Gospel Story Finder

Jacob Hamblin was a brave pioneer who showed his courage by always telling the truth. The Indians knew that he was fair and honest, that they could trust his word. On one occasion Jacob was confronted by twenty-four Indian warriors who believed that the Saints were responsible for the deaths of three Indians. They wanted to take Jacob’s life, but he told them that his people had not betrayed them. After eleven hours of debate, the Indians decided to settle the matter peacefully because they knew that Jacob Hamblin had never lied to them. (See Valiant B Manual, page 140.)

My dad is in the Air Force. Sometimes he has to go on trips. I don’t like it when he has to leave. One time he had to go away for two months. I was sad, and I didn’t want him to go. The morning he had to leave, I was crying. He asked me if I wanted a blessing before he left. I said yes. In the blessing, he said that if I would obey my mom, it wouldn’t seem like his trip was so long. It really worked! While he was gone, I tried my best to be a good helper, to obey my mom, and to be a peacemaker with my two brothers. My mom and dad always tell me that being a peacemaker is one of my best talents. Jesus Christ loves peacemakers. When my dad got back, it seemed like his trip wasn’t long at all.
Derek Driggs, age 6Colorado Springs, Colorado

In March, his physician told us that John had two options: (1) have a feeding tube inserted, which might sustain John’s life for a few more months but that would require him to stay mostly in bed; or (2) have John continue without the feeding tube and endure the difficulties that came with his inability to eat. The doctor said, “It’s your life. You should make the decision. What do you want to do?” Calmly and remarkably clearly, John replied, “No tube.”
Tears trickled from my eyes as we left the doctor’s office. Memories of John’s recent remarks and actions came to mind, making it clear that he had known this was coming and had already accepted it. My love for John led me to support his choice.
I believed I knew what that meant. In reality, I did not. Neither did I know how gratitude would ease my pain.
Throughout his life, John had loved the words of 1 Thessalonians 5:18: “In every thing give thanks.” Before mealtime prayers, for instance, John never asked someone to “say the blessing.” Instead, he always said, “Let’s give thanks.” John knew that gratitude was vital to happiness. He also knew, as the rest of that verse from Thessalonians continues about gratitude, “for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus concerning you.”
John recognized that death is part of God’s plan (see Alma 42:8–9) and that for him, death was near. But he continued faithful in Christ with gratitude.
After leaving the doctor’s office, John and I called a family council. Our family who lived far away joined us through video conferencing. We began with prayer. Then, as I held John’s hand, I shared his decision and what the doctor told us to expect. I spoke of the peace we both felt and reminded our family of the comforting feelings everyone had experienced for months. All of us, including the grandchildren, realized that Papa (as they called John) did not have long to live.
We had expressed gratitude to God for letting us all know that time with John was short and for granting us the opportunity to prepare emotionally. A few weeks prior to this day, our son Spencer had asked John how he felt about dying. John had responded, “I’ve lived a good life, and I am still trying to do so. I’m grateful for my life! As long as Carma Lee is by my side, I’m not eager to die, but I’m also not afraid.” John was prepared and, because of that, he felt at peace (see Doctrine and Covenants 38:30).
We sat in family council, with our hearts aching and tears falling, yet we also felt peace. We asked John if he had any last wishes. He looked at us with love and longing in his eyes; then, although for weeks he had only spoken in a whisper, he said one word distinctly: “Temple.” His sons immediately replied, “We’ll make that happen, Dad!”
Our family council ended with our sons, who were with us in person, giving both John and me a priesthood blessing. As they laid their hands on my head, gratitude filled me. I felt warmth, like that of a loving hug. I knew God would help us traverse the challenges ahead. He would soften the grief and help us find the joy.
That is exactly what happened! We soon attended the temple again, with our sons helping John through the endowment session. I was so grateful! The Spirit filled our hearts.
As John’s condition worsened, he and I continued our practice of beginning and ending each day with prayers of gratitude. As we did so, we found that grief did not overwhelm us or our posterity. Each one had opportunities to hug Papa and express their love and gratitude for him. We found moments of joy. Peace seeped into the hearts of our posterity and others who visited, strengthening them and softening their grief too.
However, despite the peace that prevailed in our home, watching my vibrant, exceedingly active husband deteriorate and lose 50 pounds in a month was heart-wrenching. Late at night on April 21, John lay in bed. He was surrounded by his children and me. We sensed that his spirit would depart his body at any moment. I lay beside him, holding his hand and whispering words of love and gratitude for our life. I thanked him for the inspiring example he had set as he responded to his afflictions by turning to the Lord in faith and gratitude. I kissed him. Within seconds, he was gone.
After John’s body was taken away, our family sat together in our home. Tears fell from our eyes as we expressed thankfulness that John’s mortal suffering had ended. Words of gratitude spilled from my mouth as I thought of the many tender mercies Heavenly Father had given to us (see 1 Nephi 1:20). God had enabled me to care for John in our home, despite having physical issues myself (which actually necessitated multiple surgeries not long after John died).
As we talked, I was comforted as I expressed thanks for the eternal promises of our temple covenants (see Doctrine and Covenants 132:19–20). I told my children I felt like Johnny was hugging me, confirming what I was saying as I expressed gratitude. What a joyous feeling! I reminded my family of President Russell M. Nelson’s words in November 2020: “Practicing gratitude may not prevent us from experiencing sorrow, anger, or pain, but it can help us look forward with hope.”1
Suddenly, I felt a heavenly embrace so strongly that it filled me with awe. I also felt that John was well and happy and that I should be too. Right then, I promised myself—and my sweetheart—that I would be.
As the weeks passed, I marveled that most often peace and joy, not grief, dominated my heart. I contemplated why. One day, I decided to research the words of our prophets and apostles that relate to grief and gratitude. They confirmed what I had already concluded: that I had been strengthened by the comforting power of Jesus Christ and His Atonement, along with my gratitude.
The title of a 2005 Ensign article by President Thomas S. Monson (1927–2018) struck me deeply. It was called “The Profound Power of Gratitude.” In that article, President Monson said:
“God in His infinite mercy has not left grieving loved ones to wonder. He has provided truth. He will inspire an upward reach, and His outstretched arms will embrace you. Jesus promises to one and all who grieve, ‘I will not leave you comfortless: I will come to you’ [John 14:18].”2
I realized I had been experiencing God’s comfort and embrace. They were profound and powerful! They enabled me to look at John’s picture each morning and smile as I said, “Thank you!” to him and to God!
Elder Dieter F. Uchtdorf of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles has perfectly described what I experienced: “When we are grateful to God in our circumstances, we can experience gentle peace in the midst of tribulation. In grief, we can still lift up our hearts in praise. In pain, we can glory in Christ’s Atonement. In the cold of bitter sorrow, we can experience the closeness and warmth of heaven’s embrace.”3
These blessings were what I had felt within minutes of John’s death and in the days since! I am grateful for the peace in my heart and how I continually feel God’s embrace. I never want to lose those feelings! And so, I continue to express gratitude daily for my sacred experiences, for gospel knowledge that brings me closer to Jesus Christ, for the strengthening comfort made possible by Him and His Atonement, and for an eternal perspective and the hope of spending eternity with my Johnny.

Minnie Petersen, in Kamas Valley, was just a small child when she was asked to weed a neighbor’s flower bed. Not receiving proper instruction, she simply went out and pulled up all the plants that didn’t have blossoms on them. One day her father sent her over to Brother Olsen, the blacksmith, to borrow a monkey wrench. To help her remember the name of the tool, her father told her to think of a little animal. When she asked for the wrench, she asked for a “mouse wrench.” From that time forward, she was Mouse Wrench Minnie. When she was a little older, she and other young people were instructed to clear some land for cultivation. They chopped down willows and sagebrush, picked up rocks and hauled them off, and in the evening had a big bonfire of all the brush. All the young people in the village were there. They roasted potatoes to eat with salt and hung over the fire pieces of fresh meat. They played games and exchanged ghost stories. When they went out to gather wild strawberries, currants, and gooseberries that grew along the streams, they combined it with swimming in the creeks. In most groups there was nearly always one person who played the concertina, harmonica, or violin, and so they often had accompaniment for group singing and dancing.

Maybe it was his height—six feet, five inches from his toes to the top of his flyaway hair. Perhaps it was the way he walked—a jerky, foot-flapping gait that gave him the look of a crane. Or it could have been his glasses—canning jar thick, perched halfway down his nose, held together at the bridge with (no kidding) masking tape.
And there was one thing more: the expression on his face. It’s difficult to describe, but it reminded me of a puppy begging for a pat on the head.
I’d been told there was a new boy in the ward. But when I saw Crawford amble into the chapel during sacrament meeting, my first reaction was, “He’s too big to be a teenager.” He didn’t sit next to anyone.
After the closing hymn, I walked over and extended my hand.
“Hi. I’m Jon North. And something tells me you’re a teacher, right?”
“Uh, yes. You’re quite right.”
His voice was crisp and deep. He looked surprised but pleased that someone would speak to him.
“My name is Crawford,” he said. “Crawford P. Jones. Most people mistake me for someone older because of my size. You’re very astute.”
“Thanks, Crawford. I try to be astute. Are you going to be in the ward for a while?”
“We just moved here to Oregon from Arizona. We’ll be staying some time, I think. Sorry I missed the earlier meetings. The change of time zones left me perplexed.”
“Perplexed we can deal with,” I said, wondering about his vocabulary. “Meetings start at nine, priesthood meeting first. I’m the teachers quorum adviser. I’ll come around with the president and visit you this week.”
The Jones’s small home sat by itself on a couple of acres a mile or two from town. Crawford and the quorum president, Dan Quayle, were chattering outside. I was in the kitchen, talking with Sister Jones. I found out she was a widow who had moved here to take a teaching job at the community college.
“Crawford’s a good son,” she said softly. “Kind to his sisters. A good student. The last couple of years, he’s taken on a lot of responsibility. When his father died, he started a paper route and washed cars for a dealer. He’s already looking into a part-time job at the grocery store here. The extra money helps, but I worry that he’s missing out on other things he needs. Sports. Church dances. His dad taught him a lot about photography, but he hasn’t done much lately. It would be nice if he could make some friends here …”
Her voice trailed off.
“It was his father who chose the name Crawford,” she continued. “He wanted him to have a distinctive first name because he thought Jones was so common. Sometimes it’s seemed like a big name for him, but I guess he’s growing into it.”
I could hear the back door open and the shoe-flapping sound of Crawford and Dan coming back to the living room.
“Listen,” I said before the boys could hear. “We’ll make him feel at home.”

When I was older, I was on my high school’s football team. Before we played, I didn’t always button the chin strap on my helmet, and sometimes my helmet didn’t stay on. One time when my helmet came off, I got hit so hard that I was knocked unconscious. I was terribly embarrassed when I came to and saw my teammates looking down at me. From that I learned that we always need to keep our physical and spiritual protectors in place. Our spiritual protectors include our obedience to the commandments of God and to the counsel and direction of our parents.

“While of these emblems we partake,”1 we began to sing. I wished we were singing a little faster, but I focused on the ordinance.
A calm came over me, settling my soul. The tone and meter of the organ were exactly appropriate to prepare us for the sacrament.
I looked with gratitude at our organist as he reverently swayed with the music. I thought back to our first meeting eight years earlier. Just a few months before we met, wildfires had destroyed Ed Bravenec’s home, along with most of his family’s possessions. As the missionaries and I shared a gospel discussion in his new mobile home, Brother Bravenec told us he played the organ.
“I play to express my testimony and love of God,” he said. Then we talked about whether he might play for our ward should he join the Church.
I looked at the ends of his fingers. A couple of them had been amputated. I was inspired by his faith, but I wondered about his capacity to play.
“I know that the Church would be grateful for you to share your gifts,” I said.
Brother Bravenec was satisfied with my response, and we went on to enjoy a good lesson and the beginning of a firm friendship. He was soon baptized and, as he had desired, became our ward organist.
Over the years since his baptism, I have watched as his health challenges led to the amputation of one of his toes. Not long after that, Sister Bravenec, who returned to Church activity when her husband became a member, was diagnosed with stage 4 cancer. Then Brother Bravenec lost another toe.
We missed him for a few weeks as he cared for his wife and struggled through his ordeal. But soon he returned to church, sharing his testimony through the beautiful strains of the organ.
In 2019, Brother Bravenec learned that he would lose one of his legs. I was sad for him, thinking that his years at the organ had come to an end. But a few weeks after the surgery, Brother Bravenec hobbled into church on his new prosthetic leg.
Using canes to keep his balance, he slowly made his way to the organ. There, he sat on the organ bench, removed his prosthetic limb, and began playing the prelude music. A few minutes later, he played the opening hymn. Now it was time for the sacrament.
“In Jesus’ name and for his sake,” we sang—tone and meter perfect.

The Book of Mormon was not the only holy writ that Emma protected; she also secured the manuscript of Joseph’s inspired Bible translation. The Smiths moved to Missouri in 1838, intending to publish the revisions, but trouble mounted and Joseph was imprisoned. A friend, Ann Scott, sewed two cotton bags attached to a waistband to hide the papers under a skirt.11 Emma carried her two infants with two other young children clinging to her skirts, loaded with precious papers underneath, as they walked across the frozen Mississippi River to safety in Illinois.12

The first time he offered to take me fishing behind his place, I brought the stuff my friends and I used when we fished from the old country bridge.
“What kind of a rig you call that?” He looked at my large lead sinker and a treble hook with a wad of dried-up cheese stuck to it. “Here, let me see that. You’re not supposed to club the fish to death.” He took the sinker from the line. “And what’s this?” he said, pointing to the cheese. “You bring your lunch?”
“I usually use worms or cheese for bait.”
He shook his head. “I’ll teach you to fly fish. Then you’ll know something about fishing.”
He stepped a little ways into the river so he could get a free swing with his fly rod. “Look over there, just in front of the boulder.” He whipped the fly line back and forth a couple of times to let out line, and then cast. The fly landed gently on the water and glided into the swirling water downstream from the boulder. Suddenly the water boiled as a German Brown rose up and took the fly. He carefully fought it to his side and then reached down and swished it up in his net. “You think you can learn to do that?” he said as he reached down into the net and pulled out the trout and dropped him gently back into the water.
Nearly every weekday afternoon that summer I’d go over to his place with my rod, and we’d walk across his field to the river. He taught me how to cast a fly rod, and where to stand, and what kind of flies to use for each part of the summer. “You got to find out what they’re feeding on, Jamie. That’s the secret.”

Anthon stepped from his doorway onto the cobbled street, hesitated, and turned back to his wife—“the best in the land” he called her.
“Are you coming, Ibine?”
His wife stepped out of the doorway. She was wrapped in woolen scarves and a heavy coat. The February night was icy cold. Their destination was the seashore, a few blocks from their home. The children followed Ibine out the door. Thorvald and Astra were too young to be baptized but not too young to be excited for their parents. Only Anthon didn’t feel excited. He was quiet and pensive while walking along the clean-swept streets of Aalborg, Denmark.
As he passed his little garden, now covered with the white of winter, he remembered the first time he had met the missionaries almost two years ago. It was in the summer of 1893. They had come by and talked with him as he stood bent over, pruning bushes.
“Those missionaries planted a sweet seed in my heart that day. It all seemed sensible,” he remembered. As he walked slowly along he remembered other things, too. “The next day the minister came, and I told him what the missionaries had told me. He tore every word to pieces, and he filled me with his talk again. The next time the elders came, I told them what the minister told me. They taught me the gospel again and planted the seed again. It soon became obvious that I had to know for myself.”
The night was very dark. The children cuddled close to their parents. The hand of tiny Thorvald squeezed his father’s and pretty little Astra clung to Ibine. Anthon looked down at Thor and remembered his own childhood. He remembered the cows he had herded, the wooden shoes he had worn in winter, his own sister who died in a terrible blizzard too far from home to get help. He remembered the worried look of his father who couldn’t support his family of nine during the mid-1800s war with Germany. He remembered working from 2:00 in the morning until 11:00 at night on a farm in order to help. He remembered crying in bed at night. “I wondered what I was sent on this earth for. I couldn’t see what good I was doing. All I could see ahead was endless work to no real worthwhile end.”
The frigid cold gripped Anton’s face, and he wondered if the children or Ibine were uncomfortable. The chilling breeze made him think of glacier ice, and he remembered learning that ice-age glaciers had left his Denmark an undulating flatland well suited to farming and agriculture. He was grateful that at least a few years of formal education were mandatory—that his country believed in the virtues of learning and working. He saw ships’ masts in the harbor poking above the fields.
He and his family were nearing the place where they would be baptized. A sick feeling of loneliness hit him in his stomach. “My homeland, my forefathers, all that has been good to me—am I giving up their trust in me for a far-fetched religion sprouted in a distant; new country?”
Then he and his little family turned the corner of the last block. They could see the ice-covered water clearly. Anthon felt the whitened wool next to his skin. He had been ordered to wear it constantly since his illness. His illness! Yes, he remembered the birth of his testimony. He had been healed after 12 months of life and death struggle with pneumonia. The elders had said that with faith and a special blessing called administration he could be healed. He had submitted to their counsel and believed. Shortly after, Anthon had resolutely cleared away the dark clouds that had been gathering around his search for truth. He told the ministers of the other churches that he could not serve two masters. (See Matt. 6:24.) They had been good neighborhood friends, but with his decision to join the Mormons, that friendship ended—the ministers gave him up as a lost soul.
Every member of the Mormon church who lived in Aalborg was there on the seashore, some holding lanterns. It was a small but cheery group. They sang hymns and smiled. But Anthon was still quiet. He looked into the faces of his beautiful children and wondered if he was doing what was right for them. He knew he would have to find a private school for them because the prejudice in the public schools against the few Mormon children was too much for such young children to bear.
The singing was over. A prayer was given to open the meeting. The missionaries asked a blessing on Brother and Sister Jensen that as they were baptized they would not fall ill from the freezing temperatures. A hole was chopped in the ice. The sacred ordinance was performed for both Anthon and his wife, Ibine. The two new members were welcomed with hugs and handshakes and sent quickly home to their warm fireplace. It was then that Anthon noticed something special—something unexpected. On their way home he found himself walking, almost skipping, with lightened step—his wife and children smiling at him all the way. The heavy burdens of worry had been lifted. He knew he had done the right thing, and above all he knew now that there was something important for him to do in life.
“I went to my former friend and minister the next day to bear him my testimony. I was so happy that I felt I could convert the whole world, and I wanted to,” he later recorded. “I wanted everyone to feel the peace and the joy that came from my baptism. And the most wonderful thing of all, I had an assurance that greater joys and greater knowledge were yet in store—not only for me but for my beautiful family.”

In my stake as I was growing up, fathers didn’t baptize their children; they assigned the priests to have that experience. So a young man baptized me. Afterward my father took me to a store, gave me some money, and told me that I could buy anything I wanted that would remind me of my baptism.
I remember looking and looking. Finally I found five wonderful pictures of the Savior and His life. One of them showed the star when He was born, and the rest showed other special scenes. I thought those pictures were the most wonderful things! I put them up on the wall in my bedroom. As I looked at those pictures every day, I had a peaceful, happy testimony that Jesus Christ was the Savior and that Heavenly Father loved me. It was a wonderful reminder of my baptism and of the promises that I made to Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ.

Another Latter-day Saint in the same stake, Richard G. Murray of the First Ward, was honored with a similar plaque from the same organization for saving the life of an automobile accident victim. When his family heard a noise behind the house, they rushed outside to find a car upside down and filling with water in a drainage ditch. Brother Murray scaled a six-foot fence and slid down the embankment to rescue a woman caught in her seat belt. Moments more and the woman might have drowned. Sister Murray tied a garden hose to the fence and threw it down to help both victim and rescuer climb up the slope to safety.

Once, when my mom was tucking me into bed, I told her I wasn’t sure that I wanted to go on a mission. I said that I would miss her, Daddy, and my sisters too much. My mom said that we should pray about it and see what Heavenly Father wanted me to do. We knelt by the side of my bed, and I asked Heavenly Father if He wanted me to serve a mission. As soon as I asked the question, a really warm feeling filled my whole heart, and a really big smile came to my face. After the prayer, Mom asked me how I felt. I told her I knew that Heavenly Father wanted me to serve a mission and that I was excited to go and serve. I know that Heavenly Father hears our prayers and answers them. I am excited to share this with everybody when I go on my mission.

What are you going to spend your Chinese New Year money on?
I’m going to buy a new jump rope.
I’m going to buy candy.
I’m going to buy a new bag.
I’m going to save it.
What should I do with my money?
I know what to do with some of my money first!
The next Sunday …
Thanks for your donation, Chung.
You’re welcome!
It feels good to pay my tithing first. I know it makes Heavenly Father happy.
This story took place in Taiwan. Chinese New Year will be on February 1 next year!

I saw the results of another great teacher while serving as the president of a single adult stake at BYU–Idaho. That experience changed my life. On one particular Tuesday evening, I interviewed a young man named Pablo, from Mexico City, who wanted to serve a mission. I asked him about his testimony and his desire to serve. His answers to my questions were perfect. Then I asked about his worthiness. His answers were exact. In fact, they were so good, I wondered, “Maybe he doesn’t understand what I’m asking him.” So I rephrased the questions and determined that he knew exactly what I meant and was completely honest.

I was so impressed with this young man that I asked him, “Pablo, who was it that helped you come to this point in your life standing so uprightly before the Lord?”

He said, “My dad.”

I said, “Pablo, tell me your story.”

Pablo continued: “When I was nine, my dad took me aside and said, ‘Pablo, I was nine once too. Here are some things you may come across. You’ll see people cheating in school. You might be around people who swear. You’ll probably have days when you don’t want to go to church. Now, when these things happen—or anything else that troubles you—I want you to come and talk to me, and I’ll help you get through them. And then I’ll tell you what comes next.’”

“So, Pablo, what did he tell you when you were 10?”

“Well, he warned me about pornography and dirty jokes.”

“What about when you were 11?” I asked.

“He cautioned me about things that could be addictive and reminded me about using my agency.”

Here was a father, year after year, “line upon line; here a little, and there a little,” who helped his son not only hear but also understand. Pablo’s father knew our children learn when they are ready to learn, not just when we are ready to teach them. I was proud of Pablo when we submitted his missionary application that night, but I was even prouder of Pablo’s dad.

Our Young Women leaders decided that an overnight trip was just the thing to get us ready for camp. They chose the banks of the San Pedro River in southern Arizona, USA, to set up our practice camp.
After rolling out the sleeping bags, the other girls and I wanted to explore and get into the water. The leaders thought some discussions on safety and first aid should come first. So we all sat in a shady spot near the river for the lesson.
Paying attention wasn’t easy when we could see the river shining in the sun. The breeze was playing in the cottonwood trees as Sister Brown (names have been changed) talked. We had all heard the lesson before, and I just couldn’t understand why we needed it now. We knew all about putting pressure on a wound to stop the bleeding, but there she was telling us again.
Before they let us go, the leaders repeatedly told us not to go in the river without shoes. “You never know what’s in there, and you’ve got to protect your feet.”
As I got to the edge of the river, some of the other girls were already splashing in the water. The water was brown with mud. It was less than a foot deep all the way across, and I couldn’t believe that it was dangerous.
I decided to take off my shoes. I had brought only one pair, and I didn’t see the sense in getting them wet and having soggy shoes all day. My two best friends, Martha and Elizabeth, both reminded me of what the leaders had said. I took my shoes off anyway and explained my reasons. Martha took hers off too. Elizabeth was more hesitant. I waded out into the water and with a sarcastic tone said, “Keep them on if you want to.”
She sat down, took off her shoes, and ran into the water. After about five steps she stopped, turned pale, and calmly said, “Oh, no.” When she pulled her foot out of the water. I could see blood streaming out of a cut. She had stepped on a broken bottle.
The sight of blood made my brain go numb. Even though I had just been listening to a lesson on first aid, I had no idea what to do. I decided to run for help. Two others helped her out of the water.
I found Sister Brown and told her what had happened. She thought I was kidding. But when she saw Elizabeth sitting in the trail with blood gushing from her foot, she ran toward her shouting, “Put pressure on that cut!”
The lesson of 10 minutes before began to sink in. The girls, who had been standing around Elizabeth and watching her bleed, elevated her foot and put pressure on the wound.
Elizabeth was taken to the hospital, where she was told that she had almost cut her foot in half. It required numerous stitches and would take a long time to heal. The next time I saw her she was using crutches.
I never thought I could or would ever convince my best friend to do something that would hurt her that badly. I had never seen myself as a bad influence before.
Now I’m trying to be a better example to my friends, and I’m more willing to listen to my leaders. They know what they’re talking about.

Another principle I learned from working was the principle of paying tithing. My family did not have very much money, but my parents paid us a small amount for the work we did. I learned from my parents and from my Church leaders that the Lord required only that I recognize that all these things came from Him and that 10 percent should be returned to Him.
It always gave me great satisfaction to fill out the envelope and give the small amount of tithing I owed to the Lord. The few nickels and dimes I gave as a young boy set a pattern that was easy to follow when I later received more money for my work. I still felt that same powerful feeling of satisfaction in knowing that by paying my tithing, I was doing what the Lord wanted me to do.

By December 1827 there had been several attempts to steal the plates, so Joseph decided to move with Emma to the home of her parents in Harmony Township, Pennsylvania.
Emma Smith
When Joseph and Emma arrived, Joseph allowed Isaac Hale, Emma’s father, to heft the plates in a box. Isaac later stated, “I was allowed to feel the weight of the box, and they gave me to understand, that the book of plates was then in the box.” Yet he was unconvinced and dissatisfied with the situation. He told Joseph to either show him the plates or remove them from his house. Joseph hid the plates in the nearby woods until he and Emma moved into their own home on the Hale property.10
An adjacent farm was owned by Joseph and Sarah McKune. Their granddaughter later reported that Joseph McKune had been allowed “to take in his hands a pillow-case in which the supposed saintly treasure was wrapped, and to feel through the cloth that it had leaves.”11
In Harmony, Joseph Smith began his translation of the Book of Mormon by the gift and power of God. His initial scribes were his wife, Emma, and his friend Martin Harris.12 Like members of the Harris and Smith families, Emma hefted the plates, as she “would lift and move them” while cleaning.13 She also felt the individual leaves and heard the sound they made when moved, describing them in this way: “I once felt of the plates, as they thus lay on the table, tracing their outline and shape. They seemed to be pliable like thick paper, and would rustle with a metallic sound when the edges were moved by the thumb, as one does sometimes thumb the edges of a book.”14

When I was 11 years old, I lived with my family in the attic of a farmhouse near Frankfurt, Germany. We were refugees in a new place, far away from our previous home. We were very poor.
Because I was a refugee, and because I spoke with an East German accent, other children often made fun of me and called me names that deeply hurt. Of all the times of my youth, I believe this may have been the most discouraging.
Even though I still remember the hurt I felt, I can see now that this was a time of great personal growth. During this time, our family bonded together. I watched and learned from my parents. I admired their determination and optimism. From them I learned that we can overcome adversity when we have faith and courage.
refugees—people who have to flee from their home because of danger
adversity—something that happens that is very hard or challenging
I think back on that 11-year-old boy in Frankfurt, Germany, who worried about his future and felt the lasting sting of unkind remarks. While I would not be eager to relive those days of trial and trouble, the lessons I learned then were a necessary preparation for future opportunity. Now, many years later, I know this for certain: it is often in adversity that we learn those most important lessons that form our character and shape our destiny.

About a hundred years ago, Sarah Young Vance qualified as a midwife. Before she began serving the women of Arizona, a priesthood leader blessed her that she would “always do only what was right and what was best for the welfare of her patients.” Over a period of 45 years, Sarah delivered approximately 1,500 babies without the loss of a single mother or child. “Whenever I came up against a difficult problem,” she recalled, “something always seemed to inspire me and somehow I would know what was the right thing to do.”3