanings were always clear and insightful.

The second example also comes from my first mission. One December, which is one of the warmest months in Tonga, I was serving with a local companion. As Christmas time approached, we visited many member and nonmember families reminding them of the important role of Jesus in our lives and leaving our testimony of Him with them. One of these visits was to a grandmother who was tending to her young granddaughter while her husband and the girl’s parents were away. The grandmother was fairly old, but seemed to be doing fine, and really appreciated our visit.

A few days later, on Christmas Eve, we visited several more families and left blessings, testimonies, and messages about Jesus with them. As we left the last house and headed for home I said, “I feel we should visit one more family, any ideas?” My companion responded, “I’ve heard that the granddaughter we recently visited is quite ill and her grandmother is very tired from the constant worry and care. Why don’t we see if we can help them in some way?”

When we arrived, we found that the granddaughter, of about seven, was indeed very ill with a high fever. Her grandmother had been keeping a wet cloth on her forehead and fanning the air to keep her cool. She was exhausted and asked if we would give her granddaughter a blessing, which we did. As we finished, my companion said, “I can tell you are very tired and need some rest. Why don’t you go lie down and my companion and I will fan your granddaughter and keep a damp towel on her forehead.”

I have seldom seen more grateful eyes or felt deeper appreciation. She hesitated but my companion said, “You need the rest, so you don’t get sick also. Go and rest. Trust us and trust the Lord, for we are His servants.” After a brief pause, she went and laid down behind the curtain. I’m sure she was asleep as soon as she hit her mat.

We started fanning her granddaughter and cooling her forehead with a wet cloth. Her breathing was fitful, her eyes were closed, and her moans were distressing. One of us dipped the cloth in water, wrung it out, and held it on her forehead while the other fanned to help keep her cool. That doesn’t sound like much work, but the anxiety, the humid evening, the late hour, and the constant fanning and dipping of the cloth caused us to tire quickly. I wondered how the grandmother had done this for so long by herself.

At about 11 pm my companion said, “We’re both tired. To get through the night, why don’t we take turns? You sleep for one hour while I fan and rinse. Then I’ll wake you and you care for her for an hour, then you wake me, and so on.” “Fine,” I said. We used an old wind-up clock to tell time. I laid down while my companion fanned. In an hour he woke me, and I fanned with one hand and kept the cloth on her forehead with the other until 1 am. I then woke my companion who took his turn, then he woke me at 2 am. I woke him at 3 am and laid down knowing that 4 am would come very soon.

The next thing I remember was sunlight streaming into my eyes. I jumped up and asked, “What time is it?” “It’s 7 am.” “7! You were supposed to wake me at 4. Why didn’t you?” “Oh, you looked so tired, I decided to let you sleep. Merry Christmas.” As I looked at him and felt his joy, I sensed an aura of light around him and said to myself, “He is a great man. God loves him and so do I. I wish I were stronger and would spontaneously do more good things like he does.”

I thought of the Savior in the Garden of Gethsemane, asking His disciples to watch and pray for Him as he commenced the greatest and most painful act of love and heartfelt helping ever known on earth. He returned and found them sleeping and asked them to please stay awake and watch and pray for Him. A little later He returned and found them sleeping again. Instead of getting upset He just looked at them with deep love and compassion and simply said, “...Sleep on.” [3] I felt great love for Him and for my companion.

The grandmother soon awoke and asked how we and her granddaughter were doing. We told her everything was about the same. We continued fanning her granddaughter while she fixed us a little breakfast. As we were eating, her granddaughter’s moaning ceased and before long her fever broke. She soon opened her eyes and started searching for her grandmother and said she wanted to get up and have some breakfast also. We had a heartfelt prayer together where we thanked God for all His blessings, including the recovery of this young granddaughter, and for our Savior Jesus Christ and all He has done and continues to do to help us in heartfelt ways. We departed feeling it was one of the best Christmases we had ever had. A few months later I was released from my mission, returned home, married, had a family, and became involved in a variety of activities, but never forgot this experience (and many others) of heartfelt helping.

After earning his law degree, he applied for a job at a law firm and was invited to lunch by some of the partners at the firm. The senior partner asked him if he would like an alcoholic drink before lunch and later asked him if he would like wine. Elder Cook declined both times, telling him the second time that he was a Latter-day Saint. This incident was more important than Elder Cook thought at the time. He has said:
“I received an offer of employment from the firm. A few months later, the senior partner told me the offer of the alcoholic beverages was a test. He noted that my résumé made it clear that I had served an LDS mission. He had determined that he would hire me only if I was true to the teachings of my own church. He considered it a significant matter of character and integrity.”3

Last year, as some of you baseball fans may recall, we almost had another .400 hitter in Rod Carew of the Minnesota Twins; he was there for most of the season and tailed off near the end. Do you know that the last .400 hitter the Major League has produced was Ted Williams in 1941? At the beginning of the final week of that season—and I remember it well because I followed it very carefully—Ted’s batting average was over .400, as it had been for several weeks. His manager asked if he wanted to be excused from playing ball the last week in order to protect the .400 average, and Ted replied—and I have always appreciated that great champion—“If I am going to be a .400 hitter, I am going to earn the honor fair and square.”

Ted’s batting average that last week went down. Then came the final afternoon of play, and Ted’s average stood at .399955 on the last day of the season—not quite .400, but the statistics rounded out would show him as a .400 hitter. Sportswriters, baseball fans, and the manager of the team advised him not to play that afternoon. They did not want Ted to take a chance of missing out on becoming the ninth member of that wonderful club. He replied—and I remember it well—“If I’m going to be a .400 hitter, I want more than my toenails on the line.”

The baseball park in Philadelphia was jammed. Each time Ted Williams came to bat the huge crowd sat in tense silence, almost afraid to breathe for fear of upsetting him. At each hit he made, the crowd roared its approval. The noise almost rocked Philadelphia when the final game ended and Ted’s batting average registered .406. How is that for stretching a little bit further? What a great quality!

I shall never forget a lesson I learned many years ago as a boy in the little country of Wales. My family lived in a small mining village where coal not only provided us with a livelihood but was also used for cooking and was burned in the fireplaces to keep us warm when the weather was cold. So much coal was used that the chimneys would become clogged with soot, and it would be necessary to have it removed by a chimney sweep.

There was in our village a quaint little man who did this menial task. His appearance was almost repulsive. His hands were bent and gnarled, and his shoulders were bowed as if he carried a load. But the strangest thing about him was that he never talked. The only sound that left his lips, and this could only be understood by those who knew him, was the cry of “Chimney sweep, chimney sweep!” This man was Jimmy Drew.

Jimmy never bothered anyone. He would walk through the village streets with his bundle of brushes over his shoulder, calling out his strange cry. If someone accepted his services, he would sweep the chimney and load the soot into a sack that he carried away. His fee was two shillings, and the transaction was a silent one, for Jimmy was almost mute.

Ofttimes we boys in the village would make fun of Jimmy. We would walk behind him hunching up our shoulders and holding our hands like claws, just like Jimmy’s, and try to imitate his strange cry. But he didn’t seem to mind; he went about his business as if we were not there.

One day Jimmy was on our street, and as usual we proceeded to make fun of him. But it so happened that on this occasion my father came up behind us and observed what we were doing. Normally my father was a gentle man, but now he grasped my arm and unceremoniously marched me home. He took me to the big bay window from which we could see the valley below. He pointed with his finger and said to me in quite a stern voice, “Son, do you see the old Prince of Wales Colliery?”

Yes, I could see the old colliery; for as long as I could remember it had been there. The structure above the deep shaft was still there, but rust and decay were taking their toll.

The cages that lowered the coal miner down into the shaft were gone. The shaft itself was covered over with heavy boards and surrounded with a well-rusted cable. There was something about this old mine that made you feel uneasy when you were around it, and once some of us boys pried a board off the top of the shaft and dropped stones down into the inky blackness. It seemed like we waited for an age until the stones splashed into the water below.

“Yes, Father,” I replied, “I can see the old Prince of Wales.”

“Well, listen carefully,” he continued, “for I want you to always remember what I am going to tell you.”

That question was never answered, for God in his mercy had closed the mind of Jimmy Drew so that he would never tell of his terrible ordeal. I remember still how my father put his arm around me and pulled me close to him and together we shed tears.

I have never been ashamed of those tears, for even though I was only a boy, the moral of this true story was quite clear. From that day on, whenever I was tempted to ridicule any of my fellowmen who had suffered misfortune or injury at birth, I would stand once again by the big window in the little Welsh village, look down the valley to the Prince of Wales Colliery, and think of the little chimney sweep, Jimmy Drew.

Because of physical health problems, when I was about a year into my mission, I had to go home for a little bit. But before I left, one of the other sisters told me, “Be home for Christmas. This is your home.”

I made that a goal. I knew the mission field was where God wanted me to be, and I really wanted to do what He asked, feel the joy I’d felt before, and spend my Christmas experiencing miracles as a missionary.

I returned to my original assignment in the first week of December. God helped me jump back into the work, and it was such a good Christmas season. It was service-oriented and Christ-centered, just how it’s supposed to be. Sometimes we get caught up in the material aspects of Christmas, but that’s not the point. The point is that Jesus Christ was born for us, lived for us, and died for us because He loves us.

I loved having Him be the center of my life during my mission because it helped me feel closer to Him, and I got to share that gift with other people too. We were teaching a woman who really wanted her family to come over for Christmas because she hadn’t seen them in a while. We cleaned up her house, set up her Christmas tree, and watched the Church video “The Christ Child” with her.

Later she told us, “I got to have Christmas because of you sisters. I wouldn’t have had my family over if you hadn’t helped me.” It really touched my heart. I was so grateful that God let me experience that.

In the future, I want to make my Christmases more about Christ and be more involved in Light the World. That’s how we can be more like Him: by serving more and being outward-focused.

Mary M., from Colorado, USA; served in the Arizona Mesa Mission

While I served as bishop, one of the Mia Maids in my ward came in for her annual interview. It was a sunny early summer day, and the rays of the afternoon sun were causing the dust in my office to float around like a million little gliders. She and I talked about the significance of the small things in life versus the highly visible parts of what we are doing.
Without any warning she suddenly burst into tears and wept and wept. I left the chair behind my desk and walked around to where she was seated and sat down next to her. I attempted to comfort her and give her solace.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“I am so awful!” she cried out.
“What have you done that you think is so awful?” I asked.
“I am so cruel to my best friend. I go out of my way to play jokes on her and to embarrass her in front of others. I am just awful.” Then she cried some more.
“Could you give me an example of how you treat her?” I asked cautiously.
She described several situations that really were vicious, well-planned attacks on this other young woman that she claimed was her best friend.
“What am I going to do, bishop?” I remember her asking me.
As kindly and gently as possible, I explained to her that she must repent.
“How?” she asked.
“Well,” I said, “you have recognized that you are doing wrong toward your friend. That is the first step. Now you have to decide if you really want to repent. Do you really want to go all the way with this decision?” She nodded her head that she did.
Through the following days and weeks, this fine young woman worked hard at learning how to stop being quietly vicious. She changed her plans to hurt into plans that would help and lift.
She confessed her sins to me, as her bishop. Then kneeling together in prayer I listened while she confessed them to God. Finally, she went to her friend and made peace. In an attempt to make restitution, my young friend went out of her way to make life easier and less complicated for her true, understanding friend. I learned firsthand how it is equally as important to forgive as it is to seek forgiveness. Fortunately, these were two special young women.
Within a few months my young Mia Maid friend had forgiven herself—her friend had forgiven her weeks earlier—and she had been forgiven in heaven.
Her heart and mind are now at peace. I am certain that she still remembers how she treated her friend. That will help her remember not to ever do it again. However, she feels no heartache or torture of mind because she has fully repented.

Besides sprucing up Main Street, washing cars, tidying the cemetery, spreading gravel at the train depot, and chopping weeds at a main intersection on the highway into town, the youth painted the city’s historic log church, landscaped its grounds, and polished the benches and the organ inside.
“I thought that was neat,” said Daphne Motto, 17. “It didn’t matter that it’s not an LDS church. It’s like we were saying, we’re all brothers and sisters and we need to help each other.”

At the age of 19, I was called to serve a mission in Tahiti, where I had to learn two foreign languages—French and Tahitian. Early in my mission, I became very discouraged at my lack of progress in either language. Every time I tried to speak French, people responded in Tahitian. When I tried to speak Tahitian, they answered in French. I was on the verge of giving up.

Then one day, as I was walking past the laundry room at the mission home, I heard a voice calling me. I turned around and saw a gray-haired Tahitian woman standing in the doorway motioning for me to come back. Her name was Tuputeata Moo. She spoke only Tahitian. And I spoke only English. I missed much of what she was trying to tell me, but I did understand that she wanted me to return to the laundry room every day so she could help me learn Tahitian.

I stopped by daily to practice with her while she ironed clothes. At first I wondered if our meetings would be of any help, but gradually I began to understand her. Each time we met, she communicated to me her complete confidence that I could learn both languages.

Sister Moo helped me learn Tahitian. But she helped me learn much more than that. She was really teaching me the first principle of the gospel—faith in the Lord Jesus Christ. She taught me that if I relied on the Lord, He would help me do something I thought was impossible. She not only helped save my mission—she helped save my life.

A few years ago I had a stake conference on the East Coast. While at the conference I had the assignment to interview a young 21-year-old man to determine his worthiness and preparation to serve a mission. Now, you are aware that General Authorities do not usually interview potential missionaries for worthiness. So this was an unusual and special situation. During my flight to the East, I read some background information regarding the reasons for my interview. As I read this information, my heart ached for this boy and for his family. He had committed almost every transgression there was. I believe he invented some transgressions. I wondered why I would be asked to visit one with such a background. I had already concluded that it would be most unusual for me to approve him as a missionary.

After the Saturday evening session of conference, I retired to the stake president’s office for the interview. As I was waiting with the door open, a handsome young man with a wonderful countenance and a glow about him approached. I wondered how I could excuse myself because it was apparent he wanted to talk to me and I had an appointment with a very troubled young man. When he reached me, he stuck out his hand and introduced himself. This was the young man I was to interview.

In the privacy of the office, I asked just one question: “Why am I interviewing you tonight?”

He then began to recount his sordid past—every transgression. When he was through, he began to explain the steps and the personal suffering he had gone through to prepare for this very interview. He then talked about the Atonement—the infinite power of the Atonement. He bore his testimony of the Atonement and expressed his love for the Savior. And then he said, “I believe the Savior’s personal suffering in Gethsemane and His sacrifice upon the cross was powerful enough to rescue even a man like me.”

Moved by the humility and testimony of this young man, and moved by the Spirit, I placed my hand on his shoulder and said, “When I get back to Salt Lake City, I am going to recommend you serve a mission as a representative of Jesus Christ.” And then I said, “I am only going to ask one thing of you. When you get into the mission field, I want you to be the best missionary in the entire Church. That is all.”

Three or four months later, Sister Edgley and I were speaking at the Missionary Training Center. At the conclusion of the devotional, I was standing in front of the podium visiting with missionaries when I saw a young man with a familiar face walking toward me.

When he reached me, he stuck out his hand and asked, “Do you remember me?”

Somewhat embarrassed, I said, “I’m sorry, I know I should know you, but I just don’t remember.”

And then he said, “Let me tell you who I am. I am the best missionary in the Missionary Training Center.” And I believed him.

This young man’s hope was based not only upon a knowledge and testimony of the Atonement but also upon a personalization of this gift. He understood that it was for him personally! Yes, he knew the power of the Atonement and the hope it gives when all might seem lost or hopeless.

By this time, I wanted to continue going to church on my own, but that was such a challenge! It was hard for me to sit alone at church. I felt like everyone was staring at me and feeling sorry for me because my family wasn’t with me. To ward off sympathy, I would sit with my head bowed, reading a book until the meeting started. I felt sorry for myself and thought the challenge wasn’t worth it. I decided that without a family, the Church was not going to be true for me.
It was another small miracle of friendship that brought me back. Wendolyn and I had been friends since childhood, but we’d slowly drifted apart. One afternoon, Wendolyn and her mother sat me down and told me about the importance of going to church. They offered to have me go and sit with their family. My main stumbling block was removed! I had people to sit with who cared!
Through the rest of my high school years, my friendship with Wendolyn deepened, and my testimony of the gospel along with it. Wendolyn’s mother even offered to help me pay for a mission if I ever decided to go. I was touched by their willingness to sacrifice for me and for the gospel.
I know it is sometimes hard to accept an outsider into your family, but these two families accepted me, and to them I owe my active participation in the Church today. I will be eternally grateful to these friends. What small miracles of friendship can do!

Don’t just take our word for it. Last year in a small town in Utah, young men in a teachers quorum visited the youth activities website (lds.org/youth/activities) to find ideas for an activity. One in particular caught their attention: “Seven Days of Service.”

These young men decided to do something even bigger: they would provide service each day for an entire week to anyone in the ward who requested it. When 19 families signed up, the young men were a little surprised and perhaps even a little overwhelmed. How would they be able to do so much service in such a short time? But they had made a commitment, so they decided to serve all of the families.

In just one week, they gave over 250 hours of combined service, doing such projects as moving a huge pile of rocks, digging a sandbox, cleaning out gutters, and stacking wood. And it changed the young men too. (See a video at lds.org/go/serviceNE1.)

They felt awed by the strength they felt and the blessings they received. They described feeling united as a quorum and receiving divine help to do homework and other responsibilities. Now, when their ward needs service, the teachers quorum responds enthusiastically. They didn’t just serve for a week—they try to serve every day.

President James E. Faust was deeply moved when he visited the route of the handcart pioneers. These are some of his thoughts.
In celebration of July 24th several years ago, I joined the Saints of the Riverton Wyoming Stake. … The youth and youth leaders of that stake reenacted part of the handcart trek which took place in 1856. We … went first to Independence Rock, where we picked up the Mormon Trail. We saw Devil’s Gate a few miles up the road. Our souls were subdued [quieted] when we arrived at the hallowed ground of Martin’s Cove, the site where the Martin Handcart Company, freezing and starving, waited for the rescue wagons to come from Salt Lake City. Numerous members of the Martin Handcart Company perished there from hunger and cold.
It was an emotional experience to see the Sweetwater River crossing, where many of the 500 members of the company were carried across the icy river by several brave young men.
We went farther along the trail where members of the Willie Handcart Company were rescued. We felt that we were standing on holy ground. Many members of that party died from starvation and cold there. We continued to travel up over Rocky Ridge, 7,300 feet (2200 m) high. … It was very difficult for all of the pioneers to travel over Rocky Ridge. It was particularly agonizing for the members of the Willie Handcart Company, who struggled over that ridge in the fall of 1856 in a blizzard. Many had worn-out shoes, and the sharp rocks caused their feet to bleed, leaving a trail of blood in the snow. …
We went on to Rock Creek Hollow, where the Willie Handcart Company made camp. Thirteen members of the Willie Company who perished from cold, exhaustion, and starvation are buried in a common grave at Rock Creek Hollow. Two additional members who died during the night are buried nearby. Two of those buried at Rock Creek Hollow were heroic children of tender years: Bodil Mortinsen, age nine, from Denmark, and James Kirkwood, age eleven, from Scotland.
Bodil apparently was assigned to care for some small children as they crossed Rocky Ridge. When they arrived at camp, she must have been sent to gather firewood. She was found frozen to death, leaning against the wheel of her handcart, clutching sagebrush.
Let me tell you of James Kirkwood. James was from Glasgow, Scotland. On the trip west, James was accompanied by his widowed mother and three brothers, one of whom, Thomas, was nineteen and crippled and had to ride in the handcart. James’s primary responsibility on the trek was to care for his little four-year-old brother, Joseph, while his mother and oldest brother, Robert, pulled the cart. As they climbed Rocky Ridge, it was snowing and there was a bitter cold wind blowing. It took the whole company twenty-seven hours to travel fifteen miles (24 k). When little Joseph became too weary to walk, James, the older brother, had no choice but to carry him. Left behind the main group, James and Joseph made their way slowly to camp. When the two finally arrived at the fireside, James, “having so faithfully carried out his task, collapsed and died from exposure and over-exertion. …”
I have wondered why these [courageous] pioneers had to pay for their faith with such a terrible price in agony and suffering. Why were not the elements tempered to spare them … ? I believe their lives were consecrated to a higher purpose through their suffering. Their love for the Savior was burned deep in their souls and into the souls of their children and their children’s children. …
Francis Webster, a member of the Martin Company, stated, “Everyone of us came through with the absolute knowledge that God lives for we became acquainted with him in our extremities [greatest suffering].” I hope that this priceless legacy of faith left by the pioneers will inspire all of us to more fully participate in the Lord’s work of bringing to pass the immortality and eternal life of His children.
(See Ensign, July 2002, pages 2–5.)

When I was an undergraduate, I had the privilege of studying at the BYU Jerusalem Center for Near Eastern Studies. On one field trip we visited an area in which a large stone tower stood. From the tower a watchman could detect threats before they were visible from the ground, protecting the olive, fig, and grape vineyard from plunder.
Years later I reenacted this scene with my family in family home evening. We live in a two-story home. Our backyard is relatively flat close to the home but descends rapidly into a wooded area. For our family home evening lesson, all but one member of the family stayed on the main floor and looked out the windows toward the backyard. One family member climbed the stairs to a second-story bedroom with a window that also looked toward the backyard.
I hid in the backyard and, unbeknownst to my children, was armed with a bow and arrow. Now, with my skills as an archer, I might have been able to harm someone only by accident, but I looked menacing, and that was enough for our lesson.
As I climbed the wooded ascent toward our home, the members of my family on the main floor could not see me. They saw only the grass and trees in our backyard. I was detected, however, by the child at the upstairs window. Before I could lunge from the woods in surprise, I was spotted, and a warning cry went out to those below.

Returning to the family home evening I described earlier, after I was discovered approaching the home with a bow and arrow, we repeated the experience with some modification. A different child took the post at the second-story window. This time I placed our family home evening treat in the garden, a sunken area just beyond the grass of our yard. As before, members of the family on the main floor could not see the treat. Again, however, the watchman at the second-story window could spot the treat that awaited us.