Gospel Story Finder

Elder H. Burke Peterson, then of the Presiding Bishopric, related the experience of a group of teenagers who were picnicking in the desert outside Phoenix, Arizona. One of the girls was bitten by a rattlesnake. Instead of immediately seeking medical attention, the group pursued the snake and sought revenge by killing it with rocks. Unfortunately, during the precious minutes that the group wasted in exacting revenge, the poison had time to move from the surface of the girl’s skin into the tissues of her foot and leg; her leg later had to be amputated below the knee.
“It was a senseless sacrifice, this price of revenge. … The poison of revenge, or of unforgiving thoughts or attitudes, unless removed, will destroy the soul in which it is harbored,” said Bishop Peterson.

After World War II on a cold night in a train station in southern Japan, I heard a tap on the train window. There stood a boy wearing the same ragged shirt, a rag tied about a swollen jaw, his head covered with scabies. He held a rusty tin can and a spoon, the symbol of an orphan beggar. As I struggled to open the door to give him money, the train pulled out. I will never forget that hungry little boy standing in the cold, holding up his empty tin can.

The handsome American youth had only been in Czechoslovakia for a few weeks. With absolutely no language training he had come to preach the gospel to the Czech people in their own tongue. Now the time had arrived to preach his first sermon to a group of Saints and interested investigators. His experienced companion had labored diligently to help him write his speech and had also provided a phonetic guide to aid in the pronunciation of this very difficult language. Now he must face the congregation alone.

When the young man began to speak the senior companion suffered in silence as his youthful counterpart proceeded to violate every grammatical rule in the entire Czech language. However, all was not lost, because his pronunciation was so atrocious that few in the audience could tell what he was saying anyway.

After the meeting, the young elder felt somewhat embarrassed and disappointed until a matronly investigator approached him. With tear-stained cheeks and trembling voice she told him (through an interpreter), "I felt that everything you said was true—I’d like to be baptized." The promise in the Book of Mormon is that "when a man speaketh by the power of the Holy Ghost the power of the Holy Ghost carrieth it unto the hearts of the children of men" (2 Ne. 33:1).

William hopped into the car next to Jeremy and buckled his seat belt.
Is everybody ready for preschool?
Yes!
Yes!
Jeremy’s mom started driving down the road, and William opened his lunch box. He pulled out a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and took a big bite.
Jeremy looked at William’s sandwich. It looked yummy. Jeremy was hungry.
Mom, I’m hungry. Do you have something for me to eat?
Sorry, Jeremy. We ate before we left. I don’t have anything else.
OK.
Jeremy was sad. He wanted a sandwich too.
William saw that Jeremy was sad. He pulled off a piece of his sandwich and handed it to Jeremy.
Here you go!
Thanks, William. You’re nice.
No problem. That’s what friends are for!

One of my favorite books is the British classic Jane Eyre, written by Charlotte Brontë and published in 1847. The main character, Jane Eyre, is a penniless, teenage orphan who exemplifies what it means to be true. In this fictional account, a man, Mr. Rochester, loves Miss Eyre but is unable to marry her. Instead, he begs Miss Eyre to live with him without the benefit of marriage. Miss Eyre loves Mr. Rochester as well, and for a moment she is tempted, asking herself, “Who in the world cares for you? or who will be injured by what you do?”
Quickly Jane’s conscience answers: “I care for myself. The more solitary, the more friendless, the more unsustained I am, the more I will respect myself. I will keep the law given by God. … Laws and principles are not for the times when there is no temptation: they are for such moments as this. … If at my individual convenience I might break them, what would be their worth? They have a worth—so I have always believed. … Preconceived opinions, foregone determinations, are all I have at this hour to stand by: there I plant my foot.”
In a desperate moment of temptation, Jane Eyre was true to her beliefs, she trusted in the law given by God, and she planted her foot in resistance to temptation.

Recently I received an assignment to minister to a sister neither my companion nor I knew well. As I counseled with Jess, my 16-year-old ministering companion, she wisely suggested, “We need to get to know her.”
We immediately decided that a selfie and an introductory text were in order. I held the phone, and Jess pushed the button to take the photo. Our first ministering opportunity was a companionship effort.
On our first visit, we asked our sister if there was anything we could include in our prayers on her behalf. She shared a tender personal challenge and said she would so welcome our prayers. Her honesty and confidence brought an instant bond of love. What a sweet privilege to remember her in my daily prayers.

Angelina stood straight and tall as she sang the Christmas carols. She wore a new white dress that Mama had made especially for her.
Angelina glanced at the tall evergreen tree reaching almost to the ceiling of the big school hall. The colored lights glowed softly over the chorus.
Everyone had brought ornaments and garlands of sparkling tinsel from home, and the tree was full and beautiful. The children in the fifth grade had built a fireplace with red cellophane inside to look like flames. Hanging from the mantel were stockings—knitted ones and felt ones with sequins and holly on the tops and the toes. Packages wrapped with beautiful papers and huge ribbon bows surrounded the tree.
As Angelina looked down at the audience, she could see Mama’s big brown eyes looking up at her. Now Mama will see, she thought. Now she’ll understand that this is the way we should celebrate Christmas in America. We live here now, and we should do things the way they do.
The final carol was “Silent Night.” The audience was asked to join in on the last verse. Angelina was embarrassed. She knew Mama didn’t know the words, and if anyone else looked at her, they would know it too. She hoped her friend Jane wouldn’t notice.
When the concert was over, Jane hurried over to Angelina and asked, “Is that your mother with the brown coat? Are those your little brothers sitting next to her?”
Angelina looked at her family. She saw them as she though Jane must be seeing them. They were different from everyone else—you could tell that right away.
Mama smiled and beckoned to her daughter. Angelina knew that Jane wanted to meet her family, but she left her standing alone in the hall with only a hurried goodbye. “I have to run. See you later!”
Angelina put her thin coat on over her new white dress and took each of her little brothers by the hand. Together they crunched over the snow and pushed through the brown slush at the curbs, breaking a path for Mama.
Little José shivered as Angelina picked him up. “Well,” she said, “how did you like the Christmas program?”
“Pretty,” he said. “Pretty.”
She hugged him and he let his head drop to her shoulder. “I liked it,” he said shyly.
“I’m glad you did,” said Angelina, “and I’ll bet Roy did too.”
“I liked it,” Roy said, “but I also like our Christmas.”
“Oh, but that’s so old fashioned,” Angelina snapped. “It’s not the same in this country. Putting straw in your shoes for the wise men’s camels is just plain silly! And why don’t we have Christmas on Christmas Day? Why wait twelve days? I couldn’t stand our old Christmas anymore now that I know what a real Christmas is.”
She turned to help Mama over a large puddle of slush. Mama’s face looked a little sad, and for a minute Angelina felt unhappy about what she’d said. But, after all, they were in America now and they might just as well live like their neighbors.
By the time Christmas Eve finally arrived, Angelina made sure everyone had a stocking to hang up. They pinned their stockings to the back of Papa’s chair.
Papa had brought home a tree, and Angelina decorated it with a string of lights she bought with her baby-sitting money. The boys helped hang ribbons and a bird from one of Mama’s hats on the tree.
“We need something with sparkle!” Papa said as he tied silver spoons all over the tree. When he turned off the ceiling light and plugged in the tree lights, it was lovely.
Angelina looked at her brothers. “How do you like an American Christmas now?”
Little José clapped his hands and said, “Pretty. Pretty.”
But Roy called, “Mama! Where is the straw for our shoes? What will the camels do for straw? And where are the luminarias (lamps) and the candles to go in them?”
Angelina felt hot anger rise in her throat and soar up into her cheeks. “Roy! We don’t do that anymore,” she scolded.
“That’s for Mexico. This is America! Don’t you understand?”
“Why, Angelina!” Mama said.
“Well, why don’t they try to understand?” Angelina asked.
“They are trying,” her mother said. “But it’s hard for them to learn the new ways. It’s hard for all of us—even for you.”
Angelina ran to her room. Her throat ached as she held back the tears. Why couldn’t her family see what she was trying to do? If Jane ever came over to the house and saw luminarias and straw in their shoes, she would think it very strange.
Baby Linda made a little sound and Angelina bent to look at her in the cradle Papa had made. Linda looked like the baby in the manger scene at Las Posadas, when everyone in town, carrying candles, joins a procession looking for shelter for Joseph and Mary. Linda looked just like that baby. Angelina lightly ran a finger over Linda’s smooth soft cheek. Then she walked out of the bedroom and stood looking at her family.
She suddenly realized that Papa had always played the part of Martolo, the lazy shepherd, in the Christmas play in Mexico. He had accepted the part from Grandfather with tears in his eyes. “I’ll do it well, Papa,” he had said. “Then I’ll give the part to Roy when he is old enough.”
Angelina looked at Mama and remembered how in Mexico she always had a supply of bizcochitos (rolls) and candy for the children who went from door to door singing songs.
But most of all, she thought of Roy and little Jose. How much they would miss if they never put out shoes of straw for the camels, joined a Las Posadas procession, or hit a pinata with a stick until all the candy and toys showered out over them!
“Mama!” Angelina burst out. “Mama, I was wrong.”
Everyone turned to look at her. Mama held out her arms and Angelina ran into them.
“I can hardly wait for January sixth, the Day of the Wise Men,” she cried. “Then we can do all the things we have always done—the lovely old things.”
“The new is good, Angelina,” Mama said, “but the old ways are good too. Many people here do not know about our customs. Maybe we could show them. You could invite a friend.”
“Jane would come,” Angelina said.
“She might like to see how we celebrate Christmas,” Mama said.
“I’ll go get the straw for the shoes,” said Roy.
Angelina laughed. “No, Roy,” she said. “That isn’t until the Day of the Wise Men on January sixth. Remember?”
“We all remember,” said Mama very quietly.
Angelina smiled. “I remember too, Mama,” she said. “And it’s good to remember.”

Before dances, dating, and driving occupied my weekends, I often spent Saturday nights babysitting. I remember thinking that I was prepared for any challenge. I had already dealt with overflowing toilets, policemen at the front door, minor illnesses and injuries, and even a leaking ceiling. But I was about to face my biggest babysitting challenge, and it would happen while the kids were sleeping happily and safely down the hall.
Mrs. Porter* left in a hurry, handing me her usual list of instructions and emergency phone numbers with a note at the bottom that read, “I grabbed a movie for you to watch after the kids go to bed. It’s supposed to be good. Thanks again.”
With the exception of an entire bottle of bubbles being spilled on the closet floor, the night went without major upsets. Five rounds of Mother May I later, bedtime came and I had a chance to see what Mrs. Porter had picked out.
I popped the movie into the VCR and read the description on the back of the box. The opening credits started rolling as I noticed the letter R in the bottom corner. With a sigh of exasperation, I pushed eject and put the movie back in the box. I didn’t watch R-rated movies.
But sitting there on top of the TV, the movie seemed to stare at me, calling my name. The minutes seemed like hours as thoughts started to invade my mind, forcing me to question my standards.
No one will know if you watch this, it seemed to say to me. When you’re done, you can just hit rewind. You don’t have to tell anyone. Besides, it’s just a little bad language. It’s not like you don’t hear worse language every day in the hallways of school. How bad could it be? No one will know.
The movie won. My heart started to pound as I opened the box. It’s just a movie, I reassured myself. Just as I reached to put the movie into the machine, I paused. What was I doing?
Then it hit me. Even if no one else in the world ever found out what I had done, I would know, and my Heavenly Father would know. I shut the box with a snap, amazed that I had come so close to doing something I knew in my heart was wrong. The movie lost.
Standing there with the box in my hands, I made a promise to myself to keep my mind clean of things that did not meet Heavenly Father’s standards. I promised to do what was right, even when no one was watching.

Clemmie chuckled. “I remember one time when I was about sixteen. I had a beau, one of the hired hands from a neighboring farm, who had invited me to a barn dance. Shortly before the dance my father noticed that the chicken coop hadn’t been cleaned and reminded me that it was my turn to clean it. I had completely forgotten! He said I couldn’t go out that night until the job was done.”
“What did you do, Clemmie? Did you have to stay home?”
Clemmie smiled as she continued: “No, I talked my brother into doing it for me. I had to promise to take his turn the next three times. If you knew what a hated job it was, you’d know how much I wanted to go to that dance!”

by Marco Holbrook
Everything was ready. Balloons and bunting were up; booths for the fair waited for the crowd. We, the 65 Mia Maids, Laurels, teachers, and priests from the Torrance California North Stake, focused our attention on the parking lot where our special guests would soon be arriving. It was almost noon.
Earlier, before breakfast at the stake center, each of us had signed our name next to a number on a list. The number represented one of the guests who would be coming. Following the meal, Mrs. Dori Livingston of the Southwest Association for the Mentally Retarded briefed us on what to expect. She showed a film of last year’s regional Special Olympics. She explained how these children, each a victim of a developmental disability, responded to the challenge of competing with others with similar handicaps.
The film was full of happy faces of kids of all ages. Some had noticeable problems, but most of them looked perfectly normal. It was their smiles, however, that caught our attention. There was something very special about those winning smiles as contestants crossed finish lines.
Mrs. Livingston explained some possible problems we might have to deal with and told us what to do in a matter-of-fact way. I’m sure some of us looked a little worried. She also explained that the parents of the children who were coming might be a little nervous, too, and therefore overprotective—after all, none of us had ever done this before, and they certainly didn’t want their children put in an unhappy situation. Somehow that reassured us, because our parents wouldn’t want that to happen to us, either.
We were bused to El Nido Park in Redondo Beach and spent the morning putting up booths, blowing up helium balloons, and tacking up signs. Now we sat wondering if we really could handle the service project we’d taken on for the afternoon.
As the first carloads started to arrive, it was quiet at the check-in stand. Each guest was paired up with a guide for the day. The guests, for the most part, were less shy than the guides. Hot dogs, punch, potato chips, and cupcakes quickly bridged the communication gap, and soon new friends were piling trash in barrels and heading for the games, including a fishing booth, a ring toss, pie-eating contests, and make-up artists painting clown faces on anyone who asked. At the ball toss, everyone won a prize. And everyone got a kick out of winning, though the prizes were nothing special. The smiles, those same winning smiles, radiated on the faces of our guests. After everyone had done everything at least three times, there was a ball game on the south diamond and a game of tag nearby. Even the parents relaxed and got acquainted with each other as they watched their children mingle. By 3:00 everyone was tired and ready to go home.

When we grew older, I had another test of being a pioneer. I had many friends, and a lot of them didn’t know Jenny. Although they were never rude, I always felt torn between Jenny and my other friends. It was hard and definitely a conscious effort, but I decided to help them get to know her. In time my other friends felt more comfortable with Jenny.
To this day, I am still friends with Jenny. She goes to my same high school, and I see her almost every day. I truly feel proud to walk around the halls with her.

Life isn’t always ideal. Some of you might have had painful experiences similar to someone I’ll call Amber, a client I worked with in my position as a counselor with Family Services. Amber has given permission for this part of her story to be shared in this article.
Shortly after Amber was born, her mom decided to leave Amber’s father. Once Amber was old enough to care for herself, her mom left her home alone all day to work two or three jobs.
Amber saw happy families around her with both a mother and a father and wished her family could be together too. She took care of herself most days, and when her mom was home, she enforced strict rules and expectations to protect Amber from getting into trouble.
Amber’s difficult childhood left her with a lot of negative feelings toward her parents.

As they looked through the box, Zach held up an old airplane ticket.
“Why is this in your treasure box?” he asked.
Dad took the ticket. “During my first year of college, my family sent me this ticket so I could fly home for Thanksgiving. I got a ride from some friends, but they couldn’t take me all the way to the airport.”
“Where did they take you?” Zach asked.
“They dropped me off at a street corner,” said Dad. “I didn’t know how to get to the airport from there. I was worried I would miss the plane.”
“Did you call someone on your cell phone?” Tasha asked.
“Cell phones weren’t invented yet!” Mom said with a laugh.
“So what did you do?” Patrick asked.
“I started praying,” said Dad. “I prayed hard that Heavenly Father would help me. Then I saw a car coming. It was my old bishop! He gave me a ride to the airport. I saved the ticket and put it in my treasure box.”

In September 1977, I was nineteen years old and studying in Quetzaltenango, Guatemala, to become a school teacher. One afternoon while walking home, I noticed a little stream of rain water running down the street toward my apartment. It was carrying a piece of paper. Just to entertain myself, I decided to keep pace with that piece of paper. When I got to my apartment, I picked it up.
It was a pamphlet. I will never forget its title: The Church as Organized by Jesus Christ. At one time I had been very interested in finding the church that Jesus Christ had set up. I had investigated many churches, but I had joined none. I had finally given up my search. But now as I read the title on the pamphlet, somehow I knew I had found the true church. On the back of the pamphlet was a name—The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I determined to find that church.
School resumed in January, and I went back to Quetzaltenango. Although I had lived in that city for three years, I had never seen a Latter-day Saint church there. One Sunday I decided that if one existed, I was going to find it. I got up early and began asking everyone I met if they knew the location of the church. At first, no one did. Others sent me in the wrong direction. But after three hours, I finally located the meetinghouse and literally ran toward it.
The building was beautiful. I wondered if this was a church just for the rich. Because I am a shy person, I quietly took a seat in the back of the chapel. I knew no one there, and nobody spoke to me, but I loved the meeting. There was a feeling in my heart that I had never felt in any other place on earth.
The next Sunday I returned, thinking that if the preacher asked people to come up front and accept Christ, I would be the first to go. But nobody called us to go up. Three members shared short messages. How different this church is! I thought. But I liked it. Unfortunately, the members still did not notice me, and I decided I would go back only one more week. I couldn’t keep attending if I had no one to talk to. At least I would have a beautiful memory to cherish.
The meetings were equally pleasing on the third Sunday. When they were over, everyone began leaving, talking happily. I sat on a bench in the entryway, almost in tears at the idea of not coming back. Then a well-dressed young man with blond hair sat down next to me. In broken Spanish, he asked how long I had been a member of the Church.
“I’m not a member,” I said, “only visiting.” He instantly took out a little book and asked for my address.
“Why do you need my address?”
“We would like to get to know you and teach you more about the Church,” he explained.
With great pleasure I accepted his invitation, and the missionaries began teaching me the gospel. I asked a great many questions, which they could not always answer, but they always came back with the answers the next day. People at school ridiculed me when they learned what I was doing, and family members who belonged to other churches kept trying to argue with me. But I kept learning, and in time I was baptized.

Blessed to be the mother of five children, eight grandchildren and 3 great-grandchildren, 77-year-old Carol Dunkley once enjoyed a life of physically active service and was a keen gardener. Nowadays, Carol, a member of the Townsville First Branch, which is part of the Townsville District in North Queensland, Australia, does what she can to be of service to the Lord because her body has developed some restrictions.
She remembers well the day in 2010 when a neurologist announced her ailment: “You have Parkinson’s.” Having had a hip replacement three years prior, Carol had suspected something was amiss with her hip because she couldn’t walk properly and went to her GP, who referred her to a specialist—so this diagnosis came as a shock.
The disease doesn’t yet have a cure. Initially, Carol had trouble walking; unfortunately, it progressed to instability and mobility uncertainty.
“Thankfully there are medications and surgical procedures that greatly help,” said Carol. She began a course of medications and felt much better. But frustrations became part of her life as she had to rely on others to do for her what she could no longer do herself—like gardening.
“I know that it is not curable. No surgery can fix it. One of the greatest lessons I have learnt is to take each day as it comes. If it is a good day, my prayer of thanks is given. If it has been a bad day – well tomorrow should be better. If things get too bad, I read. It takes me away from my problems and into another world; I know my faith is a great advantage. I am not alone. His help and comfort are always there. There is a lot to be thankful for, even though at times I have to look a bit harder for the blessings,” said Carol.
With physical service at a limit, Carol looked for a way she might still serve the Lord in a meaningful way—she found indexing—and for the past nine years has experienced great joy in helping to gather Israel in this important effort.
Carol’s journey to family history service has been a long time coming. Her father passed away when she was seven, and unfortunately the connection between her mother and her paternal family ceased because of a rift in the family. She does wish she had taken the time to gather information from her living relatives about their experiences and connections when they were still alive.
Married life in England was a struggle and she and her husband made the decision to immigrate to Australia in 1966 as ‘10-pound pommies’—the amount paid to each of them to travel by ship to relocate in Australia. Once settled in their new land, they looked for religion. Almost unbelievably, missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints knocked on their door and were eagerly invited in. As gospel principles and doctrines were taught, they felt familiar to the couple, and they loved learning about the covenants they could make with Heavenly Father.
Carol said: “When we were taught the law of tithing, I was sure we would starve. But with faith we obeyed and opportunities to improve our financial affairs started. A promotion at work for Michael, my husband—and the blessings just kept coming. Tithing is not about money; it is about faith. We were baptized and never looked back. It was one of the best decisions of our lives.
“The gospel opened a whole new world for me. The promise of Elijah—turning the hearts of the children to the fathers, and the [hearts of the] fathers to the children . . . my heart was turned to my ancestors.”
When Carol first searched for her ancestors 50 years ago—it was difficult and expensive, especially when looking for English relatives while she was living in Australia. FamilySearch has been such a blessing to her; no need now to sit and read microfilms to search out her family.
She said, “To date I have indexed 95,614 names and reviewed 19,050, a total of 114,664.
“I mostly index the English records as I am familiar with the names of places and also the English surnames. . . . It has also been amusing—at one stage I was going into some English records and the very early ones turned out to be written in Latin.
“At first, I just sent the batch back! Then I thought, ‘maybe I will take up this challenge.’ So, I reviewed the batches to get the feel of the records. Then I googled the Latin words for ‘birth,’ ‘marriage,’ ‘death,’ ‘mother’ and ‘father,’ which enabled me to complete the indexing, this made me feel quite pleased with myself that I had managed to index some records written in Latin.
“I can remember the thrill I felt when I saw a copy of the original marriage certificate of my grandfather on a microfilm and saw his signature and that of my grandmother. I’m sure that my grandad would never have thought that one day his granddaughter would be sitting at a microfilm reader looking at that same certificate image from faraway Australia.”
A few workshops after Carol’s Sunday meetings have been held and the youth were also invited. Carol finds it amazing to see how confident young people are when using computers. Now, a number of their Church youth make valiant efforts to index, and really enjoy the work.
“Who knows,” said Carol, “when it is my time to move on to the next stage of my eternal journey, I might just meet up with one of those sisters or brothers in the gospel whose name I’ve indexed, and who took the opportunity to accept the gospel ordinances as their name was taken through the temple. What a joy that would be!
“When I index names in FamilySearch, I pray that there may be many who have had the excitement of finding their ancestors on FamilySearch through the efforts of all those volunteers who engage in the indexing work of salvation.”

The dust chased the racing engine of the small import as it labored up the canyon road. It nearly succeeded in enveloping the car at the turn-around curve of each switchback only to be left behind as the gears changed and the complaining engine sped up. Near the top of the ridge the car turned sharply to the right, coasted up a slight incline to a small level opening overlooking the valley below, and stopped. The dust caught up with its now silent prey.
They sat in silence and watched the valley begin its transformation from day to early evening. After a few minutes, he opened the window, sniffed the last remains of the settling dust, and then opened his door to get out. “Well, here we are at Lover’s Leap. Ladies before gentlemen!” he said, as he opened the door for her.
They walked a short distance up the ridge to a large boulder. It was level enough near its base to serve as a chair for her as they attempted to find from this viewpoint the location of their homes among the orchards, fields, and tiny towns that made up their valley.
From that lookout the valley ran for fifteen miles to the north and twenty-five miles to the south. Its boundaries were fixed by the mountains that surrounded it on all sides.
“Brad, does it seem good to be home again?” she asked.
“You know, I think a large part of me is still back there giving discussions. It was, let me see, just twenty-six hours ago that I left my mission president and his wife at the airport. The plane flew home in about the time it took to figure out how to open the salad dressing lid on my supper. When the plane landed, I was in a different world. There was my mom and dad, brothers and sisters, my dog Smart, and you.”
“Listed in the order of their importance?” she teased.
“No, of course not. I’d rate Smart above my brothers and sisters. But what I want to know is, where on that ride did I change from Elder Roberts, missionary, to Brad Roberts, college dropout? Should I have asked the stewardess to help me drop my former identity out of the plane?”
“No. I think that if you ask for anything unusual on a plane now, they just fly you to Cuba.”
“This morning I woke up at six. I was racing for the shower to ace out my companion and just got to the door when I realized there was nobody to beat. I was home.”
“So you decided to get back to a civilized way of life and went back to sleep?” she asked.
“No, I went fishing.”
“And how did you do?”
“Don’t ask.”
“Brad Roberts, do you mean you were skunked?”
“Zero fish. It’s the full moon.”
She laughed. “That’s what my dad says when he doesn’t catch any fish—or else the river is too high or too low or under-stocked.”
“My old fishing hole, the one I kept secret from my brothers, the one you have to walk down the railroad tracks for a half mile and then into a bunch of trees to get to—I went there this morning.”
“By the way, how is it that you took me there once? Weren’t you afraid I’d tell everybody?”
“You are so bad at giving directions I knew that anybody you’d tell would wind up somewhere in the middle of a corn field in Nebraska.”
“Well!” she said, faking insult.
“So I tromp through the trees and what do I see across the river? A trailer camp with maybe a hundred campers and trailers. There’s no fish there now. All those guys from California or Montana or some place have taken my fish and gone. You know, I used to get my limit in an hour all the time there.”
“Has anything else changed, Brad?” The question, as she had intended it, should have evoked a discussion of the new motel, or the new stretch of interstate highway, or the addition to the ward chapel, or the way his brothers had grown in two years. But a certain edge in her voice betrayed her.
He caught the uncontrollable change in direction. “Whatever happened to Cathy Miller?”
“Isn’t she still waiting for Brad Roberts to get back from his mission?” she replied.
“All this time? Good grief, she waited all this time?”
“The happiest two years of his life,” she teased.
“What was it like for you?” he asked.
“The easiest thing in the world. I just called up all my old boyfriends and told them I was available.”
“Really? I knew you went and joined the Peach Fuzz Festival just for publicity; you know, for those guys who may not have been blessed to have been born in our fair town but could still read the paper.”
“It was the Strawberry Festival.”
“Cathy, what was it really like?”
She thought a while before answering. “After you left, I imagined I could wrap my life in Saran Wrap and let it sit for two years until you came back. But it’s a sterile existence to try to stop living and watch the clock tick. I couldn’t do it, Brad. I’ve had a busy life since you’ve been gone. But I always had a little comfortable room in my mind where memories of you hung like pictures from the walls. I often visited that room and remembered how good it was when we were together. That’s the way it was, Brad. You didn’t want me to tell you that I cried myself to sleep every night, did you?”
“No, Cathy. I never wanted that.”
They had walked back to the car. The sun had dropped down behind the mountain across the valley from them.
He reached through the window, opened the glove compartment, and pulled out a small package. “Cathy, I’ve got something that I want you to have.”
She opened it up. An engagement ring lay mounted on a velvet cushion.
“It’s beautiful, Brad.” She spoke quietly, her voice nearly cracking.
“I bought it two years ago before I left.” In case she might not realize, he added, “Cathy, it’s an engagement ring.”
“I know, Brad.”
“Will you marry me?”
She touched his hand lightly. “Brad, could we sit down for this?”
The cold silence beat its fury on them as he helped her into the car and walked around to the driver’s side and got in.
“Brad, why did you do this?”
“Because I want to marry you.”
“Why do you want to marry me?”
“We’ve talked about this before, Cathy. We agreed we would get married if you were still here when I got back.”
“And so now you feel obligated to me for waiting for you?”
His words leaped out. “Have you decided to go into law, for crying out loud! Why have we been writing all this time? Why did you go to summer school while I’ve been gone? So that you could work while I finished school. Why have you spent so much time with my parents while I’ve been gone?”
“You do feel obligated to me for the last two years, don’t you?”
“You’re twisting my words! You do remember that you said you would marry me, don’t you?”
“That was two years ago, Brad! Maybe you can say that it seems like you just left yesterday, but I can’t say that. It seems to me like you left ten years ago!”
He was confused and off balance. “I love you, Cathy,” he said softly.
“Why, Brad, you don’t even know me now; how could you love me?” Her words seemed to hit him. “Do you know who you love? You love a girl that doesn’t even exist anymore—a girl with my name but two years younger than me. You go ask her to marry you. But she won’t. Because she loves someone with your name but two years younger than you. You wouldn’t stand a chance with that girl.”
“What are you trying to tell me?”
“That I can’t accept your ring. At least not now.”
“Is there someone else?”
“Not really.”
She touched his arm. “You don’t owe me a thing, Brad. Most of all, you don’t owe me a proposal of marriage as a payment for waiting for you. I am not going to hold that club over your head. When I kneel across the altar in the temple, I’ve got to be certain that it’s the right guy for me and I want him to be convinced too.”
She handed him the jewelry box containing the ring.
“Am I still in the running?” he asked quietly.
“You are if I am, Brad. But with no pressure because of what we’ve talked about or written in the past. And not because our parents wish it. And not because of what it was like two years ago. You can’t save cotton candy.”
“You can’t what?”
“I was just remembering something that happened to me when I was a little girl. My father took me to a carnival and bought me some cotton candy. It was pink and looked like the clouds at sunset. I just thought it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. When we got home, it was time for bed. I decided to save it so that every day I could have it and look at its beauty. I put it in a little box and put the cover on. The next morning when I woke up, I rushed to look at my beautiful treasure. There was just a lump of sugar and a sticky cardboard funnel. I cried because I thought someone had destroyed it. When I told my mother that I had wanted it to last forever, she said, ‘You can’t save cotton candy. If you want cotton candy forever, you have to make a little every day.’”
They took a long silent look at their valley. The several small towns could be seen as small clusters of light around the darkness defining the lake.
“Cathy?”
“Yes?”
“Thanks. Is there anything else I should know?”
“Yes, Brad.”
“What is it?”
“I’m hungry.”
A hint of a smile swept across his face. “Well, at least that hasn’t changed.”
“Watch it, fella! That’s no way to talk to Miss Strawberry Festival.”
“Let’s go to the taco place we went to before I left.”
“We can’t. They tore it down last year.”
The car backed slowly down to the road, stopped, and then in low gear crept down the dusty road.

Recently, I was planning to move from Mtwivilla Street into a new apartment in Ikonongo, few blocks away in my home country of Tanzania. A few days after I paid for the first month’s rent, I started hearing stories about thieves. The lady next door told me about how her cell phone had been stolen few days ago. The stories made me feel uncomfortable and I thought maybe it was not a good idea for me to move. Thoughts of fear kept on ringing in my mind, to the extent that they interrupted and ruined my daily scripture study.
After battling with this for some days, I chose to keep up with my schedule and continue with my study of the Doctrine and Covenants. While reading section three, my mind was caught up to verses 7 and 8 where the Lord admonished Joseph Smith after he gave the 116 manuscript pages to Martin Harris, and the pages were subsequently lost. We know that Joseph Smith greatly relied upon the assistance of his friend Martin Harris, and he was thus eager to meet his friend’s request. However, the Lord told Joseph Smith: “For behold, you should not have feared man more than God . . .

“You should have been faithful; and he would have extended his arm and supported you against all the fiery darts of the adversary; and he would have been with you in every time of trouble.”2
That assurance melted all my fears and I realized that I had wasted much of my precious time trying to think about what thieves can do to me in the new place instead of trusting in what the Lord can do for me. The clear thought came to me that all I needed was to do my part in locking the windows and the door at night, and then keep the Lord’s commandments and He would provide peace and protection in my new place.
I am glad I chose to read my scriptures. The solution to my concern was there waiting for me: to just act on the prophet’s invitation to read the scriptures every day. I am very grateful for the companionship of the Holy Ghost that enlightened my mind to understand that precious truth from the Doctrine and Covenants.
I finally moved, and all has been well as I have continued to do my part and let the Lord do His. The peace, calm and comfort that I receive from my daily scripture study keep me going and increase my faith in Heavenly Father and in His Son Jesus Christ.

Very early in my childhood, I became aware of the importance of prayer and the awesome power of the holy priesthood. During the fall of 1942, the United States was involved in a war. My father was trying to finish building our house. He couldn’t get a furnace because all building materials were needed for the war. As the weather became colder, my little sister, Patricia, and I became very ill. She had bronchitis, and I had double pneumonia. The doctor offered little hope that I would live through the night.
Speaking of that “awful night of nights,” my mother said she became desperate as she felt for my pulse and could find none. She said I looked like a little statue lying there on my bed. She fervently prayed to the Lord, promising if I should live, she would give me back to the Lord for His service. During the night, my father gave me a priesthood blessing. As he laid his hands upon my head, I opened my eyes, and from that time on, I began to feel better. I know that through the prayers of my parents and the power of the priesthood, my life was spared.

Porter is grateful that his parents weren’t easy on him. “They wouldn’t always just help me when I felt like I couldn’t do something,” he says. “I eventually had to do it myself. That’s better than anything.”
His parents didn’t let him off the hook with chores, either. And when your family runs a sheep farm, that means lots of hard work, including moving large sprinkler pipes in the alfalfa fields, feeding the sheep, and helping out during lambing season.
“The first time I moved pipe,” he says, “I got so tired I thought I was going to faint. I got halfway through and just set the pipe down and laid down in the middle of the field. My back was sore for a week, but I was OK from then on.”

Throughout the years as an adult, dad, and Young Men’s leader, I have been part of and witnessed new adventures. One such adventure was a 54-mile white water rafting trip. This trip was my oldest son (Kaden’s) second and my youngest son (Gage’s) first. As you can imagine, they both showed different levels of excitement and courage. On the afternoon of day two and the morning of day three, we encountered a few obstacles.

On the morning of day three, the awareness heightened dramatically when we encountered our next obstacle. Waking up to this rattlesnake at our camp, I witnessed Kaden studying and finding a solution to keep the camp safe. Like many of you would be, he was not afraid, and I saw courage as he wanted to defend from, and even take the offensive to the threat of the snake.

After several minutes of discussion, despite his courage, the best option was to keep our distance. The risk and danger were more than we felt comfortable with because of the distance we were from any medical attention if one happened to get bit.