Gospel Story Finder

“Katie, time for family home evening!” Dad called.
Katie jumped off her bed and ran to the living room. She could smell the pine tree and see the lights sparkling on the shiny ornaments. Her little brother, Seth, was examining the gifts under the tree.
The family sang “The First Noel,” and Seth said the opening prayer. Then Dad told them about the Thomas family. This year they could not afford presents or a nice dinner for Christmas.
“No presents on Christmas? We have to help them!” Seth exclaimed.
“That’s what we were thinking,” Mom said. “But that means we won’t be able to afford as many gifts for you. You will only get one present each.”
“They’re my friends,” Seth said. “I want to help them!”
“What about you?” Mom asked, putting her arm around Katie.
“I want to help too,” Katie said.
Mom smiled. “We have a lot to do. We’d better get started.”
All week, the family worked to fill the Thomas family’s Christmas basket. Mom made the food. Katie went to the toy store with Dad to pick out toys for the three Thomas children.
The Saturday before Christmas, it was time to put the basket together. Katie carefully placed in the gifts she had wrapped. She felt warm inside, knowing she was helping the Thomases have a nice Christmas.
Just then, Seth came in carrying some other presents.
“These are for Jake and Ryan,” he said. “Can you wrap them for me?”
“Sure,” Katie said. Seth handed her a little crane, one of his old toys.
Katie frowned. “Why are you giving them this? I don’t think they’ll like your old stuff.”
“Yes, they will,” Seth insisted.
Katie wrapped the crane as neatly as she could. “At least I can make it look like a nice present,” she thought.
Then Seth handed her a jar filled with pennies, nickels, and dimes. Katie sighed as she wrapped the jar. Seth was just too little to pick out gifts for his friends.
Later that night, Katie’s family dropped off the Christmas basket. Dad set it on the Thomas family’s doorstep, rang the doorbell, and ran back to the car. “Mission accomplished,” he said, catching his breath.
Katie was so excited. She wished she could see the children’s faces when they unwrapped their gifts. Except for Seth’s gifts.
The next week at church, Katie and Seth went to the Relief Society room after Primary to find Mom. Sister Goldman, who lived next door to the Thomases, was telling Mom about the Christmas basket someone had mysteriously left on the Thomas family’s doorstep.
“I gave Jake the crane,” Seth said proudly.
“Seth, you weren’t supposed to tell,” Katie scolded.
Sister Goldman turned to Seth. “Jake loved the crane,” she said. “That was the only thing he had wanted for Christmas.”
Seth beamed.
Sister Goldman continued. “Ryan has been trying to save money for his mission. His mom told him that if he paid his tithing he would be blessed. And then he got a jar full of money.”
Katie couldn’t believe it! Jake and Ryan had loved the gifts that Seth picked out for them. She put her arm around Seth. She was proud of him. His gifts hadn’t looked like much, but Heavenly Father had known what they would mean to two boys.

Years later when my childhood dreams of a mission were realized, I was called far away to New Zealand. There I first met the Maori people who have brought so much into my life by their simplicity, sincerity, and great faith.
One of my first assignments was to a Maori village called Judea, where the missionaries were helping in the construction of a small chapel. At that time I was trying to learn the Maori language. Each day I prayed to our Heavenly Father for help. And then one day I was surprised to be surrounded by Primary children. My prayer for help with the new language had been heard, and our Heavenly Father had inspired the branch president to send these children to help me. They followed me everywhere I went for weeks, talking to me in Maori. Their first lesson I shall remember forever:
Hei tito tito te ngeru me te whiro
Te kau peke runga te marama
Ka kata te kuri ki tana mahi pai
Ka oma te rihi me to punu.
The words sounded beautiful, but they were meaningless to a new missionary. I thought I was learning an old Maori war chant. What a surprise to me when I found out the children were teaching me “Hey, diddle diddle, the cat and the fiddle, the cow jumped over the moon. …”
How grateful I shall always be to those children of New Zealand for the wonderful blessing they brought to their new missionary.

A human drama illustrating the bond between the teacher and the young women in her class has been an inspiration to me, as I know it will be to you. It is the account of a first-year Beehive in Young Women. I share it with you, using her own words:
“One day, a few months before my 12th birthday, I noticed a note card on the dresser of the room I shared with my older sister. It read, ‘I’m happy to be your teacher and hope that we have a great year in Mutual.’ It was signed ‘Baur Dee.’
“I soon learned that all of the girls loved Baur Dee. They visited her at home, wanted to sit with her in church, and stayed after Mutual each Wednesday to talk with her.
“Looking back so many years, I am amazed that I still have such a vivid memory of my earliest real meeting with Baur Dee. That first night, as I walked in the front door of our ward building to attend Mutual, she stood waiting to greet me. I noticed for the first time the smile which always transformed her appearance from average to beautiful. ‘Welcome,’ she said to me. ‘I’m so glad you’re in my class. We’re going to have a great time!’ There was no adjustment period for me from Primary to Mutual. I felt right at home from that moment.
“Over the next few weeks, I joined the other girls as one of Baur Dee’s fans. At the time, I didn’t try to figure out her popularity. So many years later, though, I believe I understand. She really, truly cared about each one of us, and we knew it.
“Baur Dee suffered from a disease called nephritis—a disease which not too many years later would be treated with dialysis and often cured with a kidney transplant. But for Baur Dee there was no cure, no miracle. She passed away peacefully. She was 27 years old.
“After the funeral services, as we girls stood somberly around the open grave at the cemetery, we made a vow that we would visit Baur Dee’s final resting place together every Memorial Day throughout our lives and that we would never, ever allow her memory to die.”
Forty years have gone by since Baur Dee, this teacher of girls, passed away—yet the pledge lives on. One of her girls has said: “Wherever I go, whatever I do, something of Baur Dee goes with me and with each of her ‘girls.’ She lives on in us and in those with whom we have shared her lessons.” As Henry Brooks Adams observed, “A teacher affects eternity; [she] can never tell where [her] influence stops.”

I had made the commitment to date only members of the Church when I was 12. But when I turned 16, the members I knew didn’t start calling. In fact, no boys started calling. I went through high school wishing for dates and not getting any. I didn’t even get asked to the prom. So when Mark told me he liked me and wanted to go out, I jumped at the chance. But Mark wasn’t a member of the Church. I rationalized breaking my promise, though, because he was the only boy who would ask me out.
Mark seemed perfect in almost every way. He was three years older than me and shared a house with two roommates. He was very cute, fun, and full of ambition. Mark was my dream come true, a singer and dancer working on a music career.
Mark lavished me with compliments, and he introduced me to his friends and family, who were all welcoming and fun. We started to see each other every day. I had explained my standards to Mark, and he said he understood and respected them—at least at first.
But after a while he started to push me to do more with him physically. I resisted but gradually started to give in. I liked him, and the feelings he stirred in me were very strong. We weren’t doing anything too bad, I rationalized.
I started staying out late at his house, and we would always have fun. But then when I would get home, I wouldn’t feel as good. There was something nagging me in the back of my mind, and it kept tugging at my spirit. I was uncomfortable with how physical I was getting with Mark. And though I tried to rationalize, I couldn’t hide from that feeling.
I decided I had to break up with Mark. I talked to him, and he listened to me, telling me I should do whatever I was comfortable with. He did, however, beg me to stay his friend. I agreed.
I thought things were resolved. But they weren’t. After a week hanging out as friends, we started kissing and my problems all started again. I tried to keep myself occupied with other friends, but Mark made me feel wanted and special.
Then Todd asked me to go on a date with him. He was a returned missionary I had met at a student ward. He took me to dinner and then to the local fun center. I have never had so much fun at an amusement park in my life. By the time the place closed, neither of us wanted the date to end, so he took me to get ice cream.
Todd was great. We talked and laughed the entire date. He had me back home by 11:30 and asked if we could go on another date sometime. I felt wonderful. I couldn’t believe how I felt compared to how I felt after a date with Mark. After the date with Todd I felt happy and good about myself. After a date with Mark I felt depressed.
My date with Todd made me realize I hadn’t been feeling the Spirit when I was with Mark. I didn’t expect to have great spiritual experiences while dating, but I had wanted to have the Spirit there to prompt me. I noticed that, because of what we were doing, the Holy Ghost left whenever I would go see Mark. Having a good time with Todd made me realize how much I yearned to feel the Spirit always.
So I again broke up with Mark. It wasn’t easy, but I did immediately feel as if a weight had been lifted from my shoulders. I was used to spending lots of time with Mark, and I still liked him. But I knew I had made the right decision. I wanted to have the Holy Ghost’s presence when I dated, and I was willing to do whatever it took to keep that influence in my life.
Even though I was able to feel the Spirit more often, my life wasn’t suddenly perfect, and the dates didn’t start pouring in. I left for college out of state, and Todd and I were not able to go out any more. And the dates haven’t picked up much at college. But I have been able to feel the Holy Ghost more often, and I am no longer fighting my conscience. That is a wonderful feeling worth the sacrifice.
I have found there is an entirely different spirit when you follow the commandments and date “only those who have high standards, who respect your standards, and in whose company you can maintain the standards of the gospel of Jesus Christ” (For the Strength of Youth, 7). I still have many good friends who are not members of the Church, but I have realized I only want to date people who have the same beliefs and standards that I do. After all, dating is already so complicated. Why add to the confusion?

Charlotte’s friend Joan came running toward her, grinning. “Guess what?” Joan said. “I saw the list! I got picked to be one of the soloists for the choir concert!”
Both girls shrieked and jumped up and down. “Am I on the list too?” Charlotte asked. They had gone to tryouts together.
Joan stared down at her feet. “Sorry,” Joan said sadly. “You weren’t chosen.”
Charlotte’s face felt hot and her stomach felt sick. Why was Joan chosen and not me? I’m just as good a singer! I should have a solo too! she thought. Before she knew it, some unkind words popped out of her mouth. “I bet you only got picked because your parents are friends with the choir director.”
Joan’s face turned pink and her eyes looked a little wet. “That was mean,” she mumbled. Then she walked away.
During the whole bus ride home, Charlotte stared out the window. Why did I say that? she thought. Joan is right. That was mean. And I don’t even think it’s true. She’s a really good singer. Why would I hurt my best friend?
When Charlotte got home, she prayed in her room. “Heavenly Father, please help me know how to fix my friendship.” Charlotte waited by her bed for a moment, hoping for an answer, but she still wasn’t sure what to do.
Finally she stood up and pulled out her homework. It said, “Think of something you do well, then teach the class how to do that same thing badly. Write down a list of instructions to share in class tomorrow.”
Charlotte said to herself, “The only thing I did well today was lose a friend.”
Then she got an idea. Maybe it was an answer to her prayer! She pulled out a stack of notecards and started writing.
The next day Charlotte kept sneaking glances at Joan. Usually the girls would smile at each other during class. Today Joan wouldn’t even look at Charlotte. Charlotte tapped her foot all through the lesson until it was her turn to teach the class. She swallowed hard and prayed silently, Please, Heavenly Father, help this work.
Charlotte tried to catch Joan’s eye when she stood at the front of the classroom, but Joan wouldn’t look up. Charlotte held up her cards. “These are friendship cards,” she said. “One side tells you how to lose a friend, and the flip side tells you how to gain a friend.”
At last Joan looked up.
Charlotte read the cards and showed them to the class:
“1. Bully and laugh at others.” She flipped the card. “Be kind and include others.”
“2. Gossip about others.” Flip. “Say kind things.”
“3. Get upset when people win.” Flip. “Be a good sport.”
Charlotte held up the last card.
“4. When you are upset about something, say hurtful things that you don’t mean.” She glanced at Joan.
“And the other side says?” her teacher asked.
“Say sorry and ask them if they can forgive you.”
At recess, Joan came over to Charlotte on the playground. “That was really good,” she said.
“Thanks,” Charlotte said. “I’m sorry for saying those hurtful things. I didn’t mean them.”
“I forgive you,” said Joan.
The two friends smiled at each other.
“I can’t wait to hear your solo,” Charlotte said. She was really glad that Heavenly Father helped her make things right.

To you—Maria, Anne, Alofa, Kristen, Michelle, every one of you in every corner of the earth, in every family, every classroom, wherever you are—who are striving for righteousness, join with a quarter of a million other young women in becoming a mighty force for good. You can bring light where there is darkness, hope where there is despair, and faith where there is doubt. But it won’t be easy. I know that. You know it too. I believe it may be as hard, maybe even harder, than the struggles of our young pioneer sisters who pushed handcarts, suffered extreme fatigue, or were deserted by family or loved ones when they joined the Church. An account from my great-grandmother’s journal gives this example:
“Almost a century and a half ago, the Book of Mormon was brought into the home of Susan Kent when she was sixteen years of age. After studying the Book of Mormon, Susan gained a testimony of the truth of the book that was so strong she could not reject it, although to accept it meant a great sacrifice for her. She was at the time engaged to a young man and felt she could not endure being separated from him, but he would have nothing to do with anyone who would join the Mormons. She did not count the cost; she chose the path of peace for her conscience, but her heart was so grieved that she could partake of no nourishment for several days. Then she lapsed into a coma so profound it had the appearance of actual death. Preparations were being made for her funeral until she awoke one day asking, ‘How long have I slept?’ With tender care, she slowly regained her health and with her sister Abigail, and their parents, joined the Church.” (Louisa Lula Greene Diary, Historical Department, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, Salt Lake City.)
I’ll be eternally thankful to my great-grandmother Susan Kent for her testimony of the Book of Mormon and what it meant in her life and now what it means in mine.

Once I was helping my mom with laundry in the basement. My brothers and sister were coming down the stairs. I was standing at the bottom of the stairs when my sister started to fall! Somehow I was able to catch her by grabbing her shirt with one hand. I think that was a miracle because the Holy Ghost helped me know where to stand and gave me strength to catch her, even though I was only three and she was two.

Sometime later, touched with the remembrance of that moving Sabbath morning, I told the story to a group of people in another city. Before I left that small community the next day I had a visit from a man who had heard the message and understood it. Later a letter came from him. He had gone home that night and prayed and prepared himself and had then made a visit to the place of a man in his community who had years before imposed upon the sanctity of his home. There had been animosity and revenge in his heart and threats made. That evening when it was made known that he was at the door, his frightened neighbor appeared with a weapon in his hand. The man quickly explained the reasons for his visit, that he had come to say that he was sorry, that he did not want hatred to continue to consume his life. He offered forgiveness and sought forgiveness and went his way in tears, a free man for the first time in years. He left a former adversary also in tears, shaken and repentant.
The next day the same man went to the home of a relative in the town. He said, “I came to ask your forgiveness. I don’t even remember why we have been so long angry, but I have come to tell you that I am sorry and to beg your pardon and to say that I have learned how foolish I have been.” He was invited in to join the family at their table, and was reunited with his kin.
When I heard his story I knew again the importance of qualifying ourselves for the forgiveness of Christ by forgiving.

On March 27, 1993, when I was 13 years old, I was baptized. I have been receiving the New Era ever since, but for two years I had never read it all the way through. When my family moved from California to West Virginia, I was happy about the move but sad to leave my friends and ward behind. On my second day in our new home, my parents gave me two issues of the New Era. That night I decided to let the magazine become my friend. When I turned to “Some Friendly Advice” (Mar. 1995), I almost cried because I found the answer to my problem. I thought, Wow, this is perfect. I put the advice to use and I made a lot of friends at school. Since that night, I have faithfully read the New Era cover to cover.
Stephanie AdamsBuckhannon, West Virginia

After I finished junior high school, I had to work to support myself. As a young man I found a full-time job at a bean-curd shop in a larger city about nine hours away from my home. I went to high school in the evenings, so I got home late. Early the next morning at work, I made bean curds and sold them on the street or delivered them to various stores.
I became very sick from working so hard and had to stay in the hospital. I thought I might die. I was born into a Buddhist family. I always felt that there was a God in heaven, but I had never been taught about God. I was very desperate to talk to Him. I didn’t even know the word for “Heavenly Father,” so I asked, “God, are You there? Please help me.” After eight days I was able to leave the hospital, and I lived with my uncle while I recovered.
A few days later the missionaries came to my uncle’s door. When I saw them I told them to go away. But one of them said, “We have a great message for you. A boy just like you saw your Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ.” I couldn’t resist because I had been praying and seeking Heavenly Father just a few days before. So I said, “You can have 10 minutes. Come in.”
The missionaries taught me the beautiful and sacred story of Joseph Smith. And I was touched. I really felt the power of the Spirit. The missionaries asked me to pray and ask Heavenly Father if their message was true, and then they taught me how to pray. I prayed that evening. Even now I remember exactly how I felt that day.
I asked the missionaries to come back almost every day after that. I believed what they taught me. I believed that Joseph Smith saw Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ in the Sacred Grove. But before I could be baptized, I needed to get permission from my mother. I called her and said, “Mother, I’ve found a wonderful church. I need to get your permission to join.”
She said, “No. I lost my husband; I don’t want to lose my son.” She was afraid that if I joined the Church I would leave her.
I said, “I’m not going anywhere.” And then she hung up.
The missionaries fasted and prayed for me, and I did too. I called her again and said, “Please don’t hang up on me until I’ve really explained it.” She suggested that I study more and take some more time to decide. But I felt strongly that now was the time I should be baptized.
Finally she told me, “Son, if you are going to quit right in the middle, don’t do it. But if you will stay with it all the way through, then you have my permission.” That caused me to always take my membership in the Church very seriously.
I am grateful for my mother. I am grateful for Heavenly Father who allowed me to come into contact with the restored gospel. All the experiences I’ve had in the Church have been wonderful. But nothing compares with my depth of appreciation for the Savior, for His grace and mercy, and for what He has done for my wife and children.
When my son was called on a mission to Brazil, we took a father-son trip to the Sacred Grove in Palmyra, New York. We spent three days doing nothing but walking and talking there. On the final day we sat on a bench and bore our testimonies to each other. I shared my own conversion story once again with my son, and we cried. I hope his children and his grandchildren carry on this legacy of love and faith for years to come.

Dan’s thoughts turned to a story a favorite bishop had told him, something which had happened on another Christmas Eve many years ago. His bishop had been a soldier in basic training. It had looked as though there might be no Christmas leave—had looked as though Private Benjamin Clark would have to spend Christmas at Fort Ord, California, far from his friends and loved ones in Idaho.
And then at the last minute had come the welcome orders: Seven days’ Christmas leave, effective immediately.
It had been too late for Ben to make plane reservations—too late to catch a bus out of Monterey. It had been too late to ride with the LDS guys from Charlie Company—too late to do anything but walk to the highway and stick out one thumb.
A trucker named “Red” with a load of California produce had picked up Ben and carried him east into Nevada. He had joined his baritone voice with Red’s Irish tenor, and they had sung up all the Christmas songs either of them had known.
And then at Winnemucca he had stood in the cold for so long, waiting for a ride north on US 95 toward Boise. In the best of times there wasn’t much traffic on that stretch of road—and on a late Christmas Eve night, well …
But at last a pair of headlights had appeared, had slowed, had pulled to a stop, had picked him up. Thank goodness they had been going his way and said they could take him almost all the way to Boise.
Dan recalled how the bishop had described what came next: It was not until he and his duffel bag were in the back seat and the car had been moving that the young soldier realized the three young men in the front seat were drunk—and getting drunker. They had offered Ben a drink from their bottle and had been offended when he declined.
The young soldier in the back seat had become alarmed. The driver had been much too drunk; the car had been going much too fast; the car radio had been much too loud. A feeling of darkness, of foreboding had filled Ben’s mind as he considered his situation.
Finally, he had said it: “Please! Stop the car! I want to get out!”
The reply had been loud laughter from the front seat. “You said you were going to Boise,” they had reminded him. “Well, hang on, soldier boy, ’cause we ain’t stopping for nobody and nothing until we hit Nampa.”
For several fearful miles Ben had listened to the sound of the tires on the highway, the loud music on the radio, the reckless talk and the loud laughter from the front seat. He had endured the strong smell of cigarette smoke and cheap whiskey all around him.
With each mile, he had feared more for his life. In his fear, he had turned to prayer. “Heavenly Father, I’m in an awful mess, and I don’t see how I can get out of it. Please help me. Please protect me and preserve my life. Heavenly Father, I’m afraid, and I really need thy help. …”
Dan could recall his bishop’s very words: “And then had come a very quiet, very peaceful prompting telling me to get down on the floor and put my duffel bag over me.”
He had done so immediately. In the narrow space between the front seat and the back, Ben had hunched down, had wedged himself in tightly, had pulled the weight of the duffel bag over onto his back. Then he had put his forehead on the floor and his hands over his head.
A few minutes later the end of the world came. There had been the sound of screaming tires, the wild swerving of the car out of control—and the jolting, jarring, jamming impact of two high-speed vehicles fusing into one pile of scrap iron in the desert.
Much later, the young Latter-day Saint soldier had regained consciousness. He had found himself in a black world where he could move neither arms nor legs nor head. There had seemed to be no up nor down, no left nor right, nothing to help orient him. Nothing had stirred within the dead car—except for the smells of gasoline and of vomited whiskey—of sudden death in what had been a front seat.
Perhaps an hour had passed before a big diesel rig had pulled to a stop at the remote accident site. Two truckers had radioed for help, surmised that no one in either car could have survived such total destruction.
But the highway patrol had discovered otherwise. Along with the dead couple in one car and the three dead teenage boys in the other, they had found and then rescued Private Benjamin Clark.
“Young man,” one trooper had said, “you aren’t too good at picking folks to ride with, but I figure someone up there knows your name, rank, and serial number. I hope you do something good with your life, because you owe Him one. Only God could have brought you through this night with not one scratch on your body.”

When I was almost 16 years old, that same bishop assigned me to temporarily replace a youth Sunday School teacher. When he extended that calling to me, I was scared and nervous. I felt that I didn’t know enough to teach. I thought, “How can I be a teacher in that class? It’s like the blind leading the blind.”
I remember that in one specific lesson I had to talk about the testimony of Jesus Christ. We were studying in the Book of Mormon about how we could have a testimony of the gospel. I felt in my heart that I knew this Church is true, that Jesus is the Christ. But I had never prayed about those things. I thought, “How in the world can I teach these youth that they have to pray and receive an answer when I’ve never prayed for an answer?”
Ever since I was born, I had been taught about faith in Jesus Christ. And when I became a member of the Church, I always had that warm feeling in my heart about Jesus Christ, about my Heavenly Father, and about the Church. I had never had any concerns about whether this was the true Church of Jesus Christ; I had never prayed about it because those feelings were so strong. But in preparation for that class that week, I decided that I should pray to receive a confirmation that the gospel is true.
I knelt down in my room, and I decided to pray with all my might to confirm in my heart that this is the true Church of Jesus Christ. I was not expecting a great manifestation or an angel or something. I didn’t know what to expect as an answer.
When I knelt down and asked the Lord if the gospel is true, there came to my heart a very sweet feeling, a small voice that confirmed to me the gospel is true and that I should continue in it. It was so strong that I could never say that I didn’t know. I could never disregard that answer. Even though it was a small voice, it was a very strong feeling in my heart.
I spent that whole day feeling so happy that I couldn’t think about anything bad. When kids at school would say bad things, I wouldn’t listen to them. It was like I was in heaven, contemplating that beautiful feeling in my heart.
The next Sunday, when I stood up in front of the class of young people, I could share my testimony and tell them that Heavenly Father would answer their prayers if they had faith. I read James 1:5, which is the same scripture Joseph Smith read regarding asking God for wisdom. But the next verse says that you have to ask in faith, “for he that wavereth is like a wave of the sea driven with the wind and tossed” (James 1:6). It also says that a person cannot expect to receive an answer if he or she has a heart that doesn’t trust when praying. And then I said to myself and to my little class that we should ask with real faith, looking for an answer, and then the Lord will answer.
From that time on my testimony gave me the conviction I needed to make good decisions, especially in moments when I faced challenges. All of us faced challenges in keeping the standards of the gospel, especially those, like me, who were the only Church members at their schools. But my testimony helped me to remember that even though I was pressured by my friends to do wrong things, I knew in my heart that I was following the true gospel of Jesus Christ. After that experience I could never reject that testimony.
That day made a big difference in my life. Afterward I continued preparing myself for a mission with the help of my wonderful bishop and my family. I served a mission, and when I came back, I went to school to get my degree. I married and started a family. And everything happened because of that prayer when I was only about 16 years old.
As I said, I always knew the gospel was true, but I had to ask and then share my own experience with other people. That helped me on my mission too, because when I invited people to pray, I could tell them my own experience, letting them know that I had done that before. I testified that they could get an answer if they would pray with faith.

Letters written from the Missionary Training Center and from the mission field reflect the joy that quickly followed:
—“At the airport I was able to meet one of the missionaries who taught me, Elder (Hoyt) Skabelund, and his wife and baby and parents. I am slowly learning Cantonese. The people in the MTC are wonderful.”
—“I’ve received two letters from my mother. Everything is going well at home. They are being blessed greatly and they know it! My family and relatives are now happy that I am serving a mission. Surely God is a God of miracles!”
—“I have done my first street display, talking to everyone who goes by. I have taught the six discussions in Cantonese.”
—“Now I have been transferred to Macau, a Portuguese colony neighbouring the coast of China. I am pretty lucky because not many missionaries get to serve here. We are teaching an investigator, and he will be baptized. I know that God called me here to do a special work.”
—“Every inconvenience was worth overcoming to read the Book of Mormon. Every insult was worth swallowing to keep the Sabbath holy. Every moment was worth waiting for to kneel in private prayer, every pain worth enduring to attend church. Every blow was worth taking, every torment worth suffering, every tear worth shedding to come on this mission.”
Today in Macau, Elder Liao looks out the window of his missionary apartment and sees a promised land.
“When I decided to go on a mission,” he says, “I knew there would be strong currents against me. I didn’t really know the dangers lurking in the water, what might try to sting me or to swallow me up. I was only thinking about making it. Now here I am, and I know that it’s worth it.”
And he’s eager to build a bridge to help others, including his family, to cross over to the other side.

Brown Fox’s scalp prickled with dread as the Indian boy cautiously picked his way over the rocky floor of Whispering Canyon. The narrow winding canyon twisted in tight turns like a coiling snake. The steep bluffs closed in on either side like walls, and in some places they met and formed short tunnels.
Brown Fox was not in Whispering Canyon by choice. He had been traveling along a forest trail that ran along the top of the forbidden canyon when a stone rolled under his moccasin. Before he could recover his footing, he had plunged into the abyss. Instinctively Brown Fox grabbed at a mass of gnarled roots and found himself suspended halfway down the cliff.
“My mother is right about my clumsiness. They should have named me Duck Foot!” Brown Fox murmured shakily, grateful for the strong roots so firmly anchored in the rocks.
Because the top of the bluff jutted outward, there was no way for Brown Fox to get back up, even if he had a rope. He trembled with dread as he stared downward. His darting black eyes saw that his only escape was to descend into Whispering Canyon. The handholds and footholds were precarious, but feeling like a fly and knowing there was no other escape, Brown Fox began his descent.
Brown Fox heard eerie moaning whispers as he stepped down onto solid ground. His heart began thudding like a war drum. According to the legends of his tribe, the gloomy place was haunted. Not even the bravest hunter would follow a deer or a buffalo into the haunted corridor where there were constant moaning whispers. Even the oldest men of his tribe could not remember a brave who had entered and survived the forbidden canyon.
The Indian youth cautiously followed a faint path, making certain no loose stone rolled under his moccasins again.
Because he could not see the sun, Brown Fox lost all track of time. He was sure he had walked for several hours, and now the chilling sounds grew louder. Several times Brown Fox started to turn back and then changed his mind. He knew that the south end of the canyon started only a few miles from his village. The north end might wind in aimless circles like a labyrinth, and he would be trapped inside forever! No. He would continue traveling southward.
Brown Fox became so weary that he grew careless. Suddenly he heard a warning rattle. Leaping straight up, Brown Fox clung to a projecting ledge. He was terrified as he watched a huge rattlesnake slither away. The fanged one would have killed Brown Fox if the ledge had not been there!
Shaken by his encounter with the snake, Brown Fox decided to camp for the night where he found a pool of clear icy water. A basin had been carved out of solid rock by the fragile threads of water falling from high up the bluffs.
How many hundreds of years has it taken to form this basin, Brown Fox wondered. He removed thin strips of dried meat from his skin pouch for his supper. Then he sought a safe place to sleep. Remembering the snake, Brown Fox finally found a large boulder with very steep sides. As the drifted off to sleep, the young Indian boy felt less frightened, for the whispering and moaning sounds had stopped.
The sounds had started again, however, when Brown Fox awakened at dawn. They were shrill now and even more frightening. The moans began to rise and fall like the mourners’ chanting when a chief dies. But Brown Fox forced himself onward, although dread slowed his steps. He expected any moment to be confronted by some horrible apparition.
Suddenly Brown Fox stood still in wonder and awe as the canyon turned again. Before him a lush green valley stretched for miles. Brown Fox could see a wide lake, blue as the sky, that sparkled like a jewel in the bright sunshine. Nearby a grassy slope was covered with a herd of fat buffalo. A sleek deer bounded into a dense growth of trees as he watched. How glad Brown Fox was that he hadn’t turned back. He felt overcome with envy as he compared the beautiful valley to the parched and barren land where his people lived.
Now Brown Fox realized that the eerie moaning wails had changed to a soft humming sound. Then the sound completely stopped. The wind ruffled his hair and the noises began again. The Indian boy laughed aloud when he saw a thin spire of rock almost as tall as the canyon walls. Like a needle, the spire had a hole at the top where a cave had once been. The rushing of the wind through this opening made the moaning sighs. They were picked up by the towering bluffs and then magnified and carried for many miles through the canyon!
There were no evil spirits after all and nothing to keep his people from moving to this rich green valley! Brown Fox had solved the riddle of the “haunted” canyon.
Excitement lent wings to his feet. The chief would believe the boy, and he would send a group of braves back with Brown Fox to explore the valley. Brown Fox’s eyes reflected his pride as he thought about the chief calling for volunteers to accompany a boy to Whispering Canyon. They would all be frightened, but each would step forward. None would dare to show terror at actually entering Whispering Canyon, and no Indian braves would be outdone by a mere youth!
As Brown Fox hurried toward home, he thought of how he would proudly return in a few weeks to the canyon with the braves of his tribe, leading the women and children into the beautiful fertile valley he had found.
Here there would be food for all, and there would be peace for his people. The haunted canyon would protect them against enemy tribes, who would fear the canyon even more when they discovered that an entire tribe had vanished into its whispering depths.

My father had a horse and buggy when I was a boy. Then one summer day in 1916, a wonderful thing happened. It was an unforgettable thing. When he came home that evening he arrived in a shining black, brand-new Model T Ford. It was a wonderful machine, but by today’s standards it was a crude and temperamental sort of thing. For instance, it did not have a self-starter. It had to be cranked. You learned something very quickly about cranking that car. You retarded the spark, or the crank would kick back and break your hand. When it rained, the coils would get wet, and then it would not start at all. From that car I learned a few simple things about making preparation to save trouble. A little canvas over the cowl would keep the coils dry. A little care in retarding the spark would make it possible to crank without breaking your hand.

But the most interesting thing was the lights. The car had no storage battery. The only electricity came from what was called a magneto. The output of the magneto was determined by the speed of the engine. If the engine was running fast, the lights were bright. If the engine slowed, the lights became a sickly yellow. I learned that if you wanted to see ahead as you were going down the road, you had to keep the engine running at a fast clip.

So, just as I’d discovered, it is with our lives. Industry, enthusiasm, and hard work lead to enlightened progress. You have to stay on your feet and keep moving if you are going to have light in your life. I still have the radiator cap of that old 1916 Model T. Here it is. It is a reminder of lessons I learned seventy-seven years ago.

As the years go by, I continue to reflect on the Sabbath days of my youth and young adulthood. I still remember the first day I passed the sacrament as a deacon and the little glass cups I passed to the members of our ward. A few years ago a Church building in my hometown was remodeled. A compartment in the pulpit had been sealed. When it was opened, there were some of these little glass cups that had remained hidden for years. One of them was presented to me as a memento.
As I think about those sacrament cups from my youth, one in the sheltered valley of my boyhood home and the other thousands of miles away in the Pacific, I am filled with gratitude that the Savior of the world was willing to drink from the “bitter cup”17 for my sake. And because He did, I can say with the Psalmist, “My cup runneth over”18 with the blessings of His infinite and eternal Atonement.

There were no missionaries in Sierra Leone at that time, so I took the lessons from my branch president and was baptized and confirmed soon after. We were blessed in our town because the Church sent food and humanitarian kits for the members of the Church and others. The food kept us all alive. Everyone was so grateful even to receive a small bag of rice or beans. I received a blanket and a hygiene kit that included a toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo, soap, a comb, and a washcloth.
Not long after, the rebels hit again. They burned down the house I was living in, and as I was running to escape the flames, I took time to save only two things—my scriptures and my hygiene kit. We had to live on the run for a while after that, and I used my hygiene kit to help those around me. I would squeeze out one pinch of toothpaste for each person, or we would go to the river and carefully pass my bar of soap from person to person. The kit was so precious to us. The blanket too was invaluable. It sheltered us for many days until I used it to wrap an old woman who had died and had nothing to be buried in.

The first is a February sketch. Joseph Smith was imprisoned in Liberty Jail, and Brigham Young was directing the affairs of the Church by reason of his position as president of the Council of the Twelve, a new responsibility that had recently fallen his lot because of the apostasy of Thomas B. Marsh and the murder of David W. Patten in the battle of Crooked River. The problem at hand was the moving of the Saints from Missouri to Illinois. Few persons were well equipped for the move; many were destitute, and in their haste to leave, the temptation to run for one’s own life was strong. But in Brigham Young’s mind this was not a course of action for true Saints of God. Surely society would never endure unless men could learn love and compassion and concern for each other.

Accordingly, a meeting was called and a covenant drawn up, stating in effect that the signers would never leave until they had aided all of the poor to leave with them. Brigham Young and his family, accompanied by the family of Heber C. Kimball (Elder Kimball having remained in Missouri) set out in the cold February climate, with their wagons aimed toward Illinois, in one of the strangest processions in the entire Mormon emigration experience.

After traveling as much as twenty miles across the frozen Missouri plains, Brigham would stop, establish a temporary shelter for his wife and five children, and then retrace his journey to its point of origin, load up some of the poor and destitute Saints, and return to his family. In this way he actually covered three times the distance of most of his fellow travelers. Later, at the ending of their journey, Quincy, Illinois, an impressive meeting was held. The Saints in Quincy, learning that fifty families were still in Far West and were too poor to leave, drew together once more, offering to sell what little they had left—their hats, coats, and shoes—to raise funds for this movement. Brigham Young comments:

“We broke bread and partook of the Sacrament. At the close of the meeting $50 was collected in money and several teams were subscribed to go and bring out the brethren. Among the subscribers was Widow Warren Smith, whose husband and son had been killed at the massacre at Haun’s Mill. She sent her only team on this charitable mission.”

A few days later, Margarette and her older brother, Wallace, set out for school. It had been raining, and the ground was slippery and muddy, especially along the street by the Prophet Joseph’s Red Brick Store. As the two children hurried along their way, they got stuck in the mud. Although they tried to get out by wrapping their arms beneath their legs to lift their feet, it was no use.
“Oh, what shall we do?” cried Margarette. She remembered seeing wagons stuck in the mud, and sometimes they were left until the ground became drier. Margarette feared that she and her brother would have to stay where they were until the ground dried up and they could walk out on their own.
Wallace let out a loud wail. Seeing her brother’s fear, Margarette joined him with cries of her own. But looking up, she saw the loving friend of children, the Prophet Joseph, walking toward them. He lifted them out of the mud, wiped off their dirty shoes, and used his clean handkerchief to wipe the tears from their faces. He smiled and spoke with such cheery words that they were soon happily on their way to school.
“He is every child’s best friend,” Margarette told Wallace. He smiled in agreement.

I was a Mormon chaplain newly arrived in Vietnam and had been directed by a senior chaplain to teach a series of character guidance classes. A check through channels failed to produce a copy of the regular manual, but the assignment stood. The first lesson was scheduled to be given to Alpha Company immediately after they had finished their 12-hour-duty day. The class was to be taught in a quonset hut that was being used as a post office.
The company was waiting for me when I arrived—about a hundred of them in all, draped over mailbags, slouched over the few available chairs, leaning against the walls, or seated on the floor. Not having a lesson, I was free to move in any direction I wanted to go, so I posed this question for discussion: “What effect will the manner in which you conduct yourself in Vietnam have on your relationship with your wife or sweetheart when you return home?”
The initial response to the question consisted of snickers, whispering, and a quick turning or lowering of the head of any whose eyes I tried to catch. A prompt solution to their bashfulness was a randomly selected panel. Much to my chagrin, but to the delight of the GI’s, it was immediately apparent that my selection of a panel was less than inspired. They all consciously avoided saying anything that they thought the chaplain wanted them to say. They weren’t going to play goodie-goodie in front of their peers. Vietnam, they argued, was a twilight zone, and what they did there had no relationship with the real world. The last member of the panel to speak bragged about the double-standard by which he was living and concluded by saying, “What my wife doesn’t know won’t hurt her.” Someone challenged him by asking how he would feel about his wife living by that same standard. He tried to maintain his cavalier image, responding that if he didn’t know about it he didn’t care. Somehow that response did not come across with much conviction. Disdain was clearly written upon the faces of his audience and it became evident for the first time that they saw through the shallowness of the arguments that had been presented.
Then a rather unusual thing happened. A tall, broad-shouldered fellow who had been sitting quietly in the back of the room stood and asked if he could speak. Silence swept across the room, evidencing that he commanded respect. He did not raise his voice, but all heard what he had to say. He told about his fiancé and the love they shared. He spoke of the beautiful relationship that was theirs, and then with tears streaming down his face, he told how all that had been destroyed by their violation of the law of chastity. He spoke of a betrayed trust and expressed his hope that someday, somehow, they could gain again the feeling that once was theirs. The effect was dramatic. I waited a few moments for it to have its full impact and then added the testimony of a Mormon elder.
With the announcement that the class was dismissed, a few of the fellows got up and walked out, but the better part of the company remained. A group gathered around to ask more questions. A number expressed themselves to the effect that they had never heard a priest or minister “give it so straight before” or even take a position on the question of morality. One young GI, curious to know what denomination I represented, asked, “What kind of chaplain are you?” Before I could answer, the fellow standing behind him responded loud enough for all to hear, “He is a chaplain’s chaplain!”
Reflecting on that experience as I returned to my quarters that night, I came to a greater realization of our responsibility as Latter-day Saints. The world is replete with “many kinds of voices,” voices that sound “an uncertain sound,” and yet there are many who are ready to respond to the banners of truth. We are of Israel, the English equivalent of which means “prince of God,” or “soldier of God.” We live in times when good is made to appear as evil and evil as good. Prophetically, they are described as times of “false and vain and foolish doctrines.” They are times that call for courage. They are times that call for quiet example, and they are times that call for bold denunciation of those things that sap character and destroy nations. They are times for soldiers of God.