Gospel Story Finder

Darkness had already fallen for several hours when I pulled into the town where missionary Sisters Hucks and Matson were serving. It was late in the day, but I thought I should stop to say hello since I had to leave early the next morning. The lights in their apartment were on so I guessed correctly that they were there. I was greeted with enthusiasm, and they started our conversation with, “Guess what happened with us tonight, president.”
“Tell me, what happened?”
“Well, the ward mission leader has been behaving mysteriously all week. He never asked us—he told us to be at a meeting at the church tonight. We were almost angry at him, and we wondered what was happening. When we got to the church there were a few cars parked outside but no one was in sight.
“We went into the church and could see lights on and hear voices in one of the rooms down the hall. We walked down there and knocked on the door.
“Everything went quiet, and then the door opened wide.
“To our surprise the room was filled with people, and on the front row looking right at us with radiant smiles was the family we had been teaching. They were all dressed in white baptismal clothes.” Unable to speak further, the sisters smiled at me through their tears.

A Laurel from Arizona writes: “It was October and our high school homecoming was fast approaching, but I was only 15 and a half when a guy asked me to the dance. I thought about saying yes and meeting him at the dance. My parents wouldn’t know. But then I realized it didn’t matter that my parents didn’t know—Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ always know, and they are the ones who really count. I didn’t go to the dance. Instead I had my girlfriends over. I felt so happy and free and full of life” (letter in possession of Young Women office).

Just more than a year after his dad was baptized and confirmed, the family traveled to the Hong Kong China Temple. Yondonjamts was glad his family was sealed in the temple so they can be a forever family. While at the temple, he asked that a woman’s name be put on the prayer roll so people in the temple could pray for her. He was concerned about her injured leg, and he was grateful when she got better.

The apartment room was cluttered with memories—autographed photos of famous musicians, Russian paintings, programs from concerts whose music had long ago evaporated into the air. By the window a slender young woman stood playing the violin, tossing off difficult runs like so many spring flowers. Her teacher, an older gentleman, was hammering out the accompaniment on a grand piano, listening intently to her every note, calling out instructions in a heavy Russian accent. The music seemed to burst from the room into a thousand fragrant blossoms.
Her teacher stopped abruptly. “No! No! Go a little deeper into your soul!” he pleaded. “That’s the German style you’re playing. In Russia and America we do it this way.” He picked up his violin from the piano and demonstrated. “Put more of nature’s tranquility into your playing. And don’t slide to the note.”
She started playing again, bow moving effortlessly across the strings, eyes carefully measuring the page of notes and lines before her that she somehow magically translated into music. Too soon the piece was finished, and she turned to her teacher.
“Generally speaking,” he said, “I would say that was excellent. You have a cool head and a warm heart, which make you a fine violinist. You have talent.”
On that sweet note, Lois Watkins finished her lesson with Raphael Bronstein, one of Russia’s finest violinists who now teaches talented young musicians at the Manhattan School of Music in New York City. So she packed up her violin, said thank you and good-bye, and started threading the busy west side streets of Manhattan leading back to her apartment.
Whether taking or teaching lessons, conducting, performing with the National Orchestra, or playing jobs around the New York City area, Lois Watkins is up to her violin in music, and she loves it. To her, music is a way of sharing—and just as important, a road to excellence.
“When I perform, I just want people to enjoy the music, and forget about their problems. I try to keep in mind what the composer wanted and also to incorporate what I think the music conveys,” said Lois. “In order to do this well, I have to be the best musician I can—and that takes work. But the results are worth it. When you know you’ve played well, there’s nothing like it. It gives you confidence, makes you respect yourself, and you enjoy giving your music to other people. It’s creating something, and that’s very satisfying.”
Lois grew up in a home where making music was almost as popular as talking or eating. All ten of the Watkins family are excellent musicians, and often enjoy musical sessions together. Lois’s musical philosophy was shaped in that home environment.
“A good musician will create a feeling in the listener,” said Lois. “If you go to a concert and hear a lot of fast notes and nice music, you are not necessarily touched. If it doesn’t make you thoughtful, or angry, or make you feel love or compassion or somehow more sensitive to life, I don’t think the performer has been successful.
“Because so many feelings are generated by music, we need to be choosy about what we listen to. Some music is definitely not good for us. I feel that if it puts you in a train of thought that is not conducive to gospel standards, then it’s wrong for you,” she added.
Lois rents a room on the west side of Manhattan from two elderly sisters. The apartment is close to the Manhattan School of Music where she takes classes, so she can easily walk to school. Her mother attended school in that same building years before when it housed the Julliard School of Music. Lois’s parents met and married in New York City and now live in Pelham, New York, about an hour away from New York City by train. Each Wednesday Lois takes the train to Bronxville, not far from home, where she teaches violin to aspiring musicians in the fourth and sixth grades.
“It’s fun to teach when the students practice and really enjoy the lessons. I have some good students. And when you teach, it helps your own playing because you learn to analyze problems and overcome them. I’ll probably always teach a little, but mostly I want to perform and conduct. That’s what I’ve put most of my efforts into,” Lois added.
“Conducting is my main interest, not just being a violinist. For two summers I attended a conducting school in Hancock, Maine. I was the youngest person there. I’ve conducted a lot of major orchestral works and have done some conducting here in New York City. It’s difficult to break into, though, and not many major music schools have conducting as a major, so I’ve decided to concentrate mostly on my violin while I’m here taking classes. One of the best ways to learn to be a good conductor is to play in various orchestras and observe conductors. I’ve played under some of the finest conductors, like Aaron Copland, Seiji Ozawa, and Zubin Mehta.”
She’s also spent summer at outstanding schools and music camps like Tanglewood (where she received the award for the outstanding chamber music musician), Saratoga (where young musicians are taught by the members of the Philadelphia Orchestra), and the Meadowmount School of Strings, taught by many members of the Julliard faculty. Competition for participating in these schools is very tough. “I’ve been very lucky,” said Lois.
But it wasn’t simply luck that put Lois where she is now in the world of music. A lot of hard work was part of her formula for excelling.
“I started playing the piano at age four and the violin at seven,” said Lois. “I also picked up trumpet and French horn, which I still play occasionally. At the beginning I didn’t like the violin because it didn’t sound very good when I played it. The violin is a hard instrument to coordinate, because your left hand is in an awkward position, and you have to vibrate it. Even the bow is awkward to hold at first. It takes time to develop your muscles for playing. It’s easy to sound bad on the violin at first.
“But you have to have patience and plug away until you can start making it sound half decent. Sticking with something you don’t like at first teaches you self-discipline. You’re not going to enjoy every teacher you get in school, every assignment you have, every job you get in life, but there are benefits to sticking things out.
“I started out practicing for half an hour at the beginning, then 45 minutes, then an hour, and eventually an hour and a half. My parents really encouraged me. By high school I was practicing two hours a day, which really isn’t a lot. I practiced regularly, though, and if I wanted to go out and play with friends, I had to practice first to make sure it would get done.
“It was tough when I was younger to learn that self-discipline. But then I got to the point where I made practicing high priority and did it on my own. It was good for me because it helped me to regulate my time and learn how to get things done,” she said.
Today Lois usually plays the violin about eight hours a day, divided between practicing, lessons, orchestras, and playing odd jobs like weddings and musicals. And she thoroughly enjoys that schedule.
One of the highlights of her week is practicing with the National Orchestra, whose purpose is to prepare musicians for professional orchestras. Young musicians from around the world compete for acceptance by the orchestra. If you survive the string of intensive auditions and are accepted, you’re given the opportunity to work in a professional kind of situation.
“You sign a three-year contract with the orchestra and receive a salary,” said Lois. “We practice three times a week and give four concerts each year at Carnegie Hall with guest conductors and soloists. We go through a lot of orchestral music, which is great preparation for eventually joining another symphony.”
In addition to the enjoyment she receives from daily participation in the music world, one of her most rewarding experiences is sharing her music in church meetings. It puts her talent in perspective, she said.
“You can almost bear your testimony through music. I’m asked to play a lot in Church meetings, and that’s a very satisfying aspect of music. Church members really appreciate music because it’s such a spiritual part of the meeting. People are really touched by music. I dedicate what I play to my Heavenly Father, because it’s not really my music that touches people, it’s a gift from him.
“When I play for church, I always try to create a setting that’s conducive to worship. I never pick fast, showy pieces. I think the piece should be melodious, not too long (about three or four minutes), and not boring. I try to play pieces that will put the listeners in a worshipful mood and try to choose something that’s not too far from their musical experience.
“Music plays such an important part in the quality of our services that we need to give our very best. It’s important for people in the Church to develop really excellent musical talent. No musician should take performing in church lightly, whether he or she’s an accompanist, director, choir member, or soloist,” she said.
Lois started to gather the books and music she needs for her National Orchestra rehearsal downtown at Lincoln Center, where the New York City Opera, Metropolitan Opera, and New York City Ballet perform, along with many of the world’s finest musicians. She’s going to do some studying at the music library at the center, too, so plans to get there about two hours before rehearsal time. Just across the street from the center is the Church’s visitors’ center and the chapel for the Manhattan Wards.
“I love the excitement of being in New York City, which is an excellent training ground for musicians. It’s a terrific place for me to be learning more about my profession—I’m getting good training and experience. I can’t help but improve my music!”
And she ran off to catch her bus.

I was taught this by goodly parents. How grateful I am for a father who had the patience to teach me how to work. I remember as a lad, when I was only seven years old, we were remodeling our house and tearing out some of the walls. In those days two-by-sixes were used as studding. To the studs was nailed the lath, and over the lath came the plaster. When tearing out walls, the slats and the plaster were easy to knock off, but, of course, that left the nails in the two-by-sixes.
Each night after the workers had finished, I had the responsibility of gathering up the two-by-sixes and taking them out to the back lawn, where there stood two sawhorses. There I was to make a pile of the two-by-sixes and then, one at a time, put them on the sawhorses, and with a crowbar remove the nails. After the nails had been pulled out of the studs, I was told to straighten them. Finally, I threw the straightened nails into a large green bucket and stacked the two-by-sixes in a neat pile.
Second, as a lad doing the job my father had assigned to me, I was taught not to waste, to conserve resources where possible. When the nails were pulled from them, the two-by-sixes could be used again—and we did use them.
Finally, I was instructed to stack the used two-by-sixes in a neat pile so the workmen could use them the next day. My work was never finished until this was done and the tools were put away.

Brother Walters’ supervisor, CES area director Chris Gollan, believes the challenge of distance is being met by both teachers and students.
He recalls that for eight years when he was coordinating the CES program in Adelaide some years ago, the Stirling Branch had the highest percentage of enrollment and the best completion rate for any unit in the Adelaide region. “The teacher traveled from Adelaide, fifty-five kilometers away, each day. Both the teacher and the branch president were thoroughly committed to seminary. If a student didn’t show up at class, the teacher would drive over to his or her home.
“This is a perfect example of right attitude affecting students. The teacher would walk into that class any day of the week and there would never be a discipline problem. Despite the challenge of distance, they made it work.”

During the months following my baptism I came to depend on the Spirit for guidance, recalling frequently Moroni’s words, “And by the power of the Holy Ghost ye may know the truth of all things … Deny not the power of God for he worketh by power, according to the faith of the children of men.” (Moro. 10:5, 7.) It wasn’t long before I discovered how truly helpless we are without that help.
One day in January 1978 I was diligently working at my job in the factory, when my supervisor came and asked me and two other men to work in the room where cardboard is crushed and made into bales, and damaged or outdated products are destroyed. One man helped me bale, while another began crushing aerosol cans—92,500 of them. The fumes were heavy. At 8:20 A.M. a forklift came to take away some of the bales.
I was standing about 60 centimeters from the forklift when the operator pushed the forks forward. Suddenly it seemed as though someone had ignited a flame thrower. The first flames shot at me from under the forklift, and instantly the entire room was on fire. I was blown into a pit about 76 centimeters wide, 2.4 meters long, and 3 meters deep. My clothes were burning, and the pit was on fire. Then there was a terrific explosion as 2,500 aerosol cans exploded.
I quickly realized the fact that I was dying. Then, suddenly, I began to feel an inner strength. Holding on to the baling machine, I started climbing out of the burning pit. The machine was very hot, and every effort at climbing burned my hands painfully. But with that inner strength given me, I continued to climb. My clothes were virtually burned off my body.
The room was a shambles, and I couldn’t see any other workers. I kept repeating Moroni 10:5–7, the passage I had learned to rely on so much. Finally, I found a hole in the wall that had been created by the explosion and pushed through it. Later someone told me that as I was coming through that hole, the entire wall was collapsing, yet none of the cinder blocks touched me. One of the men on the docks opened a door so I could get into the main part of the plant. I didn’t see the other three men, but I found out later that they escaped through the back and went outside. One of the plant workers, an ex-navy man trained to give first aid, stayed with me.
When the ambulance arrived, I was immediately transported to a burn center, where several attendants cut off the rest of my clothes and then applied wet bandages. The doctor said I had suffered second and third degree burns over forty-three percent of my body.
When the initial examination was over, I said, “I am a Mormon. I would like to receive a blessing.” That afternoon two missionaries came and administered to me; in the evening my bishop, my home teacher, and a good friend gave me another blessing in which I was promised that I would live, have full use of my hands, and would heal exceptionally fast. The inner strength that I experienced while I was on fire in the pit came back and remained with me.
Twice I nearly died, but I always felt at peace with myself. I believe this was the result of my blessing. After the first two weeks I began to improve, and the healing was truly miraculous. Two days before skin grafting was to begin on my right hand and wrist, the therapist removed the bandages and said my hand had nearly healed; skin had grown where they thought it impossible to grow. “Let me see the miracle hand,” the doctor said, and expressed amazement that healing could take place so rapidly. I was out of the hospital in five weeks—about half the time they estimated it would take for me to recover.
I know the inner strength I received was the power of the Holy Ghost, and through this power I was healed. Without that power, I would surely have died in the flames.

All my life I had heard about the importance of getting a patriarchal blessing. So when I turned 17, I started thinking about getting mine.
To me, getting a patriarchal blessing was a little frightening. What if I didn’t hear anything I wanted to hear? What if there were no great promises for me? I worried about being prepared enough.
I decided that I needed to exercise some faith. I prayed many times, was interviewed by my bishop, and set up an appointment with the stake patriarch to receive my blessing. Then, while I waited, I tried to prepare spiritually for this important event.
On the day I was to receive my blessing, I fasted all day. In the morning, I thought I would have a wonderful, spiritual day, but Satan must have worked overtime to make it something else. I had a bad day at school, and by the time I came home I was upset. With nerves on edge, I paced the floor.
Then I remembered a fireside where a man and woman whom I admire spoke about preparing to receive a patriarchal blessing. They suggested that we pray for specific things we want to know.
I went into my room, knelt beside my bed, and prayed that Heavenly Father would tell me what he knew was best for me to hear. I asked that he take away my fears and calm my worried heart.
Everything turned out fine. In fact, it was a personal miracle. It seemed that the patriarch knew me even better than I knew myself. I knew he was speaking for Heavenly Father, and when he spoke, I felt the assurance that Heavenly Father did know me. He heard my prayers. He knew my name.
After the patriarch had finished speaking, I felt wonderful about myself. Nothing has ever given me such a deeply spiritual feeling before.
Now I know why Church leaders emphasize the value of a patriarchal blessing. When we learn the worth of something and pay the price to obtain it, we begin to better understand its value. For me, my blessing and the experience of receiving it was one of the best experiences of my life. I know that my patriarchal blessing will continue to guide me to fulfill its promises.

The day dawned bright, hot, breathless. Perfect weather for planting, John thought as he jumped out of bed and dressed in his work clothes. It was the time of year he loved most. Days were getting longer, full of sunshine, and new things were beginning to grow.
John struggled to fasten the clumsy metal buttons on his overalls. “I have to hurry—I hear Grandpa outside,” he said to himself. His sleepy fingers finally managed to nudge the last stubborn button through the buttonhole. John was Grandpa’s helper now that his big brother, Mark, was serving a mission.
Today he and Grandpa were going to get the small south field ready to plant in wheat. After that, there would be weeks of work ahead for them—wonderful weeks of fertilizing, weeding, waiting. Then would come the biggest event of all, the harvest.
After a quick breakfast, a whoop of sheer joy, and a kiss on Mom’s cheek, seven-year-old John grabbed the knapsack his mother had prepared and bounded out the back door and across the yard. He scrambled excitedly up onto the well-worn metal tractor seat and settled down next to Grandpa. He surveyed the waiting field, then grinned his mile-wide, I’m-ready-to-get-down-to-work grin.
Today was a big day for John. Grandpa was going to let him steer the tractor all by himself for the first time. Grandpa trusted him to help with even the toughest jobs around the farm, and that made him feel grown-up.
John anxiously double-checked his gear. Yep, everything was there. Mom had sent along one man-sized lunch, a thermos of ice water, a hat to help keep the sun away, and. … Thrusting his hand deep down into his pocket, John fingered the coins he had brought along so that he could surprise Grandpa by taking him to town for an ice-cream cone after their work was done.
“Why, John!” Grandpa exclaimed over the noisy tractor engine, “I do believe you’ve forgotten something.”
“What, Grandpa?”
“You’ve forgotten your two front teeth,” Grandpa chuckled, tousling John’s hair and smiling into his freckle-splashed face.
Now both of them were laughing, and John, reaching up, gave Grandpa a mighty hug.
“You’ll be glad I lost those teeth, Grandpa, because the tooth fairy left me just enough money for …”
“Enough money for what?” Grandpa’s voice boomed over the rattle and roar of the tractor.
“You’ll see when we’re finished here, Grandpa,” John teased as they headed the tractor down to the field.
After forty years of farming, Grandpa had retired and John’s dad had taken over the farm. All of it, that is, except this one small parcel of land. “I won’t ever quit working this field,” Grandpa told John as they chugged along on the trusty old tractor. “This is our mission field.”
“Oh, Grandpa,” John giggled. “When Mark writes letters to me about being in the mission field, he isn’t talking about being out in a field of wheat.”
“John, I can see it’s time I tell you the story.” Grandpa reached over to shut the engine off. “When your dad was ready to go on a mission, almost twenty-five years ago now, your grandmother and I couldn’t afford to send him. We’d always tried our best to live the gospel, and we knew we could depend on the Lord, so we prayed that He would help us make enough money to send our boy on a mission.”
“Were your prayers answered, Grandpa?”
“Yes, John. Heavenly Father answered them in a surprising way. This little piece of land came up for sale, and your grandma and I felt inspired to buy it. It was a small field, nothing to rave about. But we had read in the scriptures that from small things great blessings come. So Grandma and I hoped that if we remained faithful and hard-working, the Lord might see fit to turn this small field into a great blessing.”
“Did you get your blessing, Grandpa?” John asked.
“Did we ever!” Grandpa answered, beaming. “We received enough money from our first crop to send your dad on his mission, and for as long as he was serving in England, we had a bumper crop. When he came home from England, the field’s production returned to normal, but as each of our three sons served missions, it thrived again. To this day, Grandma and I call it our mission field. Why, this very field is helping support Mark on his mission right now.” Grandpa smiled, giving John’s shoulder a healthy squeeze.
“And someday,” John whispered, “do you think that someday, Grandpa … ?”
“Yes, John, someday you’ll reap the rewards of our mission field too.”
It was time to work now. John and Grandpa dug right in, grateful for the fertile soil beneath them.
Under Grandpa’s watchful eye, John steered the tractor around the field, carefully overturning the hard soil. He tried hard to set his sights so that the rows would be straight and to concentrate on Grandpa’s instructions. He wanted to do his best, now more than ever before.
Dust swirled behind the tractor as John steered it, row by row, up and down the field. After the field had been plowed, they put the disk harrow onto the tractor and went over the field again to break up any large clumps of earth. Gophers, rabbits, and grasshoppers scurried ahead to avoid the harrow’s sharp disks. Seagulls swooped down from above in hopes of nabbing a succulent cricket or grasshopper as John and Grandpa made their rounds. Beneath him, John felt the soil break up, ready for them to plant the next day.
John imagined how it would be in early autumn, when the field would be beautiful with tall, golden wheat, ripe for harvest. Grandpa would pull a handful of wheat from the stalk, as he always did, and rub it hard between his strong, rough hands to separate the kernels from the chaff. Then he and John would stand together in the field, the breeze blowing waves of grain around them, while they tasted the wheat. Grandpa would chew slowly, deliberately, checking for texture and flavor. John would chew his handful of wheat until it turned to gum in his mouth. At last Grandpa would nod with satisfaction and say, “It’s ready, John,” and together they would harvest the crop.
John sighed contentedly as he and Grandpa climbed down off the tractor that day. This was going to be a most wonderful summer. John just knew it. There would be ice-cream cones to eat, laughter to share, and stories to tell. Best of all, he thought as he gazed out over the newly plowed mission field, this summer there will be a bumper crop!

The doctor at the base near Taejon, Korea, looked up at me and smiled. I had been congratulating him and his colleagues on their brilliant management of a carbon monoxide poisoning incident. As Chief of Professional Services for the Surgeon of the U.S. Army and for the United Nations Forces, I had been so impressed by this young doctor’s actions that I came down personally to review the case with him.
In his tent we chatted about the incidence of such poisoning among soldiers. Korean homes are heated with a soft coal, called yantan, which is pressed into large bricks and burned in a stove beneath one corner of the house. Smoke and fumes are ducted through the clay and tile floor to a chimney on the opposite side of the structure, warming the building and its occupants. If a leak develops, carbon monoxide is released into the house.
Often U.S. soldiers would leave their base of assignment, go into a nearby village, get drunk, and fall asleep near a yantan stove. Occasionally they suffered carbon monoxide poisoning and were returned to the base unconscious. In the course of treatment, it was customary to check the alcohol level in their blood.
I asked the doctor what this soldier’s blood-alcohol level had been, and his answer was both startling and satisfying.
“Oh, I didn’t get a blood-alcohol reading on Private Christian,” he said. “He’s a Mormon.”
I played along.
“What’s that got to do with it?” I asked. “This fellow went into town and was found unconscious. How do you know his unconsciousness wasn’t caused by alcoholic intoxication?”
The doctor replied, “Because this is Christian. He never does anything that is not proper and exemplary.”
The doctor explained that nearly everyone on the base knew that Private Christian was a returned missionary for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. He had served his mission in Korea, spoke the language, and during his off-duty hours he often went to the village to visit with the people. He had taught some of them about his church, and they had joined. They lived in a small hamlet next to the base but had gone with Christian to religious services in Taejon.
The private had returned home with them Sunday evening and was invited to spend the night. Because he was the honored guest, he was given the place closest to the smoldering yantan. But it was a cold night, and all the openings in the building had been closed. A crack in the floor had not been noticed. As the American soldier slept, he had been overcome by the gases.
With utmost pride I informed my medical colleague that I, too, was Mormon. I marveled that he could have known this young private so well. He replied that he didn’t know many soldiers closely but that Christian’s life was so distinct that it set him apart from all the other men on the base.
I have never had the opportunity to meet Brother Christian and can only speculate about the total amount of good he did in an environment that normally draws out the base instincts of men. But I will never forget the impression he made on the doctor who treated him and the example he set for me. He had made proper decisions about many things in life years before being plunged into the challenges of military life, and he had not allowed environment to deter his power to do good. The other soldiers knew him for what he was—uncompromising. I am sure that many of them carry his example in their memories, even as I do, and I’m grateful to him for letting his light shine.

As a teenager, I especially liked driving the furniture delivery truck. One evening when I was backing the truck out of the driveway to go back to the store, I came to a sudden stop accompanied by a loud crash. I pulled forward and then backed up only to crash again. When I got out to inspect, I discovered that I had left the tailgate down, and it had punctured the door of a car parked across the street from our driveway. When I had pulled forward and then backed up to see what had happened, I had crumpled the fender of another car. I waited until I got home later that night to tell my dad and was relieved that he only gave me a stern talking to rather than a licking. Actually, I think he was pleased that I had told the truth.

Ever since he was a boy, Wilford Woodruff wanted to know which church was true. When he was 26 years old, he still had not joined any church. He lived with his brother Azmon on his farm.
Wilford: Heavenly Father, help me to know how to live my life.
On December 29, 1833, two Mormon missionaries stopped at Azmon’s house. He and Wilford were both away working, but Azmon’s wife was home.
Missionary: God has restored His Church upon the earth, and we would like to tell you more about it.
Woman: My husband and brother-in-law are not home right now, but we would definitely be interested in hearing more.
The missionaries rented the local schoolhouse that afternoon. They passed out notices inviting anybody who wanted to learn more about the gospel to come to a meeting that evening.
When Wilford got home from working, his sister-in-law told him about the meeting. He immediately turned his horses around and started to the schoolhouse, praying the whole way to know whether or not the missionaries were true followers of Christ.
Woman: But, Wilford, what about supper?
Wilford: These men could be the answer to my prayers! I must go.
Wilford arrived at the schoolhouse, which was packed with people. His brother Azmon was already there. Wilford couldn’t find an empty chair, so he sat on one of the writing desks where he could see and hear everything.
Missionary: I bear strong testimony of the divine authenticity of the Book of Mormon. I also know that Joseph Smith is a prophet who has come to fulfill a great mission here on earth.
Wilford: I can feel the Spirit telling me that these are men of God.
After the missionaries were finished speaking, they asked members of the congregation if they would like to stand and say anything. Immediately, Wilford stood up and told everyone that he knew the missionaries were speaking the truth.
Wilford: The Lord urges me to bear testimony of the truth of this message. Do not oppose these men, for they are true servants of God. They have preached to us the pure gospel of Jesus Christ.
Two days later Wilford and his brother Azmon were baptized.

Teo Thiam Chye, a young missionary from Singapore, says, “I noticed the good change in my sister’s life when she followed her Christian friends to church. I didn’t have the courage then to ask my parents for permission to follow my sister and her friends, but now I know that faith without works is dead. As years passed and I began going to Christian churches, my father drove me from the house. I went to live with my second eldest sister’s family and assisted them in any way I could. God sent two of his faithful servants to us and the light, life, and truth was revealed to me. I was baptized, and a short time later I received the priesthood. Since then I have served as branch clerk. How kind and loving our Father in heaven can be to his children if they will exercise their faith in him. I am most grateful to our Lord for preparing the way for my mission.” Elder Teo Thiam Chye was called to the Southeast Asian Mission.

Last July, 25 youth of the Bentonville First Ward, Rogers Arkansas Stake, got together to take the 48-hour Book of Mormon challenge. The goal was to read the entire book in two days. They started at 7:00 a.m. on Friday morning, taking turns reading for the entire group. At 11:00 p.m. the youth split up by classes and quorums to spend the night in members’ homes. Then the whole group got back together at 7:00 a.m. on Saturday for breakfast and to begin reading again. At 5:30 p.m. the group completed the challenge by reading aloud together the last three verses, Moroni 10:32–34.
Throughout the two days, the youth welcomed guest readers, or “prophets,” who came to reenact their parts in the Book of Mormon. There were visits from King Benjamin, Ammon, and Samuel the Lamanite.
Everyone had a list of scripture mastery verses, and whoever called out “scripture mastery” first when the group came to a scripture mastery verse was rewarded with a candy bar. Then the entire group would recite the scripture together.
“The Spirit I felt throughout the reading amazed me,” said Kara Barnes, 16. “The thing I loved most was how it all made sense. Everything fell perfectly into place. I love the Book of Mormon. The Spirit it brings is just wonderful.”
“What impressed me the most was the many times the Nephites and Lamanites switched off in righteousness,” said Carl Monson, 14. “It showed how the missionary work went through the whole land.”

Katelyn B., 16, from Missouri, USA, was working on her Personal Progress when she noticed some of the projects she had set felt a little too easy to accomplish. So she decided she needed to challenge herself to do something greater and perhaps a little more meaningful. Little did she know she would also have to face one of her fears: speaking in public. Maybe not such a scary thing for some people, but for Katelyn it certainly was.

As Katelyn thought about setting a Personal Progress project goal for divine nature, she thought a lot about creating a project that could take her out of her comfort zone and really push her. She asked her leaders for ideas and one suggested visiting little girls in hospitals. Katelyn initially wanted to forget the idea. What would she even say to them?

But as Katelyn tried to think of a different project, her mind kept going back to those little girls. They are daughters of God like me, she thought. Maybe I could help some of them. She still felt the fear, but realizing she couldn’t push the feeling off any further, she got to work planning. Just a couple months later she began dressing up like a princess on her way to uplift and inspire the girls she visits in the hospital.

“Going to the hospital for the first time was one of the hardest things I have done,” Katelyn says. “It’s hard for me to talk to people I don’t know. But after the little girls saw me and began smiling, I felt peace. I knew it was what I needed to be doing.”

The glitter from Katelyn’s dress caught the little girls’ attention as she walked into the hospital rooms. This unexpected visit from a princess brightened their day. “They need to know they are important too,” she recounts.

Her goal was to help them smile as they engaged in fun activities and to encourage them to keep going.

“You really are a princess, whether you think you look like a princess or not,” says Katelyn. With a new perspective on divine nature, Katelyn learned to see these girls as daughters of God with great potential.

Katelyn is no superhero flying across the sky. She hasn’t done anything to break world records. But visiting her little princesses in hospitals has helped her overcome her fear and realize her true worth as a daughter of God.

I had almost completed Grandma’s history by the time I found out what happened to her prize saddle. I ran across a letter from Bishop Jensen in the box of papers Uncle Sid had given me.
“Dear Annie: I know how you like your gifts to be anonymous. But I just wanted to tell you how thrilled the Hansens are with your saddle. They were afraid of paralysis after the accident, but now their little Marie seems determined to put that saddle on a horse. I knew you wanted your saddle to go to a girl who loves horses, and there’s no doubt Marie loves horses.”
I finished Grandma’s history and made copies for my family. Everyone was thrilled, including Bishop Jensen, who turned 100 years old the day I gave him his copy.
By the way, I never did beat that sassy blonde from Glenville in the barrels. She got married that summer and moved away. But the next year, I shortened my stirrups a notch like Grandma said and won second place. First place went to Rebecca Williams, who happened to be “little” Marie Hansen’s daughter.
Grandma’s saddle deserved to win first.

Last August we took some of our grandchildren to Timpanogos Cave National Monument, one of Utah’s most popular destinations. It is a rather strenuous one-and-a-half-mile (2.4 km) hike to reach the cave but well worth the effort to witness the cave’s beautiful, spiraling formations. I was certain that nine-year-old Ruthie would have little difficulty, but I wondered whether six-year-old Caroline would have the strength and stamina to make it all the way.
We were all very excited to begin the hike, and at first we moved rapidly along the paved trail. One-fourth of the way came quickly, but it took longer to reach the halfway point. Caroline started to get discouraged. Ruthie was doing well and encouraged Caroline to continue. We slowed down so Caroline could keep up. Then it seemed that everything went wrong. Strong winds came up, and the dust from the winds made it difficult to see. It was a little scary, and as if that weren’t enough, we came across a signpost that read, “Rattlesnake Habitat. Stay on the Trail. Stay Safe.”
Slowly we trudged along, three-fourths of the way to our goal, but we still had the steepest part of the mountain to climb. Tired, scared, and doubting her abilities, Caroline sat down and tearfully declared, “I give up! I can’t go any farther!”
We sat down, and we talked about what we should do. We made a plan. We decided to count our steps and see how we felt after 100 steps. Ruthie and I assured Caroline that we would help her. We were to look for something that made us happy along the way and share our discoveries. We even sang some Primary songs.
Things changed. Caroline made the choice to follow the plan. One hundred steps made an impossible task seem doable. Caroline knew we would help her, and as we looked for the good things around us and sang songs, we felt happier.
Young women, choose good friends who will support you in your righteous decision to follow the plan. Like Ruthie, who gave encouragement to Caroline, we know that many of you can do much to strengthen each other. After you receive your Young Womanhood Recognition, it is your turn to be the “big sister.” Earning your Honor Bee will give you opportunities to strengthen another young woman with your righteous example and testimony as you mentor her with her Personal Progress.
Finally, live to be worthy of the companionship of the Holy Ghost. When we helped Caroline, looked for the good around us, and even sang Primary songs, we invited the Spirit. We felt love, joy, and peace, which are fruits of the Spirit (see Galatians 5:22). You will need that peace and assurance when Satan tries to confuse you with winds of doubt, when you are tempted to take another path, or when others are unkind or mock you for your beliefs.

“We love to study the gospel together,” Esther says. They joined the Church after the missionaries came to their home in 1954. “Eternal marriage impressed Palle, and I was struck by the plan of salvation.”

They took the discussions for a while in 1956, and Palle felt spiritual promptings when he read Nephi’s writings. Then one day, without mentioning it to Esther, he was baptized. Soon, Esther noticed a difference in him and asked, “You’ve been baptized, haven’t you?” After more missionary lessons, she was baptized, too. Since then, she has served as Relief Society president twice, and he has presided over both the branch and the district, as well as serving as Fredericia’s first bishop.

Their baptisms occurred just a little more than a hundred years after the first baptisms in Denmark in August 1850, after Elder Erastus Snow had opened the Scandinavian Mission. Today, Denmark has two stakes and 4,100 members.

It’s part of the Soviet Union now, the village in Karelia where I spent my childhood. The Russians annexed it, along with the rest of the Karelian region, after the two countries fought a war in 1939–40. But when I was young, the land of lakes, marshes, streams, cold weather, and hills was part of Finland. And that meant it was a land of skiing and of ski races.
Each February, when the worst of the winter chill was over, the townsfolk would break free from hibernation and gather at a large sand pit on the outskirts of the village. The sand pit was the site for the finish line of the cross-country competition, and for good reasons. For one thing, the hole torn from the side of the hill by summertime construction workers was large enough not only for the finish line, but for a food stand as well. On race day, the air was rich with the aroma of gooey, steaming meat pies and sausages. For another thing, the snow-covered sides of the sand pit formed a natural amphitheater. Standing around its sides and rim, spectators could clearly view the final stretch of the course, and the entire town knew who the victor was the moment he crossed the line.
There were many preparations for the contest. Race officials tied blue paper armbands on some of the older children, authorizing them to monitor crowds and keep competition lanes uncluttered. Trails were marked for the different events—courses of short duration for younger children, longer ones for older children; separate trails for male and female teenagers and for men and women; and even a grandpa trail for the older folks, who always did themselves proud in their own special race. Each group followed its own path, clearly marked by colored paper streamers. But the biggest event of all was the men’s 30-kilometer race. The winner was the star of the village for a year, the man who had proved what he was made of. Many a quiet farmer, shoemaker, or storekeeper imagined himself gliding past his neighbors and on to victory.
As children, though, we had a hero of our own. We called him Tappi-Eiska. He was the smallest and shortest possible full-grown man without being a midget. He was also the nicest, funnest person we knew outside our family circles. Maybe his shortness helped us relate to him, because we could look at him eye-to-eye. Maybe we understood the straggles he’d been through because of his size. “Eiska” is probably a shortened form of Einari, which could have been his true first name. But “Tappi,” in Finnish, means “stump” or “shortie,” and it might well be that originally the nickname was intended as an insult. It didn’t matter to us children. He was our candidate for skier of the year.
The problem was, Tappi-Eiska wasn’t much of a skier. The first year he raced in the men’s division was a fiasco. The men had to go around a ten-kilometer course three times, and when the winner came in, Tappi-Eiska was just finishing his first lap. By the time Tappi did finish, the other skiers were all in the sauna or on the way home. Only a few disappointed children waited for their tired friend at the finish line.
The rest of that winter and all of the next one, Tappi-Eiska spent every spare minute skiing on that trail. In the summer he swam and rowed a big army boat around in the Vuoksi River. He didn’t grow taller, but he did grow muscular. We children were excited, certain that all those muscles and all that practice would make him a winner at last. We thought a man should win just because he was nice. It always happened that way in the movies.
But Tappi-Eiska didn’t win that year, either. This time, he crossed the line with the last group of skiers. At least he wasn’t hours behind, and some other people besides us saw him complete the race. We figured his legs were just too short to compete with the big guys. Maybe he’d even give up now.
But during the next year, Tappi-Eiska showed us what the Finnish word sisu means. In English, it translates as determination or spunk. And that’s what this man had. He went on training and training and training. By the time of the next ski contest, we knew Tappi would win. Of course, we had felt that way every year, but this time it seemed possible all over again.
The striding skiers kicked up snow as they raced into the forest. Through one lap, through two, and back into the forest again. When we knew they would be coming into sight, some of us, on skis ourselves, moved out from the sand hole to meet the winner, sure that it would be our hero.
We waited in the cold. The trees were white with frost. Smoke from the few visible chimneys stretched straight up in gray ribbons. Our cheeks were red. But then, suddenly, we were warm all over! Emerging from the edge of the forest was the shortest man in town, now the biggest man in town—Tappi-Eiska! He was ahead of everyone else—everyone! Even the adults rose to their feet to cheer him on.
He came to the hill. We could see his short legs pumping so fast we could hardly focus on them. Then behind him came another man, a huge, lumbering giant! I’m sure many of us wished inside that somehow this long-legged pest would trip or break a ski, anything to keep him from passing. But as the two neared the top of the sand hole, the larger skier slipped past and crossed the line first.
How often in the years since then have I felt sorry for the man who came in first. Few of us cheered the victor. But when Tappi-Eiska crossed that line, bedlam broke loose. We followed him on our skis down into the pit, and no older children with blue armbands could have stopped us. We mobbed around Tappi-Eiska, then threw him into the air, skis and all. Many townspeople, who knew of Tappi’s struggles, joined us. Some were weeping openly. We completely forgot that he had come in second, not first. This stubbornly determined little man had shown us the value of not giving up and had become the hero of my childhood.
That was 1938. The war came the next year and took many things away. There were no ski contests. I never got my chance to be one of the older children wearing a blue armband and monitoring the crowd. And Tappi-Eiska never got another chance to prove he could cross the finish line first. But for me, and for the others, he would never have to. He had already proved he was a true winner in every sense of the word.

The girls decided to use this experience as a Personal Progress project. Each girl sewed her own bonnet as part of the authentic pioneer costume for the festival. They practiced for hours to memorize the story they had chosen—the story of Fanny Fry, who traveled with the George Rowley handcart company in 1859.
Fanny was separated from her family and endured hardships while crossing the plains. One day she fainted and was run over by her handcart. Thinking she was dead, the sisters began preparing her for burial. The Iowa Beehives love to tell how surprised those good sisters were when Fanny opened her eyes. Despite her injuries, Fanny pressed on and was later reunited with her sister.