Gospel Story Finder

A television commercial inspired Matt Bryant, 12, to make a light that could be turned on by the sound of a voice. In the commercial, Matt saw a light that turned on by the sound of hands clapping, and he thought he could produce a similar light and enter it in his school’s “invention convention.” Matt’s light that responded to the sound of a voice attracted a lot of attention.
Matt was chosen as one of 55 finalists in the statewide contest. He was selected to attend a reception with the governor, and his light was then put on display at the New York State Museum in Albany.
Matt is a deacon in the Fairport Ward, Rochester New York Palmyra Stake.

Jaanus Silla was in his last year in high school in Harjumaa, Estonia, when he started thinking seriously about religion.
Although he lived in a country that frowned upon worship, Jaanus still knew a few things. His mother, a divorcee, had taught him to believe in God. Sometimes, when he was younger, they had attended a Christian church at Christmas, after trimming their tree with candles and waiting for Jôuluvana, the Estonian Santa Claus.
Recently, while trying to decide about his future, Jaanus had even prayed for the first time. He remembered the prayer, short but sincere:
“Father in Heaven, if you exist, then help me.”
He finished high school and went to work in a photo studio, developing film and studying photography while his search for spiritual truth continued. Meanwhile, the tremor of political change had begun to softly shake Estonian life. People began to question the government openly for the first time.
One evening Jaanus and some friends carried the Estonian flag, fluttering over their shoulders, on the way to a patriotic song party. Enraged police saw the flag and chased them down. When they caught them, the police grabbed the flag and ripped it, but Jaanus and his friends were only reprimanded. This treatment by the police was a big change for the better.
“There is a special feeling in Estonia,” Jaanus later explained in an excited voice to his mother. “People are patriotic. We all feel this new warmth and happiness.”

I just read an old issue of the New Era dated April 1985. It was sent to me by my younger sister who is on a mission. I love to read all the Church books and publications but can’t afford to buy or subscribe to any of them. The only chance I get to read them is when the owner’s done with them and lends them to me or gives them to me after a couple of months. Anyway, I know that the messages never grow old. To me, it’s always new and equally uplifting. I really appreciate all the articles which help build my testimony and appreciation for life.
The article that I appreciate the most in the April 1985 issue was the one authored and photographed by Anselm Spring, “The Meadow.”
I am a lover of nature myself, but an eye defect makes it impossible to see small details. Still, I thought I had appreciated the beautiful creations of God—until I saw Anselm Spring’s photographs in “The Meadow.” I agree with him when he says that the eye of a carnal man is limited. The most exquisite things are too small for my eyes to see. How I thrilled to see all those dew drops, the glittering spider web, and those capes of diamonds as he described them.
I’d like to thank you, Brother Spring, for helping me see these things. I hope you won’t mind if I look at the beauty of the earth through your eyes. What I’ve seen through you I know I would never be able to see in my whole lifetime. Please keep sharing God’s wonderful creations.
Mary Hazel LibreaDipolog City, Philippines

I learned years ago a very important lesson. I think it was the second time I’d ever met President Harold B. Lee; I had been introduced to him once before. I was serving as a member of a stake high council, and on one occasion the stake president presented in our meeting the name of a man to be called to a position of leadership in the stake. I was teaching seminary at the time, and Brother Leon Strong, also a seminary teacher, had talked to me a time or two about this man. We’d commented on what an able man he was and how sad it was that he couldn’t do more than he did because of a handicap relating to his wife. She had one personality trait that I think could be characterized by the term malicious; I think that identifies what it was.
When the stake president presented the name of this man for a presiding office in the stake and called for a vote, the two of us cast negative votes. That’s rather unusual. The president talked it over for a few minutes, and then said that he felt he’d like to proceed anyway, and asked if we would sustain him in issuing this call. Immediately the issue changed. In my mind, then, it was a vote to sustain the stake president, not necessarily a vote for this man to office; and when he called for a vote, Brother Strong and I joined the other ten members of the stake high council affirmatively, approving the call of this man to office.
When our stake conference was held, a month or two later, when the ordinations were to take place, Elder Harold B. Lee, of the Council of the Twelve, was the visitor. After the conference we’d assembled in the stake center for the ordinations. Elder Lee had ordained a bishop and his counselors and some others, and then this man was called forth to be ordained by the member of the Council of the Twelve. Brother Strong nudged me—we were sitting together—and with a smile on his face he leaned over and said, “Well, Brother Packer, now we’ll see whether this Church is run by revelation.”
Elder Lee put his hands on the head of this man, began the usual introductory words to an ordination, then hesitated. Then he said words to this effect: “The other blessings relating to your activities and life and occupation that you’ve heard pronounced upon the others here apply to you as well, but there is a special blessing.” And then that man received the longest blessing, the most pointed of them all; and in reality, it was not a blessing for him but a blessing for his wife. It was a very interesting thing to see.
Immediately, when the meeting was over, I went to Brother Lee and said, “Did you know this brother before you ordained him?”
“No,” he said. “I didn’t know him. I think I hadn’t seen him till I came into this room.”
I said, “He received a very unusual blessing.”
And Elder Lee said, “Yes, I felt that.”
Later, the president of the stake explained: “I meant to talk to Elder Lee about that and tell him that here was a man who had need of a special blessing, but in the press of business, we just didn’t have time.” And so Brother Strong was right. That day we did see whether this Church is run by revelation or not.

On the sacred occasion three months ago when I began to sense the magnitude of the overwhelming responsibility which I must now assume, I went to the holy temple. There, in prayerful meditation, I looked upon the paintings of those men of God—true, pure men, God’s noblemen—who had preceded me in a similar calling.
A few days ago in the early morning hours, in my private study at home and all alone with my thoughts, I read the tributes paid to each of the Presidents by those who had been most closely associated with each of them.
Joseph Smith was the one whom the Lord raised up from boyhood and endowed with divine authority and taught the things necessary for him to know and to obtain the priesthood and to lay the foundation for God’s kingdom in these latter days.
There was President Brigham Young, who was foreordained before this world was, for his divine calling to lead the persecuted Saints in fleeing from the wrath that threatened the Saints in those early gathering places in Missouri and Illinois and to pioneer the building of an inland commonwealth in the tops of these majestic mountains, to fulfill God’s purposes.
To look upon the features of President John Taylor was to gain a realization that here was one, as President Joseph F. Smith spoke of him, “One of the purest men I ever knew. …”
As I saw the sainted face of President Wilford Woodruff, I was aware that here was a man like Nathanael of old, in whom there was no guile, and susceptible to the impressions of the Spirit of the Lord, by whose light he seemed to almost always walk “not knowing beforehand the thing he was to do.”
While President Lorenzo Snow had but a brief administration, he had a special mission to establish his people on a more solid temporal foundation by the determined application of the law of sacrifice, to relieve the great burdens placed upon the Church because of mistakes and errors which had unwittingly crept in.
When I want to seek for a more clear definition of doctrinal subjects, I have usually turned to the writings and sermons of President Joseph F. Smith. As I looked upon his noble stature, I thought of the nine-year-old boy helping his widowed mother across the plains and the 15-year-old missionary on the slopes of Haleakala on the isle of Maui being strengthened by a heavenly vision with his uncle, Joseph Smith. It was he who presided during the stormy days when an antagonistic press maligned the Church, but his was the steady arm by the Lord’s appointment to carry off the Church triumphantly.
I suppose I never drew closer to the meaning of a divine calling than when President Heber J. Grant placed his hands upon my shoulders and, with a deep feeling akin to mine, announced my calling to be an apostle of the Lord Jesus Christ. As his picture looked down upon me, there came again to my mind the prophetic words of his inspired blessing when I was ordained in the holy temple under his hands.
President George Albert Smith was a disciple of friendship and love. He was indeed a friend to everyone. My gaze at his likeness seemed to give me a warmth of that radiance which made every man his friend.
Tall and impressive was President David O. McKay, as he now looked at me with those piercing eyes, which always seemed to search my very soul. Never was I privileged to be in his presence but that I felt for a brief moment, as I had done on so many occasions, that I was a better man for having been in his company.
To him who sought no earthly honors, but whose whole soul delighted in the things of the spirit, President Joseph Fielding Smith was there with his smiling face, my beloved prophet-leader who made no compromise with truth. As “the finger of God touched him and he slept,” he seemed in that brief moment to be passing to me, as it were, a sceptre of righteousness as though to say to me, “Go thou and do likewise.”
Now I stood alone with my thoughts. Somehow the impressions that came to me were, simply, that the only true record that will ever be made of my service in my new calling will be the record that I may have written in the hearts and lives of those whom I have served and labored with, within and without the Church.

I was truly blessed yesterday to hear from a prophet of the Lord. As President Lee came in and left the meeting with his lovely wife, I could not help thinking of the suggestion in the New Era that we not seek the autographs of Church leaders. Then, as I was reviewing my notes from President and Sister Lee’s talks this morning, I thought, why couldn’t each one of us maintain a thought book or a quote book instead of keeping a collection of autographs from the General Authorities? Their main purpose is to deliver messages from God, and their autograph has little to do with this. It seems to me that a collection of thoughts or sayings from each General Authority one has heard would mean much more personally and spiritually in the years to come. I’m starting mine today!
Steven LyrePocatello, Idaho

An example of a child listening happened in a fabric store. The store was crowded with shoppers when it became obvious to everyone that a mother was panicked because she had lost her young son. At first, she was calling his name. “Connor,” she would say as she briskly walked around the store. As time passed, her voice got louder and more frantic. Soon the store security officers were notified, and everyone in the store was involved in looking for the child. Several minutes passed with no success of finding him. Connor’s mother, understandably, was becoming more frantic by the minute and was rapidly yelling his name over and over again.

One patron, after saying a silent prayer, had the thought that Connor may be frightened as he listened to his mother scream his name. She mentioned this to another woman involved in the search, and they quickly made a plan. Together they began to walk between the tables of fabric, quietly repeating the words “Connor, if you can hear my voice, say, ‘Here I am.’” As they walked slowly toward the back of the store repeating that phrase, sure enough, they heard a timid, soft voice say, “Here I am.” Connor was hiding between the bolts of fabric under a table. It was a voice of perfect mildness that encouraged Connor to respond.

Some time ago I read a letter to a newspaper editor which was highly critical of the Church. It included a question something like this: “When are the Mormons going to stop being different and become part of mainstream America?”

About this same time there came to my desk a copy of an address given by Senator Dan Coats of Indiana. He spoke of a report dealing with the problems of American youth. That report concluded:

“Suicide is now the second leading cause of death among adolescents. … More than a million teenage girls get pregnant each year. Eighty-five percent of teenage boys who impregnate teenage girls eventually abandon them.

“… Homicide is now the leading cause of death among fifteen-to nineteen-year-old minority youth. …

“Every year substance abuse claims younger victims with harder drugs. A third of high school seniors get drunk once a week.”

The report reached a shocking conclusion. It said: “The most basic cause of suffering … is profoundly self-destructive behavior. Drinking. Drugs. Violence. Promiscuity. A crisis of behavior and belief. A crisis of character” (Imprimis, September 1991, page 1).

When I read those statements, I said to myself, If that is the mainstream of American youth, then I want to do all in my power to persuade and encourage our young people to stay away from it.

“So what about our rowing team—is it history?” the upperclassman was passionate as he put the question, obviously a rhetorical one, to the first-year students. “No way! It’s a tradition!”
I was one of those new students beginning medical school at the University of São Paulo, which had long been famous for its victories in rowing competitions. Team members had asked our professor for a few minutes to recruit for the team. We would be replacing those who had graduated.
As a result of the enthusiastic pitch, about 30 of us decided to try out. None of us had any rowing experience. We were all out of shape, as our coach constantly reminded us. He had been in the military and made no effort to hide his disgust at our sorry physical condition. He had lots of jokes, too, about the irony of poor muscle tone in students of medicine.
Training was grueling—held at 5:00 A.M., six days a week. We had to set our alarms for 4:15 to catch the bus to the training area. The less disciplined did not show up for long. Those of us who stayed noted that the coach gave all his attention to the team veterans. Meanwhile, we recruits were ordered to run around the campus perimeter.
The University of São Paulo campus covers a large area, so the run was about 6 miles (10 kilometers) and required enormous effort from men in our condition. We were exhausted when we finished, and the coach ordered us to the showers without comment.
This routine continued for several weeks. In time, a few ingenious souls discovered that they could cut their running time by taking a shortcut. Instead of making a full circle around campus, they detoured through the woods. Of course, they thought themselves very clever when they beat us to the showers. They even gave their shortcut a name: the easy return.
In time, the coach announced that he was ready to name those who would join the official team. To their surprise, not one of the men who took the easy return was selected. I still don’t know how the coach knew.
Each of us has a race to run in life. The course may become difficult at times, but we have a Coach who knows us well. He has promised us, “He that is faithful and endureth shall overcome the world” (D&C 63:47). Some people may seem to profit by breaking the rules, but in reality, no effort to keep the commandments will go unrewarded.
I always feel grateful when I think back to the rowing team. I still have the gold medal I was awarded for our victories. But more importantly, I have the determination I developed then never to take the easy return.

The Church was appearing to become, as the scripture says, as a stone cut out of a mountain without hands and rolling forth to fill the whole earth (see Dan. 2:44–45; D&C 65:2). Political officials worried about its moving outward and abroad from the immediate locale, illegal charges were leveled, court documents and summonses were issued, and vigilantes gathered at Carthage, the county seat. Joseph and Hyrum were to appear to answer charges against them.
As Joseph Smith left Nauvoo for Carthage that 24th day of June, he would have looked for the last time on the city and the magnificent temple that was nearly completed. He knew he would never look upon it again.
To his companions who were accompanying him to Carthage, the Prophet Joseph gave these prophetic words: “I am going like a lamb to the slaughter; but I am calm as a summer’s morning; I have a conscience void of offense towards God, and towards all men. … AND IT SHALL YET BE SAID OF ME—HE WAS MURDERED IN COLD BLOOD” (D&C 135:4).
Why did he not turn back? There was time to escape. He was not yet in the hands of his enemies. Friends were at his side who would die for him if necessary. Some suggested he flee across the Mississippi where he would be safe. But he continued to Carthage.
It was midnight when the journey from Nauvoo ended. Joseph and his brethren entered Carthage, and his fate was sealed. His enemies had awaited their coming with great anxiety. The governor, who was present, persuaded the mob to disperse that night by promising them that they should have full satisfaction.
The next day, after a hearing, Joseph was released on bail but rearrested on a trumped-up charge of treason. Bail was refused, and Joseph and Hyrum were placed in Carthage Jail.

Her three brothers—Miguel, Angel (called Micky), and Jorge—are quite a bit older than she is. When Miguel returned from his mission, his little sister didn’t really remember him, but she stayed by his side all the time. About four months after he got home, JoAnnie became very sick with a high temperature. Their mother asked him to give his sister a blessing. JoAnnie had faith that if he did, she would be healed. Miguel changed into his Sunday clothes and prepared himself to give the blessing. After the blessing, JoAnnie immediately became better.

Easter was a week away. Daddy told Oliver that today was called “Palm Sunday.”
“Why?” Oliver asked.
“When Jesus came into the city of Jerusalem, people were so happy to see Him,” Daddy said. “They waved palm branches and shouted, ‘Hosanna!’ That’s why we call it Palm Sunday.”
“Can we wave palm branches too?” Oliver asked.
Mommy smiled. “Well, we don’t have any palm trees. Let’s see what other branches we can find.”
Mommy, Daddy, and Oliver went outside and cut a few small branches off a tree in their yard. The branches didn’t have any leaves yet, just tiny blossoms.
Oliver waved his branch back and forth as he took it inside. “Hosanna!” he said, just like the people in the scriptures said when they saw Jesus. Then he helped Mommy put the pretty branches in a vase.
He liked looking at the branches while they ate dinner. He thought about the branches people waved when they saw Jesus.
The next day, Mommy pulled out a basket of plastic Easter eggs. “Let’s write down why we love Jesus. We’ll put our papers in the eggs and hang them on our special branches.”
Daddy got pens and paper. Oliver told Daddy what to write. Oliver said, “I love Jesus because He’s nice.”
Oliver helped fold up the paper. He put it inside a green plastic egg.
Daddy wrote, “I love Jesus because He understands how I feel.”
Mommy wrote, “Because of Jesus, someday we will see the people we love who have died.”
“Like baby Sophie?” Oliver asked.
Mommy gave him a big hug. “Yes! You will see your baby sister again one day. That’s because Jesus lived again after He died. Because of Him, all of us can live again too.”
“That makes me happy,” Oliver said.
“It makes us happy too,” Daddy said.
They filled lots of Easter eggs with things they loved about Jesus. Then Daddy tied strings through the eggs. Oliver helped hang the eggs on the tree. It looked so pretty!
“Let’s call it the Easter Tree,” Oliver said. He counted all the colorful eggs. “We have so many reasons we love Jesus!”

“Oh,” Grandma said, looking down. “That square tells the story of my Uncle Bo.”

She shifted Jesse’s weight slightly and began to tell the story:
“His real name was Robert Hanely, Jr., but everyone called him Bo. He was my mother’s brother and the first child born in her family.

“His hair was as red as the old bantam rooster that woke them up each morning. His eyes were as blue as the Nebraska sky. And he had a streak in him that was as stubborn as his hair was red.

“When he was a baby, he had a favorite blue blanket with white bunnies on it, and he carried it around wherever he went. When he was two years old, his father decided that his son was too old to still be dragging that blue blanket around, so he took it away.

“He folded it nicely and placed it in a cupboard out of Bo’s reach. Bo cried and hollered until his father returned the blanket about four in the morning. There were other attempts to separate Bo and that blanket, but none of them ever worked.”

“Did he ever give it up, Grandma?” Michael asked in a tone that told her that he had never needed to carry around a silly blanket.

“Yes, he did,” Grandma said, “when he was about three and a half years old. One day his mother brought home a brand-new baby girl. She sat Bo down and told him that he was a big brother and that it was his job to protect his sister. Later that day he touched her tiny hand and felt that it was cold. He fetched his blue blanket with the white bunnies and wrapped her in it. From that day on, it was her blanket.”

“Did he protect his sister?” Jenna asked.

“He most certainly did,” Grandma said. “That little girl was my mother, and he looked after her the whole time they were growing up.”

“What happened to him, Grandma?” Michael asked.

“He was a fine boy,” Grandma told them. “He helped his father on the farm, helped his mother look after the younger children, and did his best to keep Heavenly Father’s commandments.

“When he was twenty-one, he met a beautiful girl and they became engaged. Before they could marry, World War II broke out and Bo joined the navy. He went overseas to fight in the war, and he died on the beaches of France. When the news of his death reached his mother, she got out that old blanket and cut a square and added it to the Story Quilt so that Bo would always be remembered.”

Grandma reached down and placed her hand over Jenna’s, which was still fingering the cloth.

“If you look closely,” Grandma said, “you can see a faded white bunny.”

My mother loved that scripture and lived its principle. The greatest affliction of her life was the death of her husband, our father, after only 11 years of marriage. This changed her life and imposed great hardships as she proceeded to earn a living and raise her three little children alone. Nevertheless, I often heard her say that the Lord consecrated that affliction for her gain because her husband’s death compelled her to develop her talents and serve and become something that she could never have become without that seeming tragedy. Our mother was a spiritual giant, strong and fully worthy of the loving tribute her three children inscribed on her headstone: “Her Faith Strengthened All.”
The blessings of adversity extend to others. I know it was a blessing to be raised by a widowed mother whose children had to learn how to work, early and hard. I know that relative poverty and hard work are not greater adversities than affluence and abundant free time. I also know that strength is forged in adversity and that faith is developed in a setting where we cannot see ahead.

Good news!
Good news!
I’m getting
New shoes!
My friendly old shoes
Took me all sorts of places—
To the park, to the zoo—
And they helped me win races.
What kind of new shoes will I choose,
Will I choose?
Low shoes?
High shoes?
Buckle shoes?
Tie shoes?
Shoes made for running?
For marching?
For walking?
Shoes to stand still in
While grown-ups are talking?
My jolly old shoes
Did everything right.
Now the soles are worn through,
And the toes are too tight.
Will my new shoes take polish
To help them look clean?
Will they be tossed into
The washing machine?
I’ve hopped, skipped, and jumped.
I’ve climbed lots of trees.
In my comfy old shoes
I could do as I pleased.
I want to play kickball;
I want to pump swings.
Will my new pair of shoes
Help me do the old things?
The man at the shoe store
Said, “Please take a seat.”
He tickled my toes
When he measured my feet.
He showed me some white shoes,
Some black ones, some brown ones,
Some red ones, some blue ones,
Some walk-around-town ones.
“In your size,” said the shoe man,
“That’s all I could find.”
“Hurry,” said Mother,
“Please make up your mind.”
“I’ve already decided,”
I said with a smile.
I reached over and picked up
My choice from the pile.
“Those are just like your old ones.”
Mom was puzzled, I knew,
But she let me have them
And was pleased with them too.
I laughed as I hugged
Both pairs to my chest.
New shoes like my old ones—
Of course they were best!

Some women face illness and incapacity, even to the point of being bedfast. Even so, there is the privilege to rise above affliction and to be a true example of faith, of love, and of service. Such was the partnership of Virginia and her husband, Eugene Jelesnik. They for many years worked together in bringing the gift of song and the joy of music to thousands of servicemen and women and to audiences from stages worldwide. Then illness and advancing age forced Virginia to remain within four walls—bedfast. But her spirit could not be held hostage by an impaired body. She continued to encourage her husband and to be his inspiration and constant support. All who are the beneficiaries of Eugene’s community concerts and his civic service marvel at his energy, his enthusiasm, and his kindness. In his many responsibilities, Virginia was ever a source of his strength.

The bed felt soft and warm. Melissa hoped her sister Shelly wasn’t asleep yet in her bed. As Melissa watched the shadows made by the moonlight streaming through the window and across the dressers and beds, they made curious gray shapes on the wall.
“I wonder what the sharpest thing in the world is,” Melissa said.
“Who cares about that?” responded Shelly, who thought Melissa was a nuisance when she asked so many questions.
“Well, it couldn’t be shadows,” Melissa said. “Even though they have corners, they’re very soft.”
“Oh, are they really?” Shelly declared sarcastically.
Melissa lay quietly for a moment, but she kept thinking. Soon she said, “If I wanted to find out what the sharpest thing in the world is, I’d start by letting every single horse bite me.”
“Oh, no,” moaned Shelly.
“Then I’d let every dog bite me.”
“What a dumb idea,” said Shelly. “You couldn’t do that.”
“Pins are very sharp,” Melissa continued, undeterred. “They can go through most anything. Or Mama’s best scissors might be the sharpest thing in the world. Remember how easily they cut my hair?”
“Go to sleep!” Shelly said crossly.
“Our sharpest knife cuts through a loaf of homemade bread in a second. But Daddy’s nails go through wood. Oh!” Melissa cried excitedly, “I think I know what the sharpest thing in the world is. Great-great grandpa Johnson’s sword! If you got poked with that it would really hurt.”
“Will you please be quiet, Melissa, so I can go to sleep!”
“If I could try all the horses and dogs and pins and scissors and knives and nails and swords, then I’d know what the sharpest thing in the world is.”
Shelly suddenly sat up in bed. “Melissa,” she shouted, “if you don’t be quiet, I’m going to tell Dad. I wish I had a bedroom of my own. I wish I didn’t have to share a bedroom with a sister who talks all night!” Then she lay down again, turned her back to Melissa, and pulled the covers over her shoulder.
Melissa was quiet for a long time. Finally, out of the darkness came a wistful voice. “I know what the sharpest thing in the world is.”
“Please, be quiet,” said Shelly.
“It’s words,” Melissa said quietly. “They hurt the most.”
Shelly turned over and looked at Melissa with a mixture of surprise and affection. “Oh, Melissa,” she said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean those things I said. I like sharing my bedroom with you. And I like having you for a sister.”
The girls were both silent for a few minutes thinking. Suddenly Melissa whispered, “Shelly.”
“What now?” Shelly asked laughingly.
“I know what the softest thing in the world is,” Melissa declared thoughtfully. “Softer than shadows and darkness and pillows and kittens and blankets and moonlight.”
“Tell me,” said Shelly good-naturedly. “What’s the softest thing in the world?”
“It’s words,” said Melissa.
Through the darkness she could almost see her sister smiling. And then she felt soft arms around her and Shelly whispered, “Oh, Melissa, I love you.”

A cow helped provide necessary nourishment on the trail for the family of my great-grandmother Margaret McNeil as she came to Zion from Scotland. As a 12-year-old, it was Margaret’s task to arise early and get breakfast for the family and milk her cow. She would then drive the cow on ahead of the company to let it feed in the grassy places. She wrote:
“The cow furnished us with milk, our chief source of food. … Had it not been for the milk, we would have starved. …
“One night our cow ran away from [the] camp, and I was sent to bring her back. I was not watching where I was going and was barefooted. All of a sudden I began to feel I was walking on something soft. I looked down to see what it could be, and to my horror found that I was standing in a bed of snakes, large ones and small ones. At the sight of them I became so weak I could scarcely move; all I could think of was to pray, and in some way I jumped out of them. The Lord blessed and cared for me.
“We arrived in Ogden, Utah, on the fourth day of October [1859], after a journey of hardships and hunger. … I walked every step of the way across the plains.”

I did not want to be at Young Women camp last year. Three weeks earlier my grandpa had passed away, and I just wanted to be alone and away from everyone. By the time we got there, I felt like I shouldn’t have come.
However, on the first day, our ward had a devotional that I’ll never forget. One of the older young women spoke about finding joy. At first I rolled my eyes. How could I find joy if there was none?
But then she said something I had never thought about: When it feels like we can’t find joy anywhere else, we can find it in the Savior. Sometimes our mortal lives are filled with grief, depression, anger, trials, and constant uphill battles. Sometimes it is hard to find joy except in Him.
Although my girl’s camp experience was not perfect, I did find joy. I found it by turning to the Savior—in the scriptures, in nature, and in quiet moments where I could pray to Heavenly Father. This principle has gotten me through many trials since. I’m so grateful for the knowledge that the perfect love of the Savior can reach us even when we feel there is no joy.
Elise B., Missouri, USA

“One of the most significant moments of my life came at my daughter-in-law’s funeral. I learned a lesson in faith from our son. He stood with his aching, empty arms reaching out to the coffin of his young wife and said, ‘This isn’t the way I thought it was going to be. But it’s all right because God’s principles suffice.’”
“He took the principles of the gospel and applied them. They work! They always do! That is the key to getting over whatever challenge or disappointment we meet in this life. It you do things the Lord’s way, whatever way it comes out is all right.