Gospel Story Finder

Massa Moseray (in white blouse) is a single parent and the breadwinner for seven dependents all living in Kissy Stake. Massa returned from her full-time mission just at the end of the Sierra Leone civil war. Due to this circumstance, there were very limited opportunities for her development. Massa was recommended by her stake leadership to join the Start My Business pilot group. She was able to raise SLL 180,000 during the group’s pilot activity which was used as seed money for her business.

Tran Van Thah was so excited and so happy that only the seat belt kept him from jumping up and down right in the car. He was in America at last, the real America—Camp Pendleton didn’t count. That had been just one step in their long journey and no more the real America than was the jet flight from Saigon.
Seated between his mother and his grandmother on the back seat of their sponsor’s car, he was speeding along the highway on his way to a new home and a new life. He was well aware that their being here was not all luck. It was because of his father’s skill as a construction worker that Mr. Hudson had decided to be their sponsor. It also helped that they could all speak English.
“That’s the Columbia River, Thah,” Mr. Hudson explained.
“Yes, sir,” Thah answered.
“I’ve read about the great Columbia. It is even mightier than I pictured it.”
Thah’s father laughed. “When a Red Cross worker at Camp Pendleton asked Thah what he needed, he said, ‘A book about the Pacific Northwest.’ He got it, too, and read it from cover to cover.”
Thah wanted to ask whether the many boats on the river were for fishing or for pleasure. But the two men were talking about construction now and he couldn’t interrupt. It was a beautiful June afternoon with not a cloud in the blue sky, and there were flowers everywhere, even on the trees. The car soon turned onto a long bridge. Thah saw ships below him and a white-peaked mountain etched against the distant sky. “Mt. Hood,” he said softly.
Mr. Hudson heard him. “That’s right, son. And now you’re in the state of Washington.”
Mr. Hudson left the bridge, drove through a small city, and stopped by a little white house. “I hope you’ll be comfortable here,” he said, unlocking the front door and handing the key to Father. He showed Thah how to turn a dial on the wall to bring in heat. He told Mother that there was food in the kitchen. “I’ll pick you up in the morning,” he said to Father. “We’ll take Thah to school and then I’ll show you our layout. You’re registered in the seventh grade at junior high, Thah. Are you all set to go tomorrow?”
“I am most eager to go,” Thah answered, bowing politely.
Thah turned up the heat, and Mother and Grandmother prepared the evening meal—good, dry rice with luscious bits of meat and vegetables stir-fried in oil. Grandmother even unpacked the chopsticks so they no longer had to jab their mouths with sharp forks.
That night Thah fell asleep, warm and full for the first time in many weeks and looking forward to his new American school. When morning came, however, he felt less confident. Will my classmates like me? he wondered. Will I be able to do the lessons?
Mr. Hudson led the way to the office of the principal, who was expecting them. “I’m glad you came to our school, Thah,” he said. The boy and his father bowed low.
“I’m honored, sir,” replied Thah, hoping that his voice didn’t betray his feelings.
As the morning wore on, Thah came to several conclusions about American schools: the teachers were kind, the work was easy, the students were noisy, and the halls were endless. He no sooner became interested in a class when a bell would ring, and everyone would jump up and hurry to another classroom, without so much as bowing to the teacher. He was dizzy from consulting his class card and looking for room numbers. The building was huge and the students were so tall that he felt lost in a forest of giants. Long before noon he became hungry.
At last a louder and longer bell sounded, and students stampeded from every door, nearly knocking him over. “Hello, Thah,” said a friendly voice above him. “I’m Kent Jones, your big brother.” Thah looked up at a smiling red-haired boy with a sprinkling of brown freckles across his nose. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here to show you around. The dentist kept me two hours longer than I counted on. Come on, let’s go to lunch.”
Thah liked Kent. It is a good idea for a school to find big brothers for new boys, he thought. Thah was so hungry that he even liked the strange American food in the cafeteria. “You didn’t get anything to drink,” said Kent when they had found a place to sit. “What would you like?”
“Something very cold, please,” Thah answered. “I am so thirsty.”
“Okay,” said Kent. “I’ll see what I can do.” A few minutes later, he was back with a cup of ice-cold water. “Got it from the teachers’ dining room. Your good manners really made a hit with them. They’d give you anything.”
After lunch, Kent said they would go outside for PE. Thah was glad they would be together, but he wondered what PE meant. Later he decided that the P was for play. The E remained a mystery. They went outside and played a game with a small hard ball and a club called a bat. The object was to hit the ball hard and run fast. Thah was a fast runner, but they wouldn’t let him run until he hit the ball, and he could never hit the ball. It was the most frustrating experience of the day. He was on the verge of tears when he heard a piercing whistle, and the boys started back inside. Kent didn’t go. “The coach wants to see us,” he explained.
Now the master is approaching, Thah worried. Will I be expelled for failing to hit the ball? Will I be sent to the primary school in disgrace, to study with the little children? “I’m so sorry, Mr. Coach,” he said, bowing, “that I’m such a bad PE player.”
“Don’t feel bad,” the coach responded. “I’ll put you in another class for now. Practice up at home, and when you’re ready to play, let me know.”
That evening while the family ate supper in their warm house, Father told about his day in the construction business. Mother and Grandmother told about their trip to the food store and how nice it was to get all the soiled clothes washed and ironed. Thah could hardly wait for the others to finish so Father would say, “Well, Thah, how was your day at school?”
When his turn finally came, he told all about failing to hit the ball. “Will you please help me, Father? Will you practice with me until I am good enough to get back in the game?”
Every evening after supper Father and Thah went to a vacant lot to practice. Father threw the ball, but not too hard, and finally Thah was able to hit it. At the end of the week he hardly ever missed. “Maybe soon I can tell Mr. Coach I’m ready for the game,” Thah declared.
“Tell him tomorrow,” said Father. “If you hit that ball any harder, it will land in Saigon.”
Some of the boys snickered when Thah came out with Kent for PE the next day. “Here comes the champ!” called one.
“You’re supposed to hit the ball,” teased another, “not just wave the bat in the air.”
“Cool it, you guys,” shouted Kent with anger in his voice, and they were quiet. Thah didn’t care. He knew he could hit the ball and hit it hard. He could hardly wait for his turn at bat. In the meantime he watched closely to find out where to run. Finally he was given the bat. On the first throw he hit the ball a mighty blow and ran to first base.
“Run! Run! Run!” yelled all the boys and the coach. Thah ran to the next base and the next. They kept on shouting and cheering for him. “Run home! Run home!”
Thah hesitated. Are they teasing me again? he wondered. You can’t run home in time of school.
“Run home! Run home!” called the coach, and Thah did. He ran all the way, stopping breathless at his own front door. It is a half holiday they gave me, he decided, for hitting the ball so hard.
He tried the front door. It was locked. So was the back door. Mother and Grandmother had gone shopping. Thah sat down on the steps to wait. How proud they’ll be of me! He sat there until he was hungry. This must be the day that Mrs. Hudson invited Mother and Grandmother to lunch, he remembered. He still had his lunch money. He would just go down to Burgerville to eat.
Thah carried his shrimp burger and paper cup of orange drink to one of the outdoor tables. It reminded him of the sidewalk cafes in Saigon. A mother with four children sat at a table, but most people ate in their cars. Presently a police officer walked over with his lunch and a drink. “Mind if I sit here, son?” he asked.
“I would be honored,” said Thah.
The officer sat down and unwrapped his sandwich. He looked at Thah and then looked at his watch. “You wouldn’t be playing hooky, would you?” he asked.
“I’ve never heard of that game, sir. Is it anything like baseball?”
“Well, the two could go together,” replied the officer, smiling. “Is school out early today?”
“School is still in session. I just won a half holiday.”
“For perfect attendance all year?”
“Oh, no, I haven’t been here that long.” Thah knew he should never boast, but the officer was so interested that he couldn’t help telling him the whole story. “I once won a half-holiday in Saigon for conjugating the most French verbs, but they didn’t make me run home. They let me ride my bicycle like I always did. Do you know why they made me run?”
The officer almost choked on his drink and had to wipe his mouth with a paper napkin. Thah could see genuine laughter in his eyes, not derisive laughter like the boys in the game.
“Yes, I know why,” he said at last. “I’ll tell you while we ride back to school to get your bike.”
“I had to leave my bicycle in Saigon,” Thah explained. “Will you please tell me anyway?”
“It’s like this,” said the officer, spreading out Thah’s napkin and drawing a baseball diamond on it with a gold pen. He explained what strikes, bases, hits, fouls, outs, and home runs meant.
“I made a mistake,” gasped Thah. “It wasn’t a half holiday. I am a truant. Please take me back so I can explain.”
“Let me explain first,” said the officer. And he did on a little telephone right in his patrol car. “And anyone who laughs at Thah gets thrown in the jug,” he warned before he hung up. Thah knew that was a joke and he could guess that jug was an American word for prison. Best of all he knew that he had made a hit with his new American friend who would go to bat for him any time.

On Church assignment in Hawaii, Sister Wirthlin and I visited the island of Molokai. As we walked back to our car after laboring up a trail in the mountains, we came upon a young man headed toward the overlook. I offered a polite greeting. From his answer, I could tell he was from Germany.
His countenance bespoke a sincere heart and an approachable personality. I spoke his language and knew something of his culture, having served a German-speaking mission. The Spirit prompted me to introduce the gospel to him. However, other people around us interrupted our brief encounter without my having said a word about the restored gospel of Jesus Christ. I failed to be the missionary that every member of the Savior’s Church ought to be.
As we drove away, I had the disturbing feeling that I had failed in my duty to proclaim the gospel. I was troubled while we drove around the island to see Molokai’s beautiful waterfalls. As we got out of our car, another car drove up and stopped. The young man we had seen earlier stepped out, smiled, and gave me a warm handshake. As I grasped his outstretched hand, I thought to myself, This time I will do my duty.
We introduced ourselves, and I learned he was a university student in a small city south of Düsseldorf, Germany. We spoke of my fond memories of Germany and of my admiration for the German people. Speaking of my work in Europe gave me an ideal opportunity to explain some of the basics of the gospel. As we parted, I asked for his address and telephone number, which he gladly shared. I felt he was truly a newfound friend.
Upon my return to Salt Lake City, I wrote to the Germany Düsseldorf Mission and asked President John F. Charles to send missionaries to continue the gospel discussion. I don’t believe my wife and I met this young man twice by coincidence.
But the Lord doesn’t always give us a second chance to share the gospel. I failed to follow the Spirit the first time the still, small voice unmistakably spoke to my heart and mind. I may not have had another opportunity, but the Lord graciously gave it to me.
We must act when the Spirit speaks. When I did, the young man responded positively to my message. It wasn’t really my message. It was God’s, brought to my mind by the Spirit of the Lord. I was but an instrument in the Lord’s hands.

Early one Sunday in La Paz, Bolivia, a young family sets out to walk the steep, cobblestone streets of the 450-year-old city to attend a ward in a distant part of their stake. The husband is stake Young Men president; his wife, the stake Young Women president. Lacking bus fare, they make their way on foot, a trip that takes two hours with young children in tow. Their two-hour trip to church is an example of the faithfulness of Bolivian Latter-day Saints who are embracing the joys of dedicated gospel living.

Another time—it was the Sunday before Thanksgiving, about 1943—I went to priesthood meeting. There was a large framed board. It had the pictures of all the young men serving in the military. Priests who had been at the sacrament table a few months earlier were now in the war. Each week it would be updated. Those who were killed in action had a gold star by their picture; those who had been wounded, a red star; and those missing in action, a white star. Every week, as a 12-year-old deacon, I checked to see who had been killed or wounded.

In quorum meeting that morning, the member of the bishopric said: “This Thursday is Thanksgiving. We ought to all have family prayer in our homes.” Then he said, “Let’s put on the blackboard the things we are grateful for.” We did, and he said, “Include these things in your Thanksgiving prayer.” I got sick to my stomach, as we never had a prayer or blessing.

That night at 6:30 we went to sacrament meeting. At the end of the meeting, the bishop stood up and was very tender. He told about the young men from our ward who had been killed and wounded. He talked about our liberty, our freedom, our flag, and this great country, and our blessings. Then he said, “I’d hope every single family would kneel and have family prayer on Thanksgiving Day and thank God for His blessings.”

My heart ached. I thought, How can we have family prayer? I wanted to be obedient. I hardly slept all Sunday night. I wanted to have a prayer for Thanksgiving. I even thought I would say it if someone asked me, but I was too shy to volunteer. I worried all day Monday, and all day Tuesday, and Wednesday at school.

Dad did not come home on Wednesday until early in the morning. Thursday we all got up. There were five boys and two sisters. We skipped breakfast so we would have a real appetite for Thanksgiving dinner. To work up an appetite, we went to a nearby field and dug a hole six feet deep and six feet wide. We made a trench to it as a hideout. I remember with every shovelful of dirt, I thought, Please, Heavenly Father, let us have a prayer.

Finally at 2:30, my mother called us to come and eat. We cleaned up and sat at the table. Somehow Mom had managed to have a turkey with all the trimmings. She put all the food on the table, including the turkey. I thought my heart would burst. Time was running out. I looked at my father, then my mother. I thought, Please, now, someone, anyone, please can’t we have a prayer. I was almost panicky; then all of a sudden everyone started to eat. I had worked hard all morning and afternoon to work up an appetite, but I wasn’t hungry. I didn’t want to eat. I wanted to pray more than anything else in this world, and it was too late.

Beloved youth, be grateful for parents who have prayer and read the scriptures. Prize family home evening. Be grateful for those who teach and train you.

May I share with you an experience I had many years ago in the southern area of the United States when, after a stake conference, a woman came forward and asked, “Do you know Elder Delbert L. Stapley?” I replied that he and I were Apostles of the Lord, serving together in the Master’s work. She then handed me a copy of the Book of Mormon which contained an inscription and the signature of Delbert L. Stapley. She indicated the volume had been given to her grandmother when Elder Stapley was a young missionary. She added, “Could you present this book to Elder Stapley and tell him hundreds of my grandmother’s descendants have been converted by this volume; and they, in turn, conveyed the message of the Book of Mormon to others.”
I presented that signed copy of the Book of Mormon to Elder Stapley. He listened attentively when I explained where and how it had been given to me. Quietly he examined his signature and said, “This is one of the happiest days of my life.”

“And what do Mormons believe about marriage?” my high school Spanish teacher asked me.
All of my classmates turned in their seats, listening for my answer. I gulped as I wondered how our class discussion had wandered from Don Quixote and Dulcinea to dating and marriage.
There wasn’t another member of the Church in the class. What should I say? How much detail should I give? Would everyone make fun of me if I talked about eternal marriage?
“We, uh … ,” I stammered, still uncertain what to say.
Just then, my friend Denise came to my rescue. “Mormons have a beautiful view of marriage,” she said. “They believe that marriages performed in their temples can last forever.”
“That is beautiful,” our teacher replied. Even my classmates seemed satisfied.
With that, class resumed and I was left wondering why I had been sweating over a question that my nonmember friend answered so easily.
As more people hear about the Church, Latter-day Saints will have more opportunities to answer questions about the gospel. In high school, I learned that we don’t have to give long answers, and we don’t have to be afraid. The beautiful, simple doctrines of the gospel speak for themselves.

When my dear wife returned home to our Heavenly Father, it was necessary for our family to find a suitable grave site. In doing so, I faced opposition when I wanted to have the term resting place included on the gravestone. The term did not meet the cemetery management’s policy.
Thus ensued a tenacious struggle. At one point the minister of the church to which the cemetery grounds belonged asked about the term. I was able to bear my testimony that I believe in the literal resurrection of the body, quoting the Savior: “All that are in the graves shall hear his voice, and shall come forth; they that have done good, unto the resurrection of life” (John 5:28–29). I testified that this grave is a sacred resting place for us until the Resurrection.
Then the minister made an inspired suggestion: “Have the following words inscribed on the gravestone: ‘The Bohne and Lehmann families are resting here in anticipation of the Resurrection.’ ” So it was done. And with that, my testimony was chiseled in stone.

Another part of Elder Taylor’s prophecy likewise was quickly fulfilled. The Olympus had just entered the terrible Irish Sea when harsh headwinds whipped huge waves against the wooden vessel day and night. For three weeks many of the passengers were tossed-about and seasick, “suffering intensely from the distressing affliction.” Finally, when a calm day brought relief, the passengers felt the worst part of their voyage was behind them. But Captain Wilson’s trained eyes, making a careful survey of the horizon, spotted a rapidly approaching cloud. At first it was no bigger than a man’s hat, but it swelled and spread at an alarming rate.

Quickly the captain gathered both shifts of the crew on deck and ordered all sails immediately shortened. He allowed Brother Nowers and a 20-year-old carpenter from Dover, England, Edmund Fuller, to stay on deck and help the crew. (Later in the voyage Mr. Fuller fell in love with a Mormon girl, Adelaide Jelley, and he joined the Church and married her in St. Louis, Missouri.)

The sails were just hauled in and secured, and passengers gathered below deck, when the new storm struck the ship full force. The Olympus trembled and reeled “like a drunkard.” The violent wind snapped the foremast off and carried it overboard. Several men nearly went overboard with the broken mast, which hanging, by the ship’s side, had to be cut loose from its stays with axes. Torrents of wind and water cracked the mainmast at the deck.

Thrown on her side the Olympus became unmanageable. Into a fearfully dark night the ship struggled, battered by hurricane winds. Seams of the vessel cracked, letting water seep into the bottom of the ship.

Two hours after the storm began, about 8:00 P.M., four feet of water had poured into the hold and the ship’s pumps were started. Above, knee-deep waters rushed over the decks, causing Brother Nowers and Mr. Fuller to lash themselves to the pumps they were operating to keep from being washed overboard. Hour after hour the storm raged. And the Olympus took on more and more water.

By midnight the captain, crew, and men on deck were despondent because the storm showed no signs of abating. Brother Nowers heard the captain order Second Mate Hamilton to go below deck and tell the Mormon’s president, Elder Howell, that “if the God of the Mormons can do anything to save the ship and the people, they had better be calling on him to do so.” The captain confessed that despite the crew’s best efforts the Olympus was sinking at the rate of 30 centimeters per hour and that by daylight it would be on the bottom of the sea unless the storm ceased

The second mate asked Brother Nowers to accompany him below to deliver the message to the Mormons. As soon as the crashing waves allowed the two messengers unbarred the companionway and went below. They found Elder Howell in his bed and told him the captain’s appeal.

The Mormon leader answered calmly. “You may tell Captain Wilson that we are not going to the bottom of the ocean for we embarked from Liverpool on a voyage for New Orleans, Louisiana, and we will arrive safely in that port. Our God will protect us.” Mr. Hamilton returned to the deck and gave Captain Wilson the Mormons’ answer.

Brother Nowers, dripping wet, could not help noticing the absolute chaos below deck. Everywhere unsecured trunks and packages rolled and skidded from one side to the other as the ship swayed and rolled. Some passengers were crying. Others prayed. Others simply waited.

President Howell quickly arose, dressed, and called about a dozen brethren, including new convert Wilson Nowers, to his side. The leader instructed that each man in the circle take a turn to pray vocally that the Lord would spare the vessel. Elder Howell prayed last.

“While he was still engaged in prayer,” Brother Nowers said, “I noticed a significant change in the motion of the ship.” Instead of rolling and tossing, the Olympus “seemed to tremble as one suffering from the effects of a severe cold.” He could not believe the ship was sinking. But he also could not believe that the storm had so suddenly ceased.

After the final hearty “amen” President Howell sent the prayer circle members back to bed. Brother Nowers, however, returned to his pumping duties on deck. There, astonished, he found that “the storm had miraculously ceased; the wind had gone down, and the waves were stilled close around the ship, while in the distance the billows were still raging.” The Olympus trembled at so sudden a change.

Pumping continued until daylight. When the Sabbath day finally dawned, clear and bright, Captain Wilson admitted that he had done all he could do before calling on the Mormons and that only God’s hand had saved the sinking ship.

Have you ever made a mistake? Have you ever felt sorry about something that you have done? Here is a true story of a responsible boy named Travis. He learned that being accountable for his actions by repenting made him feel good about himself.
1. Travis was having fun playing with Matt’s toys. He wished that they were his own.
2. I’ll borrow them, he thought, putting several toys into his pocket without asking Matt.
3. When Travis played with the toys in his bedroom at home, it wasn’t much fun.
4. His mother asked him why he was unhappy.
5. Travis told his mother that he had borrowed Matt’s toys without asking and that now he felt awful about it.
6. “It is wrong to take something that belongs to someone else,” said Travis’s mother. “What will make it right?”
7. “I’ll feel better if Matt has his toys back,” said Travis. “Will you take them to him for me?”
8. “No, I can’t repent for you,” Mother replied. “You are sorry, and you need to take the toys back yourself.”
9. “I’m afraid to tell Matt the truth. Maybe he’ll be mad at me.”
10. “Maybe he will,” said Mother, “but taking the toys back and telling Matt that you are sorry will take away the bad feeling that you have for your mistake.”
11. “Matt, here are your toys. I’m sorry that I took them without asking,” said Travis. “I won’t do it again.”
12. “I’m glad that you brought them back,” said Matt. “You really are a good friend.”
13. “I’m glad that I told the truth and made things right,” Travis said with a smile.

For instance, as soon as I returned from a four-day Scout camping trip recently, my wife said she needed to talk. I was completely exhausted and couldn’t concentrate on anything. I might have tried to listen to her until I fell asleep. I might have complained about her not being sensitive to my need for sleep. But, I decided to let her know that I appreciated her need to share her experiences with me, but I was so tired I knew I would be a poor listener. We agreed on a specific time the next day when we would talk—and we did.

I believe if we respond to our responsibilities, our rights will take care of themselves—for male or female. As I was supporting my husband through his studies for his degree at Yale University, our neighbor who was doing his residency in psychiatry commented one day that I was showing overt signs of weariness. Jeff was then not only a busy student trying to complete a four-year degree in three years but was in a stake presidency and, to help earn some extra money, taught two Institute classes at Yale and one at Amherst College, necessitating a 145 kilometers drive each way once a week. I was at home with two small babies trying to stretch the meager budget of young married students. I was also serving eagerly in the Church as a young Relief Society president. This particular neighbor, out of concern and intended helpfulness, said, “Pat, why don’t you demand your rights and forget about all this?” At that time I knew through prayer that my rights, whatever they were, had to be put in the perspective of my obligation to pursue long-range goals. I certainly never thought Jeff’s degree was only for his future. And he never thought the children belonged only to me. We were in all of this together and we didn’t waste any energy shouting about rights. That time was intense and difficult, but it lasted only three years. As a direct consequence of my supportive role then, I now have time, means, and wonderful opportunities to pursue many of my interests and talents in addition to being a wife and mother. Furthermore, I know—and love knowing—that my ultimate role and mission will always include the particular joys of providing loving and wise support to others as they fulfill their own assignments.

One of my favorite comic strips involved Lucy. As I remember it, Charlie Brown’s baseball team was in an important game—Lucy was playing right field, and a high fly ball was hit to her. The bases were loaded, and it was the last of the ninth inning. If Lucy caught the ball, her team would win. If Lucy dropped the ball, the other team would win.
As could happen only in a comic strip, the entire team surrounded Lucy as the ball came down. Lucy was thinking, “If I catch the ball, I will be the hero; if I don’t, I will be the goat.”
The ball came down, and as her teammates eagerly looked on, Lucy dropped the ball. Charlie Brown threw his glove to the ground in disgust. Lucy then looked at her teammates, put her hands on her hips, and said, “How do you expect me to catch the ball when I am worried about our country’s foreign policy?”
This was one of many fly balls Lucy dropped through the years, and she had a new excuse each time.2 While always humorous, Lucy’s excuses were rationalizations; they were untrue reasons for her failure to catch the ball.

A few years ago Jeremy Kearns and his family were on a bow hunt in the La Sal Mountains in southern Utah. One drizzly morning Jeremy and his younger brother Daniel saw a deer near their camp. They shot at it with their toy bows and arrows, then ran after it, not realizing how far from their tent they had run before they lost sight of the deer. Finally they stopped to catch their breath before starting on their walk back to camp. However, they soon realized that they were lost. All afternoon they walked and called out for help, but no one heard them. They began to be afraid. It was raining hard, and they tried to make a shelter under a big tree. They huddled together to keep warm. All night they prayed to Heavenly Father for help.
After walking for three hours the next morning, the boys saw some cows. Just then Jeremy heard a voice in his mind. He was told to follow the cow’s path to the stream, go up the stream, around the mountain, and then someone would find them there.
Jeremy and Daniel heeded this answer to their prayers, and when they reached the other side of the mountain, they heard people calling for them. Soon they were back with their family, grateful for the answer that they had received to their prayers.

Salvation Knoll, another early landmark, was so named by George B. Hobbs when he and three others were on an advance scouting party. They were lost Christmas day in 1879. They were out of provisions and they were traveling in snow and extreme cold. Thinking they might die, Brother Hobbs decided to climb a small knoll which he named Salvation Knoll.
His journal records, “This was surely Salvation Knoll, for on looking to the northeast across a spur of the Elk Mountain I discovered the Blue Mountains, about 10 miles away” (in Hole-in-the-Rock, p. 88).

The Adirondack region of central upstate New York is a land of rolling hills with lakes tucked in their pockets. In the winter, blizzards smother highways and countryside, then whisk on, leaving a skier’s paradise behind.
But by mid-January of the winter of 1980, the blizzards had still not come. What little snow had fallen stretched like a crust of dried frosting on the ground, shrinking from the sun to the shadows of the quiet, gray trees. Clouds hovered overhead but never released the hoped-for relief.
Resort operators were frantic. Skiers were disappointed. At Lake Placid, Winter Olympic stars worried about competing on runs with man-made snow. An international television audience lamented the lack of powder on the slopes.
For the young people of the Syracuse New York Stake, however, it was a time of anticipation and excitement. Each year the youth in the stake plan a Winter Weekend, and snow or no snow, they decided to hold their activity. While the Lake Placid ground crews were churning out artificial snow, youth chairmen and committees were busy churning out ideas for alternative activities in case the usual downhill skiing, snow-shoeing, and snow sculpturing had to be scrapped. They knew they were headed for the Star Lake Campus of the University of New York, and that was enough for starters. They’d make their own fun when they got there!
“On the night we arrived, it was raining like crazy,” Steve Beenfield, a 17-year-old priest in the Syracuse Second Ward, said. “But we knew there would be something fun to do anyway.” As everyone registered, chess and checkers tournaments and backgammon, Parcheesi, and other games kept those waiting occupied.
“It was cold outside, but indoors the games were nice, because we got to sit and talk and know people and find out why they believe in the Church and that they do believe in it,” said Mary Jane Morgan, a 15-year-old nonmember who accompanied her friend Sherry Jenkins of the Oneida Branch.
A letter-writing campaign was initiated, too, to encourage each participant to send a note of appreciation to his or her parents. Stationery and stamps were furnished by the youth leaders. “The letter-writing was planned as a way to let some of the kids open up communication with their parents,” said Shelley Moran, 17, chairman of the youth committee that planned the entire outing. “In fact, the whole theme of the talks and firesides seemed to be communication—how to get along with friends, parents, and Church members, how to share feelings with those you’re close to.”
The rain kept pouring. But inside the main lodge it was warm and dry and time for a dance. Chairs and tables were moved to the side of the hall, and soon the beat and the melodies chased away any blues brought on by lack of snow. Even the chaperones joined in the fun, twirling and swirling over the hardwood.
Committee members realized that their peers probably wouldn’t be eager to go straight to bed, so they planned a post-dance fireside to create a reflective mood. Bishop Parry A. Rasmusson of the Syracuse First Ward spoke about peer pressure, and Sister Gail Skinner, stake Laurel adviser, talked about maintaining quality in dating relationships. “The bishop gave some hints about avoiding negative peer pressure that I think will help me in a situation with one of my friends,” Elizabeth Chamberlain, a 16-year-old member of his ward, said.
As the young ladies filed off to the dormitory at the rear of the lodge and the young men rushed through the rain to various cabins where they were housed, the topics of the firesides were discussed over and over. Once the young people were in their bunks, only a pillow fight or two disturbed the silence until the weary young Saints succumbed to sleep.
While they were sleeping, a transformation took place outside. For the first time in weeks, flakes floated from the clouds to the hard-packed surface on the ground. It wasn’t a major storm, just enough of a flurry to build some fluff at foot level. But for the snow-starved New Yorkers, it was ample cause for celebration. When they awoke the next morning and saw powder, they could hardly rush through breakfast fast enough to get outside.
“We couldn’t believe it had really snowed,” said Susan Richards, 17, of the Syracuse First Ward. “But it sure was good to see it.”
Unfortunately, the snow wasn’t deep enough for downhill skiing or for snow sculpturing. Snowshoeing plans were abandoned; so were plans for classes about building snow structures. But every pair of cross-country skis furnished by the camp was used sometime during the day. One of the adult supervisors organized an orienteering class that sent compass watchers wandering in search of markers all through the area. Downhill sliding on toboggans, coats, sacks, plastic, and parkas marked a path down a nearby slope. And when someone found a soccer ball in a car trunk, most of the male population of the conference hurried to a local field for a marathon football match. (So what if the ball was round?)
And of course there were snowball fights. Not just run-of-the-mill skirmishes, but full-fledged attacks and counter-attacks. There was just one difficulty—the snow was too dry to pack. So instead of flinging iceballs at each other, the snowballers threw white puffs that inflicted no damage more severe than a wet face or fogged glasses.
Despite fierce headwinds, many of the conference-goers listed the skiing as their favorite activity. One group ventured out on the hard, thick Star Lake ice, thinking skiing would be simple on the level, slippery surface. Going one way, the wind almost pushed them along. Going the other, its force nearly lifted them off the ice. No matter which direction they went, a powder of ice crystals whipped through the air.
“I’m so skinny I was afraid I’d blow away,” said Karen Kerns, 14, an investigator attending the Fulton Ward. “I leaned on my poles to hold myself up and let the wind move me across the lake.”
But for Mike Dippold, a 17-year-old in the Syracuse First Ward, the football game was the highlight of the outdoor sports. “I’ve never seen such sportsmanship!” Mike said. “It was a hard-fought game, but no one got mad.”
Fred Pappa, 15, of the Fulton Ward, agreed. “I’ve been playing football for five years, and I’ve never been in a game where everyone was courteous like they were out there today. One of the counselors said it was the best game for sportsmanship he’d ever seen.”
Fred said he felt the same attitude extended to other activities of the weekend. “The camp directors always like our group,” he continued. “We take an interest in them and ask questions about what’s going on. And they’re impressed by our language and the way we act. We don’t mess everything up; we take good care of things. We’ve been coming to Star Lake for years, and the only thing ever damaged was a pillow.”
The camp director remains impressed by the young Mormons. He and his wife spent more than an hour discussing the Church with adult leaders. A Book of Mormon received during earlier visits with full-time missionaries was opened again and passages reread. During testimony meetings, he and his wife listened attentively to the sincere emotions of their teenage friends.
In between all of the outdoor sport activities, there were hot chocolate breaks and lunches, then finally dinner, and the second night featured another dance, followed by an adventure movie about John Wesley Powell’s exploration of the Colorado River.
Before the movie began, some of the youths shared their feelings about the conference, about being young Latter-day Saints in New York, about missionary work, and about families.
“It’s good to see a big group of Mormons like this and know you’re not the only one,” Elizabeth said. “At my high school there are only five of us. We hang around together, and the other kids know we’re LDS. It’s nice to have them keep an eye on me, and I keep an eye on them. There are an awful lot of temptations, so I need them. My main friends are in the Church. Our lockers are in the same area; we get together before we go home and talk things over. But here at the conference there were a lot of us. It was good to see so many others who are trying to live the standards of the Church.”
Shelley talked about the difficulties she faces being a cheerleader in her high school, as well as being one of only three young people in her ward. “It’s hard to stay involved in planning Church activities when there’s so much going on at school, too. But the Church activities are important. I rely on the other committee members in the stake to do their jobs, and they count on me to do the same.
“My friends used to tease me about being a Church member,” she continued. “But they don’t bother me anymore.” She also said that anyone she dates meets her parents first, and that she goes on a lot of group dates.
Karen said she thought writing to her parents and sharing her experiences at the conference with them was a good idea. They aren’t members of the Church, and she wanted to share some of her enjoyment with them. She was first introduced to the Church by her next-door neighbors, who invited her to a home evening, then to worship services. “Now I go to church every Sunday, even though I’m not a member yet,” she said. “I do my seminary, too. Having friends who are members has given me a place to turn for support.”
Tim Halstead, 14, of the Fulton Ward, said he had learned something by obeying the camp regulations. “If you live a rule for a day or so,” he said, “it gets easier. Once you’re used to it, it’s not so hard to do.”
Dan Barker, 14, of the Watertown Ward, said he felt closer to the others at the conference because “we had a chance to get to know each other better.”
Jackie Biggs, 17, from the Syracuse First Ward, said the discussions at the conference had helped her understand ways in which she could improve her relationship with her parents. “Sometimes it seems like lessons don’t apply, but this one did. Sometimes I forget my parents are human, too.”
Jackie’s sentiments reflected feelings a lot of others shared, both during a testimony meeting and during an early morning seminary session.
“After the seminary lesson on parent-child relationships, my mother (who, as stake Young Women president, was at the conference) told me that she loved me,” Sherry said. “My back was to her and I didn’t hear her for sure. I thought maybe I was just wishing. Then turned around and saw her.”
Mike said his brother recently left for college and his sister got married, and he didn’t realize until they were both gone how much his parents meant to him. “I’ll try to learn from them from now on instead of just brushing it off,” he said.
President Ronald L. Scholl, second counselor in the stake presidency, was so impressed by the letter-writing idea that he promised he would write home to his mother. Other adults promised to do the same thing and to express their feelings to their children as well.
Susan said that for her the best part of the conference was the testimony meeting. “Everybody grows a little closer to the Savior during a testimony meeting. And your testimony grows stronger each time you bear it,” she said.
Margo White, 15, of the Tully Branch, said she enjoyed holding seminary as a stake group. “There are only four of us in the branch seminary,” she said. “We usually have our class on Sunday.”
Jackie was a fan of the scripture chase contest. “It helps me to learn scriptures that I might not otherwise learn. I need a little bit of encouragement, and scripture chase provides it.”
Star Lake 1980 wasn’t the usual Winter Weekend for the New York Syracuse Stake. Drifts weren’t deep enough to swallow cars whole. But it seemed fairly evident to everyone there that there was the same amount, if not more, of the spirit of fellowship and learning that has made the annual affair a lasting memory in the minds of the youth of the central upstate area of New York.
The banner the non-Mormon camp director taped to the front of the lodge welcoming the Latter-day Saints to the conference seemed to indicate he enjoys having them here. And a note from an anonymous teenager, scribbled in chalk on a blackboard, let the director know that the Mormons felt the same way and that they would be back next year.
“‘Bye Star Lake,” it said. “You were great! From the LDS youth.’”

Temple Square missionaries also donate several hours each week in additional service. They volunteer at Welfare Square in Salt Lake City, where they sort used clothing for worldwide distribution to the needy, assist patrons in the bishops’ storehouse, teach English as a second language to any wishing to learn, and work in the cannery or dairy.
This experience proved useful for Sister Ilona Machinic of Vilnius, Lithuania, who met a Russian man on Temple Square. Able to speak to him in his native language, she discovered that he needed assistance and was able to call upon the resources of Welfare Square to help him. He gratefully went on his way, promising to repay the kindness of the Church somehow.

I remember one day when I was serving in the mission field under President Matthew Cowley. We arrived at the home of Brother Stewart Meha, a great and wonderful Maori man.
When it came time for the evening meal, Brother Meha stood on his front porch and shouted “Come on home for supper. Come on home for prayer.”
Soon family members came from every direction. We all assembled in his home in the big front room, in a large circle. Brother Meha was at the head of the circle, President Cowley was on his left, and I was next to President Cowley.
Brother Meha said to the little boy on his right, “You start.” I bowed my head in anticipation of the little boy’s prayer. Instead of praying, he quoted a scripture, after first reciting the chapter and verse. Then the young person next to him recited a scripture with the reference. After about four scriptures had been given, I realized that we were going around the circle, with each person quoting a different passage. One youngster started to quote one that had already been used, and he was quickly corrected.
I immediately began to think of a scripture I could quote when my turn came. I mentally polished my scripture and had no sooner silently rehearsed it when one of the young people gave that exact scripture. But I still had one in reserve. I worked a little on it, only to hear someone directly across from me quote it. I then panicked as I realized that I could not think of another scripture I could give.
My turn was coming closer and closer, and I felt tension building within me. My mind went totally blank. In my moment of greatest concern, President Cowley nudged me with his elbow, and out of the side of his mouth, said, “Quick—tell me a scripture. I can’t think of a single one to say.” I then realized that the two of us were in the same desperate situation.
At that moment it was my turn. I bravely said the first article of faith. President Cowley followed by quoting the second article of faith, and then Brother Meha prayed. When the prayer was finished, a little boy about eight years of age came over to us and said, “I guess you two guys don’t know that the Articles of Faith are not allowed in our scripture study.”
That was an excellent example to me of family prayer and how children can be taught the scriptures. Prayers do not need to be long or complicated; they need only to be simple and sincere. If we listen with faith, we will hear His answers.

When I was two years old, my father died, leaving my mother and six children. My oldest brother, Lincoln, was seventeen at the time and was still in high school.
When he graduated, Lincoln began working full time to support us. He never complained about having to work so hard at such a young age or about not being able to go to college or serve a mission, both of which he wanted so much. Lincoln was always dependable and faithful, and later in life he managed a business and served as a wonderful stake president and mission president. Many people loved him because of his character and his cheerful, gracious personality.
It was Lincoln who taught me how important it is to feel needed.

Martin was born in the United States. But then his family moved to a country in Europe called the Czech Republic. The people there spoke Czech. Martin knew some of the Czech words his Primary teacher used. He could say ahoj, which meant “hi.” But he mostly spoke English.
Martin loved his school. He had an English teacher and a Czech teacher. There was a big playroom with fun wooden toys.
One day Martin was playing with puppets when a new boy came into the classroom. The English teacher said, “This is Josef. It’s his first day of school. He doesn’t know much English yet.”
Josef had a worried look on his face. Martin thought he must be scared on his first day of school. Maybe Josef couldn’t understand the English teacher.
The teacher led Josef to a table with wooden puzzles on it. Without meaning to, Josef knocked over the whole stack of puzzles. Crash! The puzzle pieces flew everywhere! Josef looked like he might cry.
Martin wanted to tell Josef not to feel bad. It was just an accident. But Martin didn’t know how to tell him in Czech. He stopped playing with his puppets and walked over to the puzzle table. He smiled and started stacking one of the puzzles. He showed Josef how to put it back together. Soon he and Josef finished all the puzzles. They put them back on the table.
For the first time that day, Josef smiled. Martin felt very happy. He had made a new friend without saying a word.