Gospel Story Finder

Are there any toads where you live? We have lots of them around our house. My dad works at a laboratory where they try to learn how to help farmers grow food better. Sometimes he takes my brothers and me on Saturday mornings out to see the fields he studies. There are long ditches that bring water to irrigate the crops, and sometimes they are full of tadpoles. We usually catch a few of them and bring them home with us. The first time we did this, we put them in an aquarium in our family room. They really liked it there—except for one thing. Our fighting fish bit off their tails and then ate them up!

Often, the primary contact inactive members have with the Church is through the home teachers who work under the direction of the bishop and the Melchizedek Priesthood quorum leaders. My interest in this important home-teaching duty began early in my life.
When I was a young man preparing to go on a mission, I had an outstanding bishop. His name was Marion G. Romney, now a member of the First Presidency. In giving my companion and me a home-teaching assignment, Bishop Romney emphasized the importance of being humble and prayerful and of preparing a challenging, spiritual message. He promised us great joy in the opportunities to be found in this home-teaching assignment. We were asked to visit five families, three of whom were inactive. This home-teaching assignment was so important to Bishop Romney that his enthusiasm and concern for it soon became our own. His careful instructions on how to accomplish it were impressive, and we followed carefully his inspired counsel. After a number of visits, all our families, including those who were inactive, became very friendly; and ultimately, all became active members of the Church.
Bishop Romney had made this home-teaching assignment significant for us. He encouraged us to prepare carefully and to be serious about the results of our visits. He helped us to develop the desire and the faith that make the difference. He taught us that dull, mechanical compliance to any assignment dooms it to failure. He brought us to the realization that the first essential factor in successful home teaching to inactives is the home teacher himself. The home teacher’s own preparation, dedication, attitudes, and initiative are crucial.

Thank you for printing “The Joy Is in Becoming” in the June New Era. The message is truly inspired, and I believe it with all my heart. One thought the article expressed that I feel is really important is that we never know when we are going to run into a nonmember. When we do, it might be the only contact that person has ever had with a Latter-day Saint. It is so important that we always be prepared (dressed modestly and neatly) to represent the Church.
While in California a month ago, my girlfriend and I went to Disneyland. Not being used to such hot weather, we were very tempted to wear shorts and tank tops. But we talked to my friend’s father and decided that it was better to be hot than to disobey a commandment. We soon became very grateful for that decision.
While we were there we met two guys from Norway. We were the first Mormons they had met, and we were able to do some missionary work. I know we couldn’t have done it if we were dressed improperly. We knew we had made a wise decision when they said, “Mormons are very decent people.”
Kathy BarlowSalt Lake City, Utah

I was nervous. At our last family home evening, Dad had announced that each of us would be given an important calling in our family.
Now it was Monday again, and it was almost time for family home evening. What calling was I going to get? I know, I thought, Mom and Dad will call me to lead the music. Everybody said I did that well. Or maybe I’m going to be the one to pass out family home evening treats. That was an assignment I would be happy to accept.
Finally Mom called all of us in. It was her turn to conduct.
One by one everyone arrived: my sisters, Roxana and Dayana; my brothers Bernie and Victorio; and Dad and Mom.
Dayana had the lesson, and it was really fun. She had lots of pictures and stories about family unity. Next it was time to write our weekly letters to my brother Rodolfo on his mission.
Then Dad announced the assignments. Dayana was assigned the music, Roxana got the refreshments, and Victorio and Bernie were chosen to be family home evening reverence leaders.
“What about me?” I asked impatiently.
“Well, Adalis,” Dad said, “you are very responsible and you are a Valiant in Primary, so you are going to have a very important assignment. You are going to be the family prayer secretary!”
I was so excited! It was a new position, and I got it!
“From now on,” Mom explained, “family prayer will be at 7:00 P.M. Adalis, you’re in charge of seeing that everyone meets for prayer exactly on time.”
I have had this calling now for about two weeks. Getting everybody together isn’t easy. But when I think about Jesus, and all the times He taught about prayer, I like to imagine He would do the same thing. He would get everyone together as a family to pray—exactly on time!

The bus speeds past more and more houses. Just a few fields and we are in the outskirts of the next town. Then we pass the all too familiar mining villages. The pit heaps of red shale blend into the scenery, looking almost like the canyons and valleys we see in cowboy films. The likeness ends there. The smoke-blackened terrace houses crowd upon each other, almost as if they had been fighting to see which could be built closest to the pit head. Each little house fronts onto the street, but the backyard contains the most precious possession of all—the pigeon hut. No one seems to know why, but miners seem to have a love for these remarkable birds, cherishing and loving them almost as if they were human.
The skies grow darker as we move farther south. I close my eyes, trying to forget the hectic day of preparation. Finish work early, overnight case to pack, and picnic case to fill. Then the agonizing wait for the bus. Had it crashed? Perhaps it hadn’t turned up at all, or could they have forgotten about me and decided to take a different route onto the motorway?
Daylight is now well and truly gone and the lights of the oncoming traffic glare off the wet road surface. Little people in their little cars going—who knows where? My heart fills with warmth as I anticipate tomorrow and its events.
The northern conurbations have been left behind now. There is more countryside, but, sadly, all we see of its beauty is the occasional light twinkling from some ancient farmhouse kitchen, a small candle in a saucer of darkness. The endless drone of the engine goes on and on, though it is almost drowned by the constant, excited chatter of our fellow passengers. The passengers, between the ages of 12 and 90, take the opportunity of having a chat. Six hours later everyone knows someone just a little bit better, and all are grateful for the time spent together. The first time, I brought a book to read, but then I realized there were better things to do.
It is now 10:00 P.M. and we are getting very tired. Still the endless drone of the engine arid the swish, swish as cars pass by in the other direction. Heads start nodding onto tired shoulders. One woman sits with her head resting on the seat and a warm traveling rug over her legs. It is easy to tell that she has made this visit before. My eyes begin to close as I, too, lapse into that uncomfortable halfway stare that is neither sleep or consciousness, and the endless motorway sounds are ever present.
The frequency of the villages and townships tell me that we will soon be near to the city. By the city, I mean the city. The city of millions of people, the city of ancient buildings and modern tower blocks. The city of beauty and splendor, and the city of poverty and filth. The old capital of the Commonwealth, and the modern capital of inflation. The city of Queen Victoria, Dickens, and Florence Nightingale.
We leave the motorway and enter the endless semidetached suburbia of North London. The streets, shops, and houses soon become as monotonous as the darkened countryside. We pass the place where the bus broke down on the last visit and its occupants had to spend the night in the uncomfortable seats. People reminisce and laugh at their past troubles. And so we continue onward through the city. People unfamiliar with the city excitedly look as others point out landmarks. We pass Hyde Park corner, Buckingham Palace, Lords cricket ground, Westminster Abbey, and finally the “Old Man” himself, that most famous and historic of all rivers—the Thames. The icy blackness reflects the embankment lights and winds away into the distant darkness. Then we are through. Through the glamour of the old floodlit buildings and famous streets, the expensive hotels and statues. Now we are south of the river, into the slums. There are old buildings here also, but these are old buildings of a different kind—with boards over windows, crumbling plaster on walls, and in many places, absolutely crowded with unwilling occupants. Fortunately we soon make our way through the most depressing parts and again return to semidetached anonymity. The shops and their wares begin to look all the same, and we long for a return to the countryside, for then we know that the journey will be almost ended. The gardens become larger, and we know that soon we will be there. After almost two hours of endless buildings, the trees spring upon us with an alarming suddenness. The narrow leafy lanes of Surrey seem welcoming and quiet. We have come a long way from the pit villages and Yorkshire, and yet this seems like home too. Driving is difficult when the road is only wide enough for two cars. The last village passes by, and everyone sighs with relief. It is after midnight, and we are tired. Only four or five hours sleep and we shall have to arise and finish the last little part of the journey. Heavy heads touch pillows. The long ride has acted as a perfect sleeping pill, and eyes soon close.
Who on earth is that knocking on the door when I have just gone to sleep? 5:00 A.M! Never! I am sure it is only five minutes since I closed my eyes. We all have a light breakfast and go out to the coach. It is still dark and very very cold. The last sleepy-head is hurried out into the coach, and we yawn our way back into the narrow lane, now completely empty of any traffic. We go a little way and pass the elegant homes of the well-to-do, probably businessmen, executives, some even in the millionaire class, and all of them asleep, not able to share in our excitement. We round a bend in the lane and there it is—the London Temple! Less than a mile away, all floodlit with its white walls reflecting the light over all the countryside. We catch our breath at its beauty and secretly urge the driver to go faster so that we can be sooner inside those sacred walls. The people queue at the door, their recommends clutched in freezing fingers. I hold my recommend with that other precious piece of paper. We are here at last, my grandmother and I. Perhaps it is only her name on the paper, but she has come here this day just as surely as I.

I skipped up the sidewalk to my home, overflowing with excitement. My friend had invited me to spend the weekend at a cabin.
I came bursting through the front door and announced my plans to my mother.
“Don’t you have baptisms for the dead tomorrow?” she said.
I thought about it for a moment. “Yeah, but I can do it another time.”
She looked at me with concern. “You went in for your recommend interview and everything. You said you would go.”
My thoughts of a weekend at a cabin began to slowly fade away. The cabin sounded like so much fun. “Well, I already told my friends I would go with them.”
“You also told your Young Women leader that you would do baptisms. You made that promise first,” my mother reminded me.
“I don’t care! I’m not going!” I snapped back.
She looked on me with disappointment and then walked away.
“Great!” I said to myself, feeling even more guilty. Finally I went into the living room by myself, knelt down, and asked Heavenly Father to help me make the right decision.
When I finished, I just knelt there for a moment. I paid attention to my thoughts. They were directed now toward being in the temple and getting baptized for people who had been waiting for so long. I stood and walked into the kitchen. As I walked past the fridge, I saw a quote from President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008):
“If we are a temple-going people, we will be a better people, we will be better fathers and husbands, we will be better wives and mothers. I know your lives are busy. I know that you have much to do. But I make you a promise that if you will go to the house of the Lord, you will be blessed, life will be better for you” (“Excerpts from Recent Addresses of President Gordon B. Hinckley,” Ensign, July 1997, 73).
I stood there transfixed as I read the quote over and over again. My prayers had been answered. I went back into my living room and knelt a second time, only this time I thanked my Heavenly Father for answering my prayer and for teaching me a lesson about sacrifice.
The next day when I went to the temple, I remember feeling so good. I knew I had made the right decision, thanks to Heavenly Father. I know if we truly want to do what is right, sacrifice is a blessing rather than a setback.

Two boys in the Olathe Second Ward, Olathe Kansas Stake, recently completed unusual projects in order to earn their Eagle Scout Awards.
After visiting the Haun’s Mill Massacre Site in Caldwell County, Missouri, David Shumway wanted to do something to honor and remember the 17 Church members who were killed there in 1838. He hung signs so that visitors could find the site, and he organized the Scouts in his ward in beautifying the area around the historical marker.

Recently a friend of mine lay in bed on Christmas morning, overcome with sorrow. Her children begged her to get up; however, she was filled with the pain of her pending divorce. Lying in bed sobbing, she poured out her soul in prayer to her Heavenly Father, telling Him of her despair.
As she concluded her prayer, the Spirit whispered to her that God knew her pain. She was filled with His compassion for her. This sacred experience validated her emotions and gave her hope that she was not grieving alone. She got up, went outside, and built a snowman with her children, replacing the heaviness of the morning with laughter and joy.

Bowling also teaches you to “follow through and keep going.” How has this helped you to overcome challenges? Before I release my bowling ball, I must keep my body in proper alignment, especially my arm, hand, and wrist. Even a slight turn of the wrist can send the ball off course. This is also true for my spiritual and personal growth.
When I experienced ongoing bullying from a peer, I was troubled for a time. I sought advice and comfort from my parents and seminary teacher and through studying the prophet’s counsel and the scriptures. The bully eventually moved away, and I was able to “course correct” by remembering my divine worth.

Seventeen-year-old Elizabeth Allen of Wellington, New Zealand, has a dream, and she intends to attain it.
Several years ago, she started coming to church with a family in her area. “When I first started attending church, I didn’t really have any intentions of becoming a member,” she says.
“But the more I attended church, the more I learned. And the more I learned, the more I understood, and the more I understood, the more determined I became to be baptized.”
Elizabeth’s parents have asked her to wait until she’s 21 to become a member of the Church, but Elizabeth has kept her dream of being baptized alive by attending Sunday meetings, seminary, and youth activities for the last five years.
“I have learned so much,” she says. “I have learned that Joseph Smith is a true prophet of God, that he translated the scriptures correctly, that it is important to obey the Word of Wisdom, and all about the plan of salvation.”

Recently I heard of a far-sighted home teacher in an elders quorum who was given the name of an inactive member. On his way to priesthood meeting early one Sunday morning, he called at the home of this member.

“I’m on my way to priesthood meeting and thought you might like a ride.”

This man, startled and somewhat angry at this early Sunday morning disruption of his sleep, said, “No. I’m not interested,” and slammed the door. He wondered how the Church got his name.

The following Sunday morning again the doorbell rang. The member opened the door and saw this same individual, bright and smiling, on his way to priesthood.

“Just dropped by in case you had changed your mind. We would like you to join us.”

He got an unfriendly reply of, “Go away! Leave me alone!” and slammed the door shut.

A week later the events were repeated. The home teacher added, “We have a great group of men. We need you. You’re a member of our quorum. Would you mind if I stop by next Sunday?” This man, who wanted to get lost from activity, decided the only way to stop his early-morning caller was to go to the meeting and prove he was not interested.

The next Sunday when the home teacher rang the doorbell, he was not greeted with a “Go away! Leave me alone!” but with a man dressed and ready to prove his disinterest. But the spirit of the priesthood meeting, the friendly handclasps, the sincere interest changed his attitude and awakened the conscience of a man who needed a gentle push.

One night a young idealist had a dream. He dreamed there was a new store in a nearby shopping mall. He went in and saw an angel behind a counter. Nervously, he asked what the shop sold.

“Everything your heart desires,” replied the angel.

“Then I want peace on earth,” exclaimed the idealist. “I want an end to famine, sorrow, and disease.”

“Just a moment,” replied the angel. “You haven’t understood. We don’t sell fruit here—only seeds.”

In Curitiba, Brazil, 4,330 members from the temple district, supported by a choir of 1,700 voices, presented a most inspirational program through song, dance, and video. The enormous soccer stadium where the event took place was filled with spectators. The wind had been blowing, and rain threatened. I offered a silent prayer asking Heavenly Father to look with mercy upon those who had prepared so diligently for our entertainment and whose costumes and presentations would be damaged if a heavy rain or wind enveloped them. He honored that prayer, and it wasn’t until the end of the show and later on that evening that rain fell in abundance.
A history of the Church in Brazil was portrayed in song and dance. A particularly moving scene was the portrayal of Elders James E. Faust and William Grant Bangerter, who served as missionaries in Curitiba in 1940. As their photos were displayed on large screens, a tremendous cheer went up from the audience. All in all, it was a glorious event.

It’s game point, and the pressure is on. The volleyball soars over the net in a perfect serve, beginning what could be the final play of the regional championship game. Each team hustles for every return, prolonging the play and anticipation. Athletic battle rages on the court, every team member playing her heart out, desperate to end the game and win the championship.
One player places herself in position to hit a tricky shot—and misses. Game over. One team celebrates; the other is angry at their teammate who missed. They shoot nasty words to her and yell disparaging comments across the court to the other team. The victorious team retaliates, gloating and returning harsh comments.
As horrible as it sounds, some volleyball teams unfortunately play that way. But the Western Hills Eighth Ward (Kearns Utah Western Hills Stake) and Jordan First Ward (Salt Lake Jordan Stake) know better. They realize that having a good attitude, both on and off the court, is what sports—and sportsmanship—are really about.
For the second year running, the Western Hills and Jordan teams were about to face each other in the finals of a multistake volleyball tournament. Despite negative feelings that had developed between the two teams during the previous year’s tournament, the Western Hills team invited the Jordan girls to a joint practice to take place before the final match. Jordan’s coach, Kathy Holmes, said that at first she didn’t want her girls to lose their competitive edge, but after praying about it, she realized, “Heavenly Father would want us to get to know each other as friends and not as enemies. He wants us to have fun.”
The Jordan team responded enthusiastically to the invitation. “We were excited!” says Jordan First Ward’s Kim Lolani about the joint practice. “We wanted to get rid of any negativity.”
Her teammate Marie Aini explains, “When we practiced together we bonded and got to know each other. Last year we didn’t hit it off because we judged too quickly.”
The Western Hills young women said they enjoyed playing with the Jordan girls because their attitudes were positive. “I really liked playing with the Jordan team because they wouldn’t get mad at each other,” says Western Hills’ Jessica Ramirez. “Regardless of who won or lost, it wasn’t a big deal, because we had fun.”
Another Western Hills young woman, Martha Rojas, noticed the Jordan girls’ example of good sportsmanship. “Even though they lost sometimes, they were still really happy. They had fun the whole time. When we lost a game, we didn’t look as happy as the Jordan girls. I learned from them.”
The positive example the teams set for each other resonated with everyone. Jessica says, “A lot of the time there have been problems with other teams we’ve played, and people get angry with each other. Attitudes aren’t always great.” But when these two teams got together, they focused on the positive and fostered an environment of healthy and encouraging competition.
The girls learned that competition doesn’t have to be negative and that with good sportsmanship, competition can motivate them to play better. Sara Pena, the Western Hills coach, has noticed that healthy competition can bring out the best in the players. “Playing your best can help athletes grow in their own talent and achieve something,” she says. “Competition isn’t about seeing if you’re better than someone else. It’s about seeing where your diligence and strength will take you.”
The Jordan team agrees that attitude makes the difference between healthy and negative competitiveness. Marie says, “Together as a group, we decided that being too competitive isn’t fun.”
Kim agrees. “We shouldn’t take the game too seriously. We like to make each other laugh instead.”
The girls helped each other improve by teaching each other new skills. When Jael Blanco first started playing with the Western Hills team, she didn’t know how to play volleyball very well, but Coach Pena taught her the rules and encouraged her to keep trying. “Sometimes when I play a new sport, I feel like people care only about winning,” says Jael. “It’s not as much fun, because really I just want to learn. Sara taught me how to play volleyball, but she also taught me how to have fun with it.”
After the joint practice, the two teams faced each other in the championship match. Kathy says, “The Western Hills girls weren’t the enemy anymore. They were just people—friends—and it wasn’t intimidating. It was a completely different feeling playing that last game.”
The girls were cheering for their own teams, but the game wasn’t laced with tension like the previous year’s had been. The Jordan team won in a reversal from last year’s championship, but a more significant reversal took place. More than caring about which team won, this year the girls celebrated athletic skill and a good game.
After Jordan’s win, the Western Hills ward approached the Jordan ward and suggested a joint Mutual activity. The Western Hills ward is a Spanish-speaking ward, and many of the young women from Jordan have Polynesian heritage, so they decided to organize a cultural exchange night, where they could share aspects of their different cultures.
The Jordan First Ward hosted the activity, and each ward brought food from their cultures. Once the activity started, it was hard to tell which girl was in which ward. “We didn’t sit with our own wards. We all spread out and were meeting new people. I ended up hanging out with the Jordan girls at the cultural exchange night more than the girls from my own ward,” Martha says.
Jessica adds, “We mingled with everyone and also got along with all the leaders. Everyone was laughing and busy making new friends.”
These volleyball players know that attitude is integral in sportsmanship. Marie says, “Whatever attitude you choose to have before a game you take out with you onto the court.” She also says that it’s important to have a positive attitude not only with your own teammates but also with your opponents.
For these two volleyball teams, winning doesn’t depend on the score. These girls know that they score the most points when they step outside of themselves, make friends, and radiate a positive attitude.

A few years ago we visited my mom’s friend in Texas. While visiting their family, their youngest child became sick. That night, I knelt down with her sister and explained how to pray. We prayed that her little sister would feel better. The next day she was feeling much better. I’m so glad we prayed for her to get better. My mom said she was proud of me for teaching my friend how I pray to Heavenly Father.

Lindy burst through the front door. “Mom, I’m home! No more school for the rest of the week, and tomorrow is Thanksgiving!”

Mom smiled and gave her a big hug. That’s when Lindy noticed Dad and her older sisters sitting in the family room.

“Hi, Dad,” Lindy said. “Are you home early because of the holiday?”

“No, sweetheart. Come here and give me a hug, and then I’ll tell you all my news.” Dad smiled calmly. “I lost my job today. I know that’s a little scary, but I’ve already started to work on finding a new one. It may take a while, so we have to be patient and trust in the Lord.”

Lindy’s oldest sister Rebekah started to cry. “Will we have to move?” she asked through her tears.

“I’m going to try to find a new job here first,” Dad said.

“But even if we do end up having to move, remember the last time we moved?” Mom said. “We found great friends and activities here that we didn’t have before. The most important thing is that we go where the Lord wants us to go.”

“That’s right,” Dad said. “We’ll pray for the Lord to guide us, and we can talk about our choices as a family. I think right now the best thing we can do is have a family prayer.”

During the prayer Lindy felt a little better, but she was still scared. She thought a lot about her school, friends, neighborhood, and home.

The next day family and friends came over for Thanksgiving dinner. Most of the adults told Dad they would talk to people at work and see if there were jobs available. Lindy felt good to know there were so many people who cared about them and wanted to help, but she was still worried.

After their guests left, Lindy asked Dad if she could talk to him for a minute. “Are we going to have to leave our house since we don’t have any more money to pay for it?”

“Oh, Lindy,” Dad said, “you don’t have to worry about that. We have money put aside so we can pay for our house until I get a new job.”

A few days later, Lindy went into the room where Mom was ironing clothes. “Mom, you know how we’ve been eating leftovers every night? Well, I was just wondering if that was because … well, because Dad’s not working now.”

“You mean you wonder if we can’t go to the store to buy new food?”

Lindy nodded, looking at the ground.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Mom said, “we have money for food. We just have lots of leftovers from Thanksgiving dinner. Don’t worry—we will have money for food until Dad gets a new job.”

That night both Mom and Dad came to tuck Lindy into bed. “Lindy, how are you feeling now? Are you still worried?” Mom asked.

“I don’t know. My stomach feels sort of sick. It just feels strange.”

“Lindy, we don’t want you to worry about anything,” Dad said. “Do you remember our food storage in the basement?”

Lindy nodded.

“We have that because we obeyed the prophet when he told us to be prepared. And he didn’t just tell us to prepare by storing food—he told us to get a good education, put money into savings, and prepare spiritually to feel the Lord’s direction in our lives. We have tried hard to do all those things, so we’re prepared for a time like this.”

Lindy looked up at her dad. “Did the prophet really say all those things?”

Mom nodded. “When the prophet warned us to put our houses in order, Dad and I decided to follow his counsel. We don’t spend all the money Dad gets paid. We save some of the money every month for an emergency like this. We haven’t borrowed money to buy things we can’t afford.”

“So here’s our emergency, and we’re ready because we obeyed the prophet,” Dad said. He smiled. “Now we need to listen to the Spirit and trust in the Lord to keep guiding us.”

For the first time, Lindy started to relax. Her stomach didn’t feel strange anymore. She remembered the family home evening they’d had a few weeks before Thanksgiving, when they had talked about things they were grateful for. Even though a sad thing had happened since then, she was even more grateful!

“Dad and Mom, I didn’t really think about how the prophet helps us until now,” she said. “I’m glad you listened to him. I’m not going to worry anymore.”

Dad tucked Lindy’s blankets around her, and Mom sang to her while she snuggled into her bed. She fell asleep hoping it would snow so she and her sisters could build a snowman.

Quietly the ten-year-old girl tiptoed toward the big oak tree. Her bare feet stepped lightly on freshly fallen leaves. A twig snapped. The girl stopped a moment, hoping the boy on the other side of the tree had not heard. There was no sound.
The girl moved closer. Soon she stood beside the boy and, without warning, grabbed the slate shingle he held in his lap.
“Hey, what—”
Before the boy could say another word, Sarah Lincoln waved the shingle high in the air. “Look at this, everyone,” she teased. “This is my worthy brother and his shingle for writing. You ask what my worthy brother is worth? Why, look at his shingle. He has written his name again and again. Surely he must fancy he is worth a giant treasure.”
Eight-year-old Abe jumped up and grabbed his shingle board. “You are always teasing!” he scolded. “You might do well to practice your own writing.”
Sarah laughed. “If I did, I’d write something better than my name—or yours. Vanity brings pain, dear brother.”
Still smiling, she ran off into the Kentucky woods. Abe sat down again, looking at his name on the shingle board.
“That Sarah,” he said to himself. “She’ll always be a tease.”
Sarah Lincoln was born on February 10, 1807. Two years and two days later, on February 12, 1809, her brother Abraham was born.
There was always much to do around the Lincoln cabin at Knob Creek. Thomas Lincoln was a farmer and carpenter. His wife Nancy Hanks Lincoln took care of the duties of the home and raising the children. As a young girl, Sarah soon learned to cook, clean, and sew. She helped gather berries in the woods and washed the family’s clothing.
At the Knob Creek School, Sarah was an eager pupil. As in most schools of that time, pupils spoke their lessons aloud while the schoolmaster carefully listened to them. Often Sarah shared her pride in young Abe. “He’s the brightest pupil in the class,” she told her parents. “I’m sure the schoolmaster thinks so too.”
Sarah was ten when her father moved the family west to Indiana. Once again the Lincoln cabin was near a creek. It offered a place to fish and swim, and the nearby woods were a perfect spot for hide-and-seek and other games.
When their mother became ill, Sarah took over most of the home chores and provided loving comfort and care for her mother until she died. She was buried on an Indiana hillside near their cabin where Sarah, Abe, and their father knelt quietly in prayer.
It was no easy task keeping a clean cabin for a grown man and a boy of ten. Although Sarah did her best, it was too much for a twelve-year-old girl.
Thomas Lincoln went to Kentucky once more, and when he returned he brought a new wife. Sarah Bush Johnston Lincoln was a widow with three children. Quickly she accepted Sarah and Abe as her own. Again there was laughter in the Lincoln cabin.
One night after supper, seventeen-year-old Sarah stood up at the table. “Aaron Grigsby has asked me to become his wife,” she said softly.
The announcement was happily received. Aaron Grigsby was a hard-working farmer known for his good character. The marriage took place in the Pigeon Creek Church that Sarah’s father had helped build.
A year later Sarah was expecting a baby. “So I shall be Uncle Abraham,” her younger brother boasted. “What a fine sound that title has!”
Then tragedy struck. Sarah and her baby both died during childbirth. Stunned by the loss, Abe could not bring himself to talk about his sister for a long time.
After he became president, Abraham Lincoln was asked about his childhood. “What happy memories do you have of your early years?” asked one newspaper reporter.
President Lincoln sat back in his chair. “We had little money in our home,” he answered, “but there was much joy and love. My kind and loving sister Sarah and I shared many wonderful adventures. Her years upon this earth were few. Yet my happiest memories are of the little time we had together. She was truly a loving sister and a very special friend.”

During World War II, a friend of mine was serving in the South Pacific when his plane was shot down over the ocean. He and the other crew members successfully parachuted from the burning plane, inflated their life rafts, and clung to those rafts for three days.

On the third day they spotted what they knew to be a rescue vessel. It passed them by. The next morning it passed them by again. They began to despair as they realized that this was the last day the rescue vessel would be in the area.

Then the Holy Spirit spoke to my friend: “You have the priesthood. Command the rescuers to pick you up.”

He did as prompted: “In the name of Jesus Christ and by the power of the priesthood, turn about and pick us up.”

Within a few minutes the vessel was beside them, helping them on deck. A faithful and worthy bearer of the priesthood, in his extremity, had exercised that priesthood, blessing his life and the lives of others.

I remember when I was young and leaving home for service in the U.S. Navy. My grandmother cautioned me that the Spirit of the Lord would not go with me into places where evil was. That fact was verified for me many times as my duties required that I be in places where evil ruled in the hearts of men. We, that is, our spirits recoil from evil, at least we recoil until we become so used to its presence that we lose our ability to be shocked by it, and in fact, become insensitive to its presence.

Goodness can be sensed just as evil, but because it is not shocking or traumatic, it is easier for us not to notice it. Yet goodness is powerful, more powerful than evil. Goodness is holy. It feels so good to be honest. And do we not all know the sweet relief which comes from being forgiven? Forgiveness is godly. Repentance is a major principle of the gospel of Jesus Christ, for it cleanses us and puts our spirits in tune with that which is good once again. Inevitably goodness witnesses of Jesus Christ, and our testimonies of eternal truths are strengthened.

For example, the witness of the truth of the Book of Mormon came to me as a young man because I developed the desire to be protected from evil by a shield of goodness. It was during World War II. I was a young sailor assigned to the Anacostia Naval Airbase in Washington, D.C.

One of my jobs was to help make training films identifying shapes and outlines of enemy ships and airplanes. These films were made in a large, barnlike structure containing a big flat stage and filled with models and outlines and forms and other devices.

Most of the time we were very busy, but there came a time toward the end of the war when we went for weeks without an assignment. Eventually, all the other personnel on this job were assigned to other tasks, but for some reason, I was left alone in the building, I guess to guard the equipment.

At first, I enjoyed my freedom. It was great to have nothing to do. All the electricity in the building was turned off with the exception of one outlet into which was plugged a small lamp, which sat on the corner of a table. There was a hard wooden chair where I could sit if I cared to. All the rest of the great building was in darkness. So for a few days I opened the door to the outside light and sat in the doorway on the old chair and thoroughly enjoyed myself. But before long I became immensely bored.

I had been raised in the Church by careful parents who had taught me the gospel, but I had never read the Book of Mormon completely through for myself. One day as I sat idle, I decided that this was an opportune time for me to read it. So that afternoon I brought my small serviceman’s Book of Mormon from my room and, desiring privacy, went inside the building and turned on the little light by the table and began to read. I remember how I was struck by those first words, “I, Nephi, having been born of goodly parents. …” (1 Ne. 1:1.)

As the days went by, I read every word. My soul, programmed as it was to goodness and truth, began to respond to the testimonies of the prophets. I had never had such an experience! I read slowly, prayerfully, savoring every word, wishing that it would never end. I had feelings in my heart that I had never been conscious of before. And when at last I read the admonition of Moroni at the end of the book, I felt a great desire in my heart to test his words, to ask for spiritual verification even greater than what I was then feeling. I remember shutting the doors of that vast building and locking myself in, then kneeling in the darkness on the cold cement floor, my forehead resting against the hard wooden seat of the old chair, and telling the Lord that I believed the words of Moroni, and asking him to strengthen my belief into knowledge.

I shall never forget what happened; I have felt it many times since. I became aware that I was surrounded by a power beyond myself, which came over me and through me. It was all around me, calm, clear, and indescribably powerful. It seemed white and delicious to me, like the fruit of the Tree of Life which Nephi told of. (See 1 Ne. 8:15.) It filled me completely and did not leave me for days after. It was not shocking or disturbing in any way, as is the power of evil, but was sweet and assuring to my soul. I knew that the book was true.

I was applying to colleges in 2015, the year before the 2016 Olympics. I was trying to find a college team that would allow me, a disabled swimmer, to train with them in preparation for Rio. Immediately after submitting each application, I would email the head coach of the swim team and give them a short bio and explain that I wanted to train with them. Then I would receive an email back wishing me luck but saying they just did not have the ability to work with me.

My family and I started praying and fasting that I would find a team that would train me. Eventually, a friend told me to apply to Stanford University because the head coach of the women’s team was eager to work with Paralympians. I did apply, just as an excuse to talk to the coach and pick his brain. I was so surprised when I actually got in to Stanford. Just a few minutes after receiving an email telling me that I got in, the head coach emailed me and said he would like to work with me to train for the Rio Paralympics. It was a little miracle!