Gospel Story Finder

The air was charged with excitement as the families with their wagons, oxen, sheep, and other livestock gathered at the Missouri River to start the long trek westward early in the spring of 1852.
As twelve-year-old Albert Dickson wandered among the wagons, he saw many children. He even discovered several boys his own age. It was good to know that he would have friends on the long trip ahead.
Albert was just one of thousands of children pioneers who crossed the continent in the migration to the western states in the late 1840s and early 1850s. There were four other children in the Dickson family at that time, including his fourteen-year-old sister, Samantha; his nine-year-old brother, Judson; Alvina, who was six; and two-year-old William.
In Albert’s journal he wrote, “We crossed the Missouri on a large flatboat. Two wagons went on each trip, with three men to the oar and one at the rear to steer. They would land down the river about one mile from the starting point, then pull the boat back with oxen.” Like any twelve year old, he found adventure in each new phase of the trip.
When the entire party had gathered on the other side of the river, there were sixty wagons, which were divided into groups of ten, and each group had a captain. At least half the company were children. The older ones usually walked beside the wagons; some herded the sheep. Even the small children walked part of the day but were allowed to ride as they tired.
Usually from ten to fifteen miles were covered each day while crossing the prairies, and about half as many when the Rocky Mountains were reached. A lot depended on the weather and the terrain being traveled.
The group followed the Mormon Trail, which had been cleared in 1847 as a route for the migration of Church members to the Salt Lake Valley. It followed the north side of the Platte River to the fork of the North Platte and South Platte, then ran along the North Platte to Fort Laramie, where the pioneers crossed the river and followed the Oregon Trail to Fort Bridger. From there they traveled down Weber Canyon and Emigration Canyon into the Salt Lake Valley. The entire trip was about 1100 miles.
Disease was one of the first challenges faced by both children and adults. Albert wrote: “At the first camp on the Platte River, cholera broke out and two of our number succumbed to the dread disease, which did not leave our company until we reached Loup Fork.” By then ten more had died.
As the company moved forward a few miles each day, the monotony was broken by unusual events. The first herds of buffalo (bison) seen, for instance, created considerable interest. Some men in the company wounded one, and the Dickson family dog took up the chase. As a result of the chase, the old dog died, leaving a family of children to mourn his loss.
A couple of days later, the first buffalo was killed and the fresh meat was distributed among the people. After that, there were thousands of the animals; the travelers would stop the wagon train and watch the vast herds pass.
Then, of course, there were lots of buffalo bones, and the travelers began to learn about the advance companies from messages written on buffalo skulls and left by the trail. Albert’s company would sometimes leave their own messages on buffalo skulls for those yet to come.
The trail was well marked and well traveled. Albert’s company was the fourteenth to leave for the west that spring.
Contrary to many stories, Indians did not present much of a problem on the journey. They often visited the camps and were generally given gifts such as beads and fishhooks. Because of the friendly attitude of the Mormon pioneers toward them, the Indians did not attack the wagon trains.
Each day started early. At five in the morning the camp was awakened. Families held morning prayer, cooked breakfast, fed and harnessed the horses and oxen, and were ready to move by seven o’clock. At night, the wagons were drawn into a circle and the horses and cattle were tethered inside it. After supper, evening prayers were held in each wagon at eight thirty; everyone was expected to be in bed by nine o’clock. The children didn’t need much coaxing—everyone was tired from the long day and ready for a good night’s rest.
The pioneers usually traveled six days but always camped and observed the Sabbath. It was a welcome treat for everyone, but especially for the children. There was time to attend Sunday School with their friends, sing, listen to stories, visit with the other children, and explore the nearby countryside.
Sometimes the wagon train camped for a day or two to rest the animals, repair wagons, and do laundry.
Billa Dickson, Albert’s father, was a blacksmith, and his services were often needed to repair wagon wheels and axles. Albert worked with his father, learning the trade. They also hunted together to help secure fresh meat for the company. All the older boys were expected to work with the men and to help do the camp chores.
By midsummer the company had reached the halfway point, Fort Laramie. They wouldn’t reach the Salt Lake Valley until the first of October.
Pioneers are generally thought of as adults, but the majority of the western pioneers were actually children like young Albert Dickson, who trekked the westward trails and settled in the valleys of the mountain west. As they grew older, they became the leaders of many thriving communities that were literally carved out of a barren and hostile land.
Albert Dickson eventually moved to Morgan county and became the first bishop of the Richville Ward. He served in that position for thirty-seven years. His strength and leadership qualities, along with those of other early Church leaders, were undoubtedly developed by his experiences on the journey west.

The noise is what Gordon Daniels remembers most. The relentless crash of the surf as waves ten to fifteen feet high thundered against the rocks and filtered the atmosphere with heavy mist, until the air itself was almost liquid. That sound made talking almost impossible.
The sky was cloudy that day—not with fluffy white puffs floating gently in an azure blue—but dark and ominous, and the wind howled its way along the cliffs.
Twenty-four teenage boys were sightseeing on the north shore of western Maui in Hawaii that afternoon after picking pineapples for more than two months. It was their last day off before one final week of work, then a week-long fun tour of the islands and home to the U.S. mainland. Most of the boys Gordon supervised already had traveler’s checks tucked away in their pockets. They’d heard about a spectacular blowhole where the surf was forced fountain-like through an opening in the shore-bound rock. The blowhole was set into the middle of a smooth table of rock on the other side of the island, and the boys asked to see it.
They were all surprised. The north area was desolate, not lush or green like the Hawaii they were familiar with by then. Its terrain reminded them of pictures of the moon. No blade of grass, tree, or other living vegetation in any direction, or even a grain of sand to line the beach. Sharp, jagged lava rocks tapered down to disappear under the water’s edge.
Two groups of 12 boys—each with its own supervisor—drove in tandem that day, and they traveled in a truck and a van.
Doug Carlsen’s boys reached the spot two or three minutes ahead of Gordon’s. Inching their way down the rugged slopes to the flat surface of the rocky table, Gordon and his group noticed that six or seven of their friends were already sitting around the hole with ankles dangling over the edge.
Nobody thought of that as particularly dangerous. Pulling their feet away seconds before the rush of water made an exciting game. Every 35 or 40 seconds another wave pounded against the rocks below them and catapulted a spray through the hole in a pressurized stream of fury that shot up 50 feet into the air, hung suspended for a moment or two, and dropped back through the three-foot opening with a whoooshh! It was exciting!
The whole area was moist and slippery, and as Gordon’s charges hurried to meet their friends, they warned each other not to stray to the seaward side of the hole. They shivered at thoughts of slipping over the cliff, but the thought was academic. Nobody expected that to happen.
Then, without warning, a blast much more powerful than the rest exploded with a force that sent them scurrying back a full 25 feet into the overhanging rocks. Immediately the cry went up, “Where’s Mike?” And one answering voice wailed, “I think I saw him sucked into the blowhole!”
Strange how different the sounds of the elements appear to our ears after they become the voice of the enemy. Excitement seconds before gave way to outright terror.
The two horrified leaders leaped to peer down into the depths of the blowhole—and it was pitch black. Driven away almost instantly by the next gusher, they returned to vainly search the inky blackness where Mike had disappeared.
Frantically they called his name, but no answer. Three times the water shot into the air and forced them to retreat, and three times they ran back to shout his name downward against the opposition of the wind.
Between the third and fourth eruptions there was an answer, and it was remarkably clear: “Yes, I’m down here, but I think I’m okay.” They were weak with relief. With each upcoming spout they’d expected to see bits and pieces of Mike’s broken body.
In unison the boys took off their pants and tied them together in a makeshift rope. Response from below had stopped. They lowered the rope into the darkness, yelling hoarsely for Mike to grab it as it came.
But the waves—the never-ending, frustrating, waves—pounded the shore, and the endless spouting action continued. Twice they lowered the rope, and twice it was flung back in their faces.
One of Mike’s special friends volunteered to climb down himself, but that idea was quickly rejected. Centuries of rising and falling currents had worn away any foothold in the rock’s surface. Brave as he was, that idea could never succeed.
Doug Carlsen sat hunched over, staring into the hole, his face a chalky white. “What am I going to do? We’ve got to save him!”
At that moment an object out in the bay caught someone’s attention, and they could make out that it was Mike. He bobbed up and down like a cork and was obviously unconscious, but strangely, his head remained fairly upright and clear of the water.
Doug leaped to his feet, shouting, “I’ve got to go get him!” Gordon yelled back, “Can you swim?”
“Not that well, but he’s one of my kids—l’ve got to try!”
Greg Parker spoke up quickly. “I can swim,” he shouted against the beat of the surf. “I’m an Eagle scout. I’ve got my lifesaving merit badge and I’m sure I can do it.”
So Greg, good looking, athletic, with lots of natural self-confidence, picked his way across the rocks and lowered himself into the waves while Mike, meanwhile, bobbed closer and closer to the sharpened edges of a dangerous outcropping of lava. With powerful strokes Greg reached Mike’s side and pulled him back into the open sea. He grabbed him across the chest in the swimmer’s carry. Mike was in shock, and Greg, holding him with one arm, attempted a sidestroke.
But where could they go? If they swam to shore, the pounding waves would batter them against the boulders. Water continually broke over their heads, and it was impossible not to take it into their lungs. Sea water is salty and when swallowed causes involuntary retching action, sapping the strength from the strongest of swimmers, and Greg’s whole system was affected.
By this time they were back to 20 feet from the rocky outcropping. The helpless onlookers could barely distinguish Greg’s words: “Can’t make it. We need some help.”
Steve Dudley yelled: “Greg’s my best friend.” And before anyone could move, he dove into the raging water. Now instead of one boy to worry about, there were three.
But he succeeded in reaching the other two as Mike regained partial consciousness.
Mike remembered the horror of being sucked through the blowhole by the rush of receding surf and dropping onto a ledge 12 feet or so below the rock’s surface. He had managed to wedge himself there temporarily but not for long. The flow of tons of water hurrying back to the sea dislodged his tenuous grip, hurtled him along a horizontal tunnel and spewed him out into the sea.
Now Greg and Steve, working together, eased Mike farther out to sea away from the boulders, and they were comparatively safe for the moment. Gordon turned to the other group leader. “I’ve got to be by myself to think. I’ll be back in a minute.”
He stepped behind a huge rock where he could be alone and offered up a mighty appeal to the Lord. He promised everything he had or ever would have, anything God wanted of him he was willing to give if only He would help bring the boys safely out of the water.
Walking out from behind the rocky barrier, Gordon noticed a small bay about 40 feet to the right. It was rocky still, but slightly sheltered. Perhaps if the boys could get to that point they could hang on until a helicopter could be summoned. They’d been fighting the waves for 20 minutes, and he could see they were tiring rapidly. Above the wind and waves he heard them pray, “Oh, God, please—help us!”
The boys on shore gathered, kneeling, into a prayer circle. Gordon stood off to one side. Into his mind came a thought almost, but not quite, like a voice saying, “You’ve got to calm the seas.”
His first reaction was shock at the presumption that he could attempt to call forth that kind of power. Moses parted the waters, but he was plain Gordon Daniels. The thought of trying something so far out of his understanding scared him.
The impression came again and for a third time. “You’ve got to calm the seas.” It became all-consuming and pushed everything else to the background, except for the worrying thought, “Will I be held accountable someday for misusing my priesthood authority?”
He raised his arm toward heaven and in the name of Jesus Christ he commanded the waves to be still until the boys in peril were rescued. The prayer circle dispersed, and the boys gathered around Gordon as he repeated his command a second time.
Immediately the surging waves that had rolled in so relentlessly were calmer. Then two giant waves from opposing directions—directions where no waves had originated before—formed and came together at an angle where the limp and nearly lifeless swimmers struggled to stay afloat. The angled waves lifted and nudged the boys 45 feet closer to the small bay.
One of the watching boys had previously run back to the truck for a Styrofoam cushion. He threw it toward the swimmers with every ounce of his strength as a second pair of waves converged in an identical manner as the first two and tossed the swimmers the remaining distance. Now they were within ten feet of the protection of the bay. Steve caught the cushion and slipped it under Mike like a surfboard and in seconds they were within their rescuers’ reach.
The remaining problem was that the shoreline of the protected area was no different than was the rest of that bleak, forbidding stretch. There were still boulders to deal with and the distinct possibility that those miraculous waves that appeared out of nowhere and boosted them, twice, might also dash them to pieces on the unyielding rocks.
Gordon started to run the instant he saw the waves begin to reform. He had to reach the bay before the exhausted swimmers did.
He waded in to midthigh and reached out for Mike. As he did, the waves hit again and a surge of water covered them both completely. With hands high over his head, he held his breath and passed Mike up through the water to waiting hands on the boulders above, then repeated the process with Greg. Steve let go of the cushion and was flung into the rocks before Gordon got to him. He was badly scraped on his ribs and sides.
Mike was incoherent, but all three were out of the water and they were alive.
Everybody felt drained of strength. Roughly 45 emotional minutes had elapsed since the first startled cry of “Where’s Mike?” They sagged against the closest support they could find, expecting to rest there long enough to catch their breath. But Gordon was filled with a terrible urgency to get them completely away, and they started to climb.
One boy remembered traveler’s checks in the pockets of their pants they’d left tied together on the rocks of the cove. He started back to the blow-hole to retrieve them. Gordon yelled out, “No! Leave them. Let’s get out of here!”
They carried Mike in their arms, and Gordon was the last to walk out. He turned for one last look, and a shaft of sunlight pierced the clouds. It was nearly 5:00 o’clock. He was exhausted but grateful.
As he looked out over the sea, a new type of wave rushed toward him, not rough at the edges as the others had been, but smooth. He watched in fascination as a black hole opened up on its crest. The blackest part curled over and touched down precisely on top of the pants (the spot they’d all occupied only seconds before, and where at least one boy would have been standing if allowed to go back). When it oozed back to sea the rocks were bare; all traces of the pants had disappeared, swallowed up as completely as if they’d never existed.
They carried Mike as far up the cliffs as they could manage, and there they stopped to wrap him in towels before heading back to camp. They created quite a bit of excitement when they walked in wearing dripping wet underwear.
The local fire department transported Mike, Greg and Steve to a nearby hospital. Their only injuries were cuts on Steve’s ribs and some salt water in Mike’s lungs. Doctors kept Mike overnight for observation and were amazed he lived to tell the tale. Others had fallen into that blowhole; no one else ever came out alive.
Steve and Greg were honored by the mayor of Maui County in recognition of their exceptional heroism.
As for Gordon, he still feels a chill of fear down his spine thinking back to the hopelessness of that afternoon on the desolate shores of Maui, and a sense of wonder at being permitted to take part in the miracle. He hasn’t forgotten his promise.

The story is told that toward the end of World War II an allied general came to the front lines one night to inspect his troops. As he walked along he would point out into no-man’s-land and say “Can you see them? Can you see them?”

Finally, someone said, “General, we can see nothing. What do you mean?” He said, “Can’t you see them? They’re your buddies; they are the ones who gave their lives today, yesterday, and the day before. They’re out there alright, watching you, wondering what you are going to do; wondering if they have died in vain.”

Cammon Randle got his first video camera when he was only eight years old. Now that he’s at BYU, he’s doing what he has always wanted to do—tell stories.

“I’ve always been interested in movies and how you can tell a story by showing it,” he says.

So how did this enterprising student go from an eight-year-old with a camera to a film student with his own production company? Well, first he tried.

Starting with small Claymation projects when he was nine, Cammon kept filming and editing through high school. He eventually decided to go to BYU and major in media arts. He has worked on films like The Best Two Years, a film about missionaries in Holland, and on some commercials and TV shows. Recently, he worked on The Work and the Glory, a film based on Church history, with Chantelle and Jimmy.

He says the secret to getting where you want to go is hard work. “People can see when you’re working hard and you’re doing your best, and they like that.”

In going into his line of work, Cammon realized he would face some challenges. Not the least of these is that the movie industry can be morally challenging. He says to stay spiritually strong in any working environment, you have to do a few key things: First, he says, “Know you are a son or daughter of God.”

Second, Cammon knows that, no matter what career you go into, you will likely face some faith-challenging situations. “Be prepared for it,” he says. “You have to decide beforehand what you’re going to do and stick it out. You just have to follow the Spirit, as always.”

I had finally come to know myself. I remember a day when, 15 and confused, I borrowed Sandy’s jeans. Sandy was everything I wished I was—cute, popular, self-confident. Somehow I guess I thought that if I wore her jeans, I’d be more like her. But her body, shapely for 15, was about three sizes bigger than my wiry one. I guess I looked pretty silly with her pants hanging on me like a bag, held tight around my waist with a belt, then ballooning out like a clown’s costume. I remember Grandpa’s face, so serious, so gentle: “Honey, why do you wear Sandy’s clothes? Why do you talk like her and laugh like her?” Embarrassed I looked to the floor, at the pants that hung inches past my feet.
“Why not be yourself?” he said.
“Oh, Grandpa,” I sobbed. “How can I be myself? I don’t even know who I am.”
Grandpa held me on his lap as if I were a child again, quietly, till the crying stopped and the tears dried. With a smile he looked into my eyes. “You used to know,” he said. “But we all forget sometimes. Take Sandy’s pants back to her. Together we’ll rediscover you. Then you can be yourself.”

Consider Girish Ghimire, who was born and raised in the country of Nepal. As a teenager, he studied in China, where a classmate introduced him to the gospel of Jesus Christ. Eventually, Girish came to Brigham Young University for graduate work and met his future wife. They settled in the Salt Lake Valley and adopted two children from Nepal.
Years later, when more than 1,500 refugees from camps in Nepal were relocated to Utah, Girish felt inspired to help. With native-language fluency and cultural understanding, Girish served as an interpreter, teacher, and mentor. After resettling in the community, some of the Nepali refugees demonstrated interest in the gospel. A Nepali-speaking branch was organized, and Girish later served as its branch president. He was also instrumental in translating the Book of Mormon into Nepali.
Can you see how Heavenly Father prepared and is using Girish?

While I was serving as Area Supervisor in South America, a most unforgettable experience happened in Montevideo, Uruguay. I wanted to change some money because I was living in Brazil at the time, so Brother Carlos Pratt took me to a money exchange house in downtown Montevideo. He introduced me to one of the officials, and the official said they would change $1,000. I did not have $1,000 in cash and had only a check drawn on a bank in Salt Lake City. The exchange house had never done business with me before. In fact, they had never seen me before and could not expect to ever see me again. They had no way to verify if I had $1,000 on deposit in the bank upon which I had drawn the check. But they accepted my check without hesitation—based solely on the fact that I was a Mormon and that they had previously done business with other Mormons. Frankly, I was both grateful and pleased because of their confidence.

The crew often talks to backyard kibitzers as the balloon drifts over, and it’s a rare family that doesn’t invite them to come down and land in their yard then and there. A lady came running around the block one day as the basket touched down. She was shouting and waving her arms and was almost inarticulate with excitement. “That’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen!” she finally gasped. “I want you to land in my yard next time.”

As I think back to the events in my life leading to a cold morning in New York City in February 1910, I am convinced that God had been mindful of my existence. That morning the caretaker of the Italian chapel delivered a note to me from the pastor. He was ill in bed and wished me to come to his house, as he had important matters to discuss regarding the affairs of the parish.
As I walked down a street near the harbor, the strong wind from the sea moved the pages of a book lying on a barrel full of ashes. The appearance of the pages and the binding made me think that it was a religious book. Curiosity pushed me to approach it. I picked it up and beat it against the barrel to knock off the ashes. It was printed in the English language, but when I looked to the title page, I found it was torn away.
The force of the wind turned the pages, and I hastily read Alma, Mosiah, Mormon, Moroni, Isaiah, Lamanites—except for Isaiah, all were names I had never before heard. I wrapped the book in a newspaper I had bought nearby and continued my walk toward the pastor’s house.
After a few words of comfort there, I decided what I should do for him. On the way home, I wondered who the people with the strange names might be. And who was this Isaiah? Was he the one in the Bible, or some other Isaiah?
At home, I seated myself before the window, anxious to know what was printed in the book. As I turned the torn pages and read the words of Isaiah, I was convinced that it was a religious book that talked of things to come. But I did not know the name of the church that taught such doctrine, because the cover and title page had been ripped off. The declaration of the witnesses gave me confidence that it was a true book.
I then bought some cleaning fluid and some cotton at the neighborhood drugstore and began cleaning the pages. For several hours I read the remainder of the pages, which gave me light and knowledge and made me wonder about the source from which this fresh revelation had come. I read and reread, twice and twice again, and I felt that the book was a fifth gospel of the Redeemer.
At the end of the day, I locked the door of my room, knelt with the book in my hands, and read chapter ten of the book of Moroni. I prayed to God, the Eternal Father, in the name of his son, Jesus Christ, to tell me if the book were of God, if it were good and true, and if I should use its words with the words of the four gospels in my preaching.
I felt my body become cold as the wind from the sea. Then my heart began to beat faster, and a feeling of gladness, as of finding something precious and extraordinary, comforted my soul and left me with a joy that human language cannot find words to describe. I had received the assurance that God had answered my prayer and that the book was of greatest benefit to me and to all who would listen to its words.

At that time in my life, I didn’t think I would ever understand why Jen would risk failing a test just so she could feel better about herself. I never admitted cheating to Mr. Harrison or to my parents. In fact, I forgot about the incident completely until three years later, when I found myself being taught by the Mormon missionaries. I remembered Jen, who I knew was a Latter-day Saint, risking so much to repent, and I finally understood. Though she may never know it, her example three years earlier helped me to understand the importance of integrity.
As I read the scripture in Matthew 7:16 [Matt. 7:16]: “Ye shall know them by their fruits,” I thought of Jen and all the other members of the Church who had set good examples for me. That’s when I decided to join The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Shane never did ask me out on a date or even talk to me again. But as I went into the waters of baptism, I really did feel like the happiest girl in the world.

Evie walked into the noisy gym and pulled her kneepads up over her knees. She was excited for volleyball camp, but also really nervous. She’d never been alone at a camp like this before! She hoped she would make friends soon.
She looked around at the dozens of girls talking excitedly to each other. I wish I was more like Libby, she thought. Libby was her sister. She could talk to anyone and become good friends.
But Evie was more … quiet. At school, she usually liked to read her book instead of talking before class. She didn’t mind working by herself on school projects. And when it was her birthday, she invited just a few friends to go skating instead of having a big party.
The coach blew her whistle, and Evie jogged over to join the others for warm-ups. Evie felt a little awkward, but she tried to talk to a few of the girls.
After hours of serving, passing, and playing get-to-know-you games, it was finally time for lunch. Evie brought her food to a round table and sat next to some other players. Everyone was talking loudly and singing in funny voices. Evie munched quietly on her carrot sticks.
One of the older girls at the table noticed Evie being quiet. “Hey!” She put her hand on Evie’s shoulder and shook it playfully. “Be yourself! Just be crazy!”
Evie felt embarrassed. But what if I am being myself? she thought. What if I don’t want to “be crazy”? Maybe there was something wrong with her. Everyone seemed to like the girls who were loud.
At the end of the day, Evie was glad to see Mom’s car pull up. “How was it?” Mom asked.
“Fun,” Evie said as she climbed into her seat. And it had been fun … sort of.
Evie sighed. Tomorrow would be another day of camp, surrounded by people she didn’t know. She would have to be brave all over again.
Mom seemed to read her mind. “I’m proud of you,” she said. “It’s not easy going to a camp where you don’t know anyone.”
Evie looked out the window. “I just wish I wasn’t so quiet.”
“There’s nothing wrong with being quiet,” Mom said. “It will get easier as you get to know more people. But you don’t have to change your personality. Being you is OK.”
Evie thought about that for the rest of the drive home.
The next day, Evie was brave and talked to a few more people. She tried to think less about what others were thinking about her. Instead, she focused on playing her best and having fun. She worked hard on the drills and said kind things to the other players. She still felt like she was quieter than most of the others, but she started to feel more confident making new friends.
On the last day of camp, everyone sat on the gym floor while the coach announced awards for each girl. Tasha got the award for the most improved serve. Mia got the award for most team spirit.
“And to Evie,” the coach said, “the Quiet Leader Award.” Evie’s eyes widened as she stood up to get her certificate. Everyone clapped.
“Sometimes we think leadership means being loud and telling people what to do,” said the coach. “But a good leader sets an example for others to follow. Thanks for working hard, Evie. Your actions speak louder than your words.”
Evie smiled as she walked back to her seat. Mom was right! Being quiet was OK. It was more than OK, actually.

Like many little girls, when Maria Victoria Rojas Rivera of Chile—Mavi to her friends—was four years old, she decided she wanted to become a ballerina. And like all of those other little girls, she quickly discovered that the grace and freedom she saw on the stage came at a pretty steep price. The effort and discipline required to become a professional ballerina are too much for many young dreamers.
“When you’re little, you don’t understand the sacrifice it takes,” Mavi says. “When I started studying at age 10, our teachers told us that half of our lives would be spent dancing. We’d have to give up a lot of things.”
Things like free time and certain foods. Mavi would have to put a lot of time and effort into exercising and practicing. She’d have to watch carefully what she ate. And after schoolwork and dance, there wouldn’t be much time for friends.
Mavi decided that her dream was important enough to her to try.
“The teenage years can be a complicated time,” she says. “My friends didn’t always understand why I wouldn’t eat certain things or stay out late with them.”
Mavi learned early on that what appeared to be restrictions on her freedom were actually the only way she could free herself from things that would keep her from her goal.
“I chose not to stay out late, and I chose to spend time practicing instead of going to the mall with my friends,” Mavi says. “If I was tired because I stayed out too late or if I didn’t know the steps because I didn’t practice, I couldn’t dance.”
That kind of discipline isn’t easy, but Mavi says it is worth it.
“Everyone has moments when you want to give in,” Mavi confesses, “but you have the power to choose. Discipline can appear restrictive, but self-discipline is a choice. And I chose to accept this lifestyle in order to dance.”
At some point during her drive to become a ballerina, Mavi realized that dancing was not the only goal she had or the only worthwhile thing she would need to sacrifice for.
Along the way, she gained a desire to follow Jesus Christ, and she realized that what ballet had taught her about discipline applies to gospel discipleship as well. Just as her friends had wondered why she would do what she did for dance, they asked why she lived such restrictive gospel principles.
“I explained that we have the liberty to choose, and I chose to accept this lifestyle in order to be free from sin and have the Holy Ghost with me,” she says.
Or as the Savior said it, a disciple must “take up his cross,” meaning to deny oneself all ungodliness and every worldly lust and to keep God’s commandments (see Joseph Smith Translation, Matthew 16:26). Such self-discipline brings us to “liberty and eternal life, through the great Mediator,” while trying to live outside the commandments leads to “captivity and death, according to the captivity and power of the devil” (2 Nephi 2:27).
“Obedience brings greater freedom and peace than anything,” Mavi says. “My goals aren’t limited to this earthly life but include eternity.”
A ballerina can make her body move in ways that would hurt most other people. This freedom of movement is essential for communicating with the audience. But even though a good ballerina makes every move look effortless on stage, she has put in a lot of effort off the stage.
After eight years of sacrifice and hours of training almost every day, she was living her dream on stage—and in the gospel.
“People think it looks so beautiful and graceful,” Mavi says. “But the movements are very controlled. It takes a lot of strength to control yourself like that.”
The gospel parallel is important. Following Christ takes strength. And the rewards are sweet.
“The rewards from so many sacrifices are that I can dance,” Mavi says. “I feel strong, and I feel the guidance of the Holy Ghost in every step I take—on stage and off.”

There were five of us on the trail crew that day. We were all new to the job, so when we gathered around to hear the assignment for the day, we were delighted to learn that we would start on a new trail—Clegg Canyon they called it.
“You mean Fly Canyon?” replied Verle, our fearless leader.
“Why Fly Canyon?” I asked.
With a sly smile, Verle looked down at me and said, “You’ll see.”
While we unloaded the Jeep, Verle filled us in on what work needed to be done. At last we were ready to start the trail. As we walked, Verle kept reminding us that this trail was considered one of the most miserable assignments because of the flies, but we couldn’t see any flies, so taking him seriously was a little hard. Verle had a way of pulling your leg at times, and I was usually a gullible victim. But today, he assured us, once the sun was out, the flies would be too.
As we hiked up farther into the canyon, we soon came to realize how right Verle was. At first the flies came in pairs, buzzing around my ears and making quick landings on my nose. Then they became bolder, so we were sure they had called out their battalions. I had considered myself a patient person until then. Every 30 minutes we had to stop and recoat ourselves with insect repellent. We especially had to drench our hair to keep the pests from getting entangled. When we began to realize that our efforts to avoid the flies were in vain, we began to lose our tempers.
It finally came to the point where we knew we were doomed. The newspaper headlines flashed through my mind, “Forest Service Employees Carried Away by Flies.” Something had to be done quickly. We tried to work faster, believing motion would shoo the flies away, but our sweat made a more delectable landing. As all good news travels fast, more flies came. In desperation we turned to our leader, who, surprisingly, was taking this all very coolly. He explained that we had to learn how to relax and laugh at annoying situations.
“What is so humorous about 50 million flies attacking us?” I asked.
“Look at it this way. They could carry us through the canyon and save us the trouble of hiking up the trail,” Verle replied.
While we sat eating our lunches (it was more like sharing them with the United Fly Nation), we began to relax and develop a humor of our own. At first the laughter was scarce, but one joke led to another, and we were soon lying back in laughter, oblivious to the millions of black specs around us.
That morning we had loaded the tools that were expected to be useful in completing our assignment. But as we headed down the trail that afternoon, we carried with us a new tool—humor.
On the way down to the Jeep, we were rewarded with a sudden cloudburst that finally rid us of our pests. Free at last, we skipped down the trail like children, grinning from ear to ear. We had survived! But, more important, we had laughed.

My wife and I had the privilege of visiting the Accra Ghana Temple, thanks to the Temple Patron Assistance Fund. The whole process was an exercise in patience and faith. We learned to pray earnestly and wait on the Lord for the righteous desires of our hearts. Our prayers were answered when we got word from the Africa Central Area that our application had been approved. Our flight to and from the temple was safe and uneventful.

My wife and I got sealed for time and all eternity on 29 May 2024. It was an unforgettable experience—one that I will cherish for the rest of my life. After spending the day in the temple, I wrote that evening in my journal: “I felt a great outpouring of the Spirit today during Annet and my sealing ceremony. The blessings pronounced upon us are too great to fathom, yet we are grateful that the good Lord has deemed us worthy to receive the choicest blessings that heaven and earth has to offer. Eternal life is within reach.

“I am so lucky to have my wife as my eternal companion. Couldn’t ask for a better partner. She is my fellow traveler on the path that leads back home to our Father’s presence. I have a tangible witness of God’s love and mercy, and I’m excited to see what the future holds.”

Illustration by Brad Teare
Joseph swung at the baseball and missed. Again.
“Strike three!” the umpire called. “You’re out.”
Joseph trudged back to his team with his shoulders slumped. How would he ever hit a ball this season? They had only one game left.
“Good try,” his coach said. Joseph shrugged and plopped down on the bench. He was so tired of striking out! He’d worked hard all season long, going to every practice and staying late most days. He even practiced at home whenever he could.
His coach once told him he had one of the best swings on the team. So why couldn’t he hit the baseball?
The next batter from his team swung hard and smashed the ball with a loud crack. Up, up, up it went. A home run.
Joseph sighed. He didn’t need to hit a home run. Just a normal hit. He said a silent prayer to Heavenly Father, asking that somehow he’d be able to hit the ball before the season ended. Tomorrow would be his last chance.
Later that night the missionaries visited Joseph’s house. Mom had signed up weeks ago to have them over for dinner. While they ate, Elder Seeley started talking about baseball.
Joseph sat up straight and paid very close attention. Apparently Elder Seeley was some kind of a baseball star back home before his mission. Nobody in Joseph’s family had known that before.
Mom seemed very interested too. She turned to Elder Seeley and asked, “Would it be OK if we all went outside so you could give Joseph a few tips on his swing?”
“Absolutely,” Elder Seeley said.
The moment dinner was done, Joseph raced to get his baseball and bat. Joseph couldn’t wait to see what the missionary might teach him.
Outside, Elder Seeley pitched a few balls and watched Joseph swing. “You’re swinging way too fast,” he said. “Slow it down, nice and easy.”
Elder Seeley also taught Joseph how to grip the bat better and the best height to hold his elbow.
“Let’s see that swing again,” Elder Seeley said and pitched one more time. Joseph swung and heard the crack of the ball hitting his bat. The ball flew over the back fence. He’d done it! He’d actually hit the ball!
Mom and the missionaries cheered.
A peaceful feeling came over Joseph. He was going to hit the ball in the game tomorrow. He just knew it.
The next day Joseph stepped up to the batting plate and took a deep breath. He tried to remember everything Elder Seeley taught him.
The first pitch came. He swung and missed.
“Strike one!” the umpire called out.
Joseph didn’t let it bother him. He still had two more strikes.
The next pitch flew out of the strike zone.
“Ball one!” cried the umpire.
Joseph took another deep breath. He could do this. He still felt that same warm feeling inside.
The pitcher let the ball fly. Joseph focused and swung.
His bat smacked hard against the ball and sent it flying. Joseph stared in wonder for a moment as the baseball soared away. Then he dropped the bat and ran toward first base as fast as he could.
A cheer rose from the crowd.
Joseph skidded to a stop on the base and smiled. Heavenly Father had answered his prayer. The answer hadn’t come in the way he’d expected, but Joseph knew Heavenly Father had sent someone to help him.

It was World War II, and in a crowded ship in the Pacific Ocean 3,000 soldiers sat listening to the chaplain. Tomorrow they would attack an enemy-held island, and the chances of many of them surviving the battle were slim. “One-half of you will be standing before your Maker tomorrow morning at 8:00,” the minister said seriously. “Are you ready?”
The next day the first six groups to approach the island were completely blown out of the water. Paul H. Dunn, in the seventh group, miraculously reached safety. He recounts his feelings: “I crawled ashore … dug a small foxhole … knelt down with my head bared … and asked my Heavenly Father very simply, ‘Do you live? Are you real? Is Jesus Christ really my Savior? Was Joseph Smith a prophet of the Church like I’ve heard all my life and can’t quite understand?’ And then it came, that sweet inner commitment and verification, spirit touching spirit, saying in a silent voice, ‘It is so.’” (P. 135.)
In You and Your World, Elder Dunn, member of the Presidency of the First Quorum of the Seventy, relates this story and many others, as he counsels Church members in five areas: Building Commitment, Strengthening the Home, Gathering Souls, Refining a Testimony, and Mastering Self. A selection of 24 addresses given by Elder Dunn, the book is a compilation of scripture, poetry, stories, and spiritual experiences that discusses gospel principles in an uplifting and inspiring manner.

The Eyrings’ oldest son, Henry, shared an experience that is especially tender to him. “I was in the mission field in Japan,” he recounts. “I went there with great confidence and high expectations.” But at the end of 10 months, there had not been a single baptism. “I was really down,” Henry continues, “very discouraged. And then came a short letter from my dad.” In essence, all it said was that even though the people in Japan might reject him, God would never reject him—and that Henry’s father was pleased with his son’s labors.
With some emotion, Henry concludes, “What made this so important to me was that at that moment, I felt that those were the very words God himself would have spoken to me had he written the letter.”

The winding ways Sister Secuya and her family traverse reflect her journey in bringing her family to walk the covenant path together. At first, Sister Secuya was the only Church member in the family, but she had become less active.
Then, one day, she saw the full- time missionaries. “I’m a member of the Church, come please,” Mitzi excitedly called them out. The missionaries set an appointment with the family, and invited them to hear about the gospel of Jesus Christ.
At first, Richard Secuya wasn’t that receptive to the missionaries, but as he thought of his wife and children, he became more responsive to the promptings of the Spirit. The entire family became members of the Church, and were sealed for time and all eternity in the temple.
“I know the Lord will not forsake us if we come to Him,” Brother Secuya testifies, “and it is truly wonderful that we are now members of the Church. He really is mindful of us.”

By Jacqueline Wittwer
When water poured into the basement of the Congregational Church one Sunday after days of heavy rain, Yarmouth Branch members stopped their sacrament meeting and hurried to the basement to save furniture, books, and other valuables from ruin. David Quinn and his friend Marc Johnson—still in their Sunday best—jumped in, literally, to help.
They were laughing and having a wonderful time, even though their clothes were soaked through. What mattered was that a job needed to be done. They made the best of a bad situation. They helped me see the importance of a good attitude through life’s daily challenges.

Twelve-year-old Saajan has never seen a temple in person.
“My mom has always had a goal to go to the temple,” Saajan said. “Her love for the temple is contagious. Now my goal in life is to visit the temple.”
Saajan was born in India, but when his parents got divorced, he moved with his mom to the United Arab Emirates. “My mom works really hard. She’s like a superhero to me. Even during the hard times, she never gives up.”
Saajan’s mom and grandma joined the Church in India a few years before he was born. They read the Book of Mormon and knew it was an answer to their prayers. Saajan grew up going to church with his mom, and he was recently baptized after waiting for his father’s permission.
“Getting baptized was one of the best choices I have ever made,” he said. “And when I received the gift of the Holy Ghost, I felt so warm and joyful inside.”
Now Saajan is passing the sacrament for his ward and preparing to enter the temple. He received his temple recommend, and he can’t wait to enter the Dubai United Arab Emirates Temple when it is finished.
“When I heard that they announced the temple, I personally felt it was for me,” Saajan said. “It was an answer to our prayers. I was shocked because they’re building it right where we live! I will be able to take a train directly to the temple and go as often as I want. I’m also excited for the Bengaluru India Temple that my grandparents will be able to visit.”
Saajan is excited for his grandparents to have the Bengaluru India Temple near them.
Saajan wants to do temple work for his other ancestors as well.
“I’m preparing myself so that I will be worthy to enter the temple. I want to do what I can to help all of my ancestors. I have such an exciting opportunity to serve the Lord and do the things pertaining to the kingdom of God.”