Gospel Story Finder

My mother also taught us to finish what we started. I took piano lessons as a child and gave my first public performance at a school recital when I was eight years old. I fell down as I was walking up the steps to the stage. I went ahead and performed my number, even though I was crying all the way through it. I had learned that you don’t give up, even when you’re discouraged. You see the job through.

A year after her baptism, Erika received her mission call to Hungary. “I was happy to be called to serve my own people in my own language. But I worried whether I was worthy to be the first Hungarian citizen to serve in Hungary and if I would be able to give the people what they needed. I prayed about it and felt many special feelings that night. I knew that God loved me and my family. I felt very close to God.”

In 1935, a returning missionary, Elder Gordon B. Hinckley, was asked to visit with the First Presidency because of his special work in the British Isles. His fifteen-minute appointment soon stretched to nearly an hour and a half. Impressed, the First Presidency requested him to help with missionary work, and he has scarcely left the Church Administration Building since then. Only now he sits, humbly, in the center chair in the First Presidency Council Room to which he came humbly sixty years ago!

Brothers and sisters, I believe in angels, and I would like to share with you my experiences with them. In doing so, I hope and pray that we will recognize the importance of angels in our lives.
Here are Elder Jeffrey R. Holland’s words from a past general conference: “When we speak of those who are instruments in the hand of God, we are reminded that not all angels are from the other side of the veil. Some of them we walk with and talk with—here, now, every day. Some of them reside in our own neighborhoods. … Indeed heaven never seems closer than when we see the love of God manifested in the kindness and devotion of people so good and so pure that angelic is the only word that comes to mind” (“The Ministry of Angels,” Ensign or Liahona, Nov. 2008, 30).
It is about angels on this side of the veil that I want to talk. The angels that walk among us in our everyday lives are powerful reminders of God’s love for us.
The first angels that I will mention are the two sister missionaries who taught me the gospel when I was a young man: Sister Vilma Molina and Sister Ivonete Rivitti. My younger sister and I were invited to a Church activity where we met these two angels. I never imagined how much that simple activity would change my life.
My parents and siblings were not interested in learning more about the Church at that time. They were not even willing to have the missionaries in our home, so I took the missionary lessons in a Church building. That small room in the chapel became my “sacred grove.”
One month after these angels introduced me to the gospel, I was baptized. I was 16 years old. Unfortunately, I don’t have a picture of that sacred event, but I do have a picture of my sister and me at the time we participated in that activity. I may need to clarify who is who in this picture. I am the taller one on the right.
As you can imagine, remaining active in the Church was challenging for a teenager whose lifestyle had just changed and whose family was not taking the same path.
As I was trying to adjust to my new life, a new culture, and new friends, I felt out of place. I felt alone and discouraged many times. I knew the Church was true, but I had a hard time feeling part of it. While uncomfortable and uncertain as I tried to fit into my new religion, I found the courage to participate in a three-day youth conference, which I thought would help me make new friends. This is when I met another saving angel, named Mônica Brandão.
She was new in the area, having moved from another part of Brazil. She quickly got my attention and, luckily for me, accepted me as a friend. I guess she looked at me more from the inside than the outside.
Because she befriended me, I was introduced to her friends, who then became my friends as we enjoyed many youth activities I attended later. Those activities were so critical to my integration into this new life.
These good friends made a big difference, but not having the gospel taught in my home with a supportive family still put my ongoing conversion process at risk. My gospel interactions in the Church became even more crucial to my growing conversion. Then two additional angels were sent by the Lord to help.
One of them was Leda Vettori, my early-morning seminary teacher. Through her accepting love and inspiring classes, she gave me a daily dose of the “good word of God” (Moroni 6:4), which was so needed throughout my day. This helped me to gain the spiritual strength to keep going.
Another angel sent to help me was the Young Men president, Marco Antônio Fusco. He was also assigned to be my senior home teaching companion. Despite my lack of experience and different appearance, he gave me assignments to teach in our priests quorum meetings and home teaching visits. He gave me the chance to act and to learn and not just be an observer of the gospel. He trusted me, more than I trusted myself.
Thanks to all these angels, and many others I encountered during those important early years, I received enough strength to remain on the covenant path as I gained a spiritual witness of the truth.
And by the way, that young angel girl, Mônica? After we both served missions, she became my wife.
I don’t think it was a coincidence that good friends, Church responsibilities, and nurturing by the good word of God were part of that process. President Gordon B. Hinckley wisely taught: “It is not an easy thing to make the transition incident to joining this Church. It means cutting old ties. It means leaving friends. It may mean setting aside cherished beliefs. It may require a change of habits and a suppression of appetites. In so many cases it means loneliness and even fear of the unknown. There must be nurturing and strengthening during this difficult season of a convert’s life” (“There Must Be Messengers,” Ensign, Oct. 1987, 5).
Later he also taught, “Every one of them needs three things: a friend, a responsibility, and nurturing with ‘the good word of God’” (“Converts and Young Men,” Ensign, May 1997, 47).
Why am I sharing these experiences with you?
First, it is to send a message to those going through a similar process right now. Maybe you are a new convert, or coming back to the Church after wandering around for a while, or just someone struggling to fit in. Please, please, do not give up on your efforts to be part of this big family. It is the true Church of Jesus Christ!
When it comes to your happiness and salvation, it is always worth the effort to keep trying. It is worth the effort to adjust your lifestyle and traditions. The Lord is aware of the challenges you face. He knows you, He loves you, and I promise, He will send angels to help you.
In His own words the Savior said: “I will go before your face. I will be on your right hand and on your left, and my Spirit shall be in your [heart], and mine angels round about you, to bear you up” (Doctrine and Covenants 84:88).
My second purpose for sharing these experiences is to send a message to all members of the Church—to all of us. We should remember that it is not easy for new converts, returning friends, and those with a different lifestyle to instantly fit in. The Lord is aware of the challenges they face, and He is looking for angels willing to help. The Lord is always looking for willing volunteers to be angels in others’ lives.
Brothers and sisters, would you be willing to be an instrument in the Lord’s hands? Would you be willing to be one of these angels? To be an emissary, sent from God, from this side of the veil, for someone He is worried about? He needs you. They need you.
Of course, we can always count on our missionaries. They are always there, the first ones to enlist for this angelic job. But they are not enough.
If you look around carefully, you will find many in need of an angel’s help. These people may not be wearing white shirts, dresses, or any standard Sunday attire. They may be sitting alone, toward the back of the chapel or classroom, sometimes feeling as if they are invisible. Maybe their hairstyle is a little extreme or their vocabulary is different, but they are there, and they are trying.
Some may be wondering, “Should I keep coming back? Should I keep trying?” Others may be wondering if one day they will feel accepted and loved. Angels are needed, right now; angels who are willing to leave their comfort zone to embrace them; “[people who are] so good and so pure that angelic is the only word that comes to mind [to describe them]” (Jeffrey R. Holland, “The Ministry of Angels,” 30).
Brothers and sisters, I believe in angels! We are all here today, a giant army of angels set apart for these latter days, to minister to others as extensions of the hands of a loving Creator. I promise that if we are willing to serve, the Lord will give us opportunities to be ministering angels. He knows who needs angelic help, and He will put them in our path. The Lord puts those who need angelic help in our path daily.
I am so grateful for the many angels that the Lord has put in my path throughout my life. They were needed. I am also grateful for His gospel that helps us to change and gives us the chance to be better.
This is a gospel of love, a gospel of ministering. Of this I testify in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Tommy had been wondering how to get to St. Joseph. “Do you think we could leave for St. Joseph in the morning?” he asked his mother.
“We could if we had someone to go with us,” she replied. “Your father insisted that we should not travel far alone.”
“I heard last week that Brother Morley was going to St. Joseph,” said Tommy. “Do you think we might travel with him?”
“We might,” replied his mother. “We’ll go over to his cabin after supper and ask him.”
Brother Morley was happy to have their company. Two days later, with Tommy driving one wagon and Elija the other, the family left Winter Quarters with Brother Morley and his son.
The first thing they did in St. Joseph was to buy shoes for Elija and Eliza. Then they filled the wagons with corn, wheat, and potatoes.
Betsy looked longingly at some honey that a man had brought to the store from his farm. But there was no money left over to buy honey.
“Never mind,” said Elija. “In Nauvoo we used to harvest wild honey. Maybe on our way home we can find a hollow tree that bees have deserted.”
The second night out from St. Joseph, when Tommy and Elija were scouting around close to their camp, they found a hollow log. It was filled to the brim with honey. The boys had not taken a container with them, so they scraped a little honey onto a piece of tree bark and took it back for their supper. Afterward they returned with two big kettles in which to harvest the honey.
As they began to scoop the honey into the kettles, the boys heard a low growl behind them, and they turned to face a large bear that had also found the honey tree. Dropping their kettles, they raced toward camp, calling for help. In their rush, Tommy stumbled over a log. Elija saw him fall, and he also saw that the bear was not far behind. “Slide under the log, Tommy!” he shouted.
Brother Morley heard the boys’ cries for help. He came running with his rifle, took careful aim, and fired his gun. The bear dropped dead at the side of the log.
“Thank you, Brother Morley,” the boys said gratefully. And Tommy thought how glad he was that his father had insisted they never travel far alone.
The words of his mother echoed in Tommy’s ears: “It is good to know that your father is still taking care of us even though he is far away.”

Once while I was in Tonga, I was traveling between islands to attend a district conference. Traveling with me were my wife, a translator, and the mission president and his wife. To get from island to island, the people travel by boat. This particular boat trip between Ha’apai and Ha’afeva took us four hours. When we arrived at Ha’afeva, the Saints were lining the shore and singing to us. We rolled up our pants, took off our shoes, and waded ashore.
We soon learned that the people there had been suffering because of a drought. In the islands, drinking water is collected in barrels from rainwater running off roofs. The islanders drink the water from the barrels. If it doesn’t rain, they’re out of drinking water, and their crops don’t grow either. They had been experiencing the drought for so long that they were out of water, and for dinner that afternoon, they shared with us the last of their food. I thought to myself, “What faith!” They had been fasting, and they asked if we would join them in a prayer for rain, which we did.
After the conference had ended and we prepared to leave, the people on the island prayed not only for rain, but they prayed that we would have good weather until we arrived back at our destination. We got into our boats and traveled back with good weather. But as we arrived at our final destination the heavens opened, and the islands were blessed with rain.

Sister Beck: I met with a group of women cabinet ministers and parliament members from West Africa who asked me how we help African women. I explained that in their countries we have many organized groups of women, called Relief Societies. We send the Church Handbook of Instructions to the president of each group. The women gather together often to study the gospel and to learn how to care for their families.

The president divides the Relief Society women into pairs that visit the women in their homes, where they assess needs. Is anyone sick? Do they have enough food and clothing? Do they have the education they need? After the visits the women report what they found. Someone needs shoes, someone is having a baby, and one of them needs work. They ask if within their group they have the needed resources. Most of the time they do. That is what we do for our women in Africa.

As I talked, these women nodded their heads and smiled. One said to me, “That model would work for our women.”

I believe that Relief Society is a model that works throughout the world and that our sisters are the finest, most capable, greatest force for good on the earth today. I have confidence in our ability to further the Lord’s work of salvation together.

It wasn’t until after my first business venture broke down and my second one burned to the ground that I wondered if I would be able to take my fiancée, Beny, to the temple. We had heard that getting there would be a trial of faith, but when we made temple marriage our goal, we had no idea how thoroughly our faith would be tested.
Beny and I met in our native Panama after serving missions. At the time, couples in Panama who wanted to start their married lives in the temple were married civilly just before traveling to the nearest temple, the Guatemala City Guatemala Temple. It would be an expensive and difficult trip, but being sealed was a blessing we did not want to live without.
The day after I proposed, I lost my job. Undaunted, I decided to earn money by giving bus tours. My bus broke down the first night. Concerned but determined, I next decided to sell T-shirts. The morning I went to pick up the shirts from the manufacturer, I found that the building had burned to the ground the night before. It seemed that my hopes had gone up in smoke too.
It was only a few months before the next scheduled temple trip, yet to this point, every effort I had made to raise money had ended in abrupt failure. I left the smoldering rubble and went to find Beny.
“I have nothing,” I told her. “Maybe you shouldn’t marry me.”
“If I were marrying for money, I’d be married already,” she said. “But I’m not marrying for money. I’m marrying you because I love you.”
That was a turning point. We felt that we had passed an important test. As we pushed ahead with faith, doors began opening. I found work making furniture, though the pay wasn’t enough to meet our needs. Then a kind bishop offered to help us with our bus fare. As exciting as his offer was, it didn’t feel right. We were intent on being self-sufficient. But seeing that he truly desired to help, we asked him if he could give Beny a job instead. He did.
After earning enough money to travel to the temple, we married civilly and were at last on our way to Guatemala with 10 other Church members. But our test wasn’t over yet.
Widespread transportation strikes stopped us at the border of Costa Rica. After waiting at the border for two days, our driver decided to turn back. But Beny and I, along with two brothers and one other couple, decided not to give up. After watching our bus turn around and leave us, we walked into Costa Rica. We kept walking, sleeping in roadside shelters, until we reached the Nicaraguan border. From there we managed to take a taxi to the capital city, where we purchased a bus ticket to the Honduran border. Two days—and two more buses—later we finally arrived at the temple. We were happy, but we were dirty and tired, and we had spent far more than we had planned.
After cleaning up, Beny and I realized that we were missing our living-ordinance recommends! What made matters worse, our bishop in Panama was scheduled to leave that same day on a business trip. We were brokenhearted. Had we passed through all of our trials for nothing? We ironed Beny’s wedding dress and trusted that if the Lord had helped us get that far, He would see us through to the end.
Though we expected our bishop to be gone, we decided to call him anyway. To our surprise, he had not taken his business trip after all. He said he felt that he should stay home instead. We were thrilled! He promised to fax the needed paperwork as soon as he could get to a fax machine.
We waited and waited, all the while praying in the temple’s marriage waiting room. It was Saturday, and in two hours the temple would close until Monday. What could be taking so long? At last the fax arrived, with an apology from the bishop: the power had gone out just as he was preparing to send the fax.
Finally, after all our trials and delays, we were sealed eternally as husband and wife. Our joy—worth the working, the waiting, and the worrying—was full!
Not everyone getting married in the temple will face such challenges, but for Beny and me (and the others who went to the temple with us), these experiences were a refining process. Three of the four brethren who made it to the temple on that trip were later called as bishops. Two are currently serving as counselors in stake presidencies. We’ve all been so blessed. It was one of the greatest experiences of my life.
If our goal to marry in the temple had been only for worldly love, we wouldn’t have made it. But because we believed in the sealing power of the priesthood restored in our day, we didn’t give up, knowing that our temple marriage—for time and all eternity—was worth whatever sacrifice we had to make.

Suddenly it started to rain. At first it was a soft, gentle rain that did not bother Tommy as he milked the cow and helped his father feed the oxen. Later, when they started to pitch the tent, the rain came down in fierce, angry sheets that bit into Tommy’s shoulders. The wind blew so hard that it wrenched the tent out of their hands.
“We’ll have to do without the tent tonight,” Father finally decided.
“Where will you and Mamma sleep?” asked Tommy. “My wagon is too full of corn and wheat for anybody to sleep there.”
“You and Betsy can sleep with Mamma in the other wagon,” answered his father, “and I will make a bed underneath it for me.”
“I will sleep under the wagon,” said Tommy quietly.
Father did not answer at once, but Tommy knew by the pressure of his hand that he was proud that his son had offered. Finally Father quietly said, “I’ll help you gather pine boughs to put on the ground so your bed won’t sink into the mud.”
Tommy was glad when they had enough pine boughs, because it was difficult to cut them in the stinging rain. Over these pine boughs he and his father put the folded tent, leaving enough of it free on each side to pull over the bedroll so Tommy would not get wet.
When the bed was ready, Tommy crawled into it. At first it was frightening to be alone in the storm. Never had he heard such loud thunder, and the lightning flashes were so close that he could see small fires appear in the tops of the trees where lightning had hit. Even though he knew the heavy rain would soon put them out, Tommy was afraid. What if the lightning should strike the wagon where the others are sleeping? he asked himself. He wanted to call out to his father for comfort, but he didn’t want anyone to know that he was afraid.
I’ll ask Heavenly Father to help me, he said to himself. And he did. Tommy almost expected his prayer to be answered by the thunder and lightning stopping. Instead it was answered by Tommy not being afraid any more.
Then Tommy began to enjoy the storm. It was almost as if giant fireworks were everywhere. Instead of wanting to go to sleep, he wanted to stay awake so he would not miss any of it. But since the storm lasted all night, Tommy’s eyes finally closed. He did not open them again until he felt water lapping at his feet and discovered that the little creek beside which they had camped had become a raging torrent during the night.
Excitedly Tommy called out to his father, “The creek has overflowed and the back wheels of the wagon are standing in the water!”
Tommy’s father was out of the wagon in an instant. When he saw the situation, he helped Tommy pull the bed out from under the wagon and then hitched up both teams of oxen to pull the wagon out of the water. The ground was so slippery the oxen could not get a foothold.
“We will have to build a corduroy road,” said Tommy’s father.
To do this, Tommy and his father cut down many trees. They trimmed off the limbs and laid the poles side by side, close to and in front of the wagon; then with willows they bound each log tightly to the next one so they would not roll. When this was finished, they packed tough grass and pine needles on top of the poles so the oxen’s hoofs could not slip into the cracks.
Finally they coaxed the frightened oxen up onto the corduroy road and hitched them to the wagon. Father spoke to the oxen in a soothing tone, “Steady now, pull together.”
The oxen did pull together. The heavy wagon wheels rolled out of the mud, onto the tough grass, over the corduroy road, and up onto the road that the Camp of Israel would be traveling that day.
Tommy shouted, “Hooray!” and he could see by the look on his mother’s face that she was proud of her two “men.”

When I first met Uanci Kivalu, she was smiling broadly. But as she sat down and her tone turned serious, I wondered what this friendly 16-year-old would share. “My story is about the temple,” she said.
Uanci is from Tonga, an island nation filled with towering coconut trees, majestic banana trees, and broad taro plants. Most of the youth I had seen on the island seemed content with life, with smiles as broad as Uanci’s had been only moments before. Tongan youth her age like to dance, sing, play netball, and spend time with their families. They are generally a happy bunch. But Uanci’s seriousness was mixed with a deeper emotion I could not identify, and it surprised me.
“I want to talk about the temple,” she repeated.
“When I was growing up,” Uanci began, “my brothers and sister and I were members of the Church. We would attend church every Sunday with my mom. I loved the temple, and I loved going with the youth to do baptisms for the dead. I would feel the Spirit when we went there. But my dad wouldn’t come to church.”
Uanci’s voice began to quaver. I glanced up from my notepad and saw tears in her eyes.
“One day my little brother ’Alekisio had an injury in his hips that got infected,” she continued. “He got better for a while. And my dad came back to church. But then my dad fell away again.”
The tears were now streaming down Uanci’s face, and the tissue I handed her was immediately soaked, as were her sleeves, as she tried unsuccessfully to dry the tears.
“My little brother got worse, and then he died. He was only 12 years old.”
Uanci paused for a moment, overcome by her feelings, and I began to understand why she had been so serious. This young woman had already felt great tragedy in her life. But there was also a glimmer of hope shining through her eyes.
“Then,” she began again, “my dad finally decided to come back to church. At first, it was hard for him. Our bishop, leaders, relatives, and family encouraged him that the only way our family would be together again—to see my brother again—would be to be sealed in the temple.
“We struggled after my brother died,” Uanci continued. “But my parents worked hard and received their ordinances. Finally, we were sealed in the temple as a family on October 10, 2008, exactly one year after ’Alekisio died. My bishop stood in place of my little brother. It was the most indescribable feeling I ever felt.”
Uanci’s tears were not tears of sorrow but of joy. She and her family had been to the house of the Lord and were sealed in the temple, and she knew what that meant. If her family lives worthy of their covenants, they will be together forever.
As I think about Uanci, I imagine her walking across the Liahona campus, the Church-owned high school in Tonga that sits adjacent to the temple. As she walks, Uanci gazes over at the spire of the angel Moroni, its golden form glistening in the sun. There are tears in her eyes again, but she is also smiling, for she knows she will see ’Alekisio again.

Putting God first means that we can trust Him to make more of our lives than we can on our own. My grandson received an old bike with rusty handles. To help him be excited about this bike, his father showed him how to sand the handles and then promised to bring his favourite colour paint to coat them that afternoon. After 15 minutes of sanding, the task seemed more challenging for this little guy than he had expected, and he complained about the difficulty, to which his father said words we can all take comfort in: “You do the best you can, and I will make up the difference.”

I first heard the gospel as a child when my parents welcomed the missionaries to our home in Antofagasta, Chile. I grew up in the Church, but I did little to gain a personal testimony. Consequently, I eventually fell from activity and found myself facing life’s challenges without the divine power of the gospel to help me. My faithful mother, however, continued to love me and remained a quiet example of righteousness.
Although I married a Church member, neither of us felt the urgency or necessity of living the standards we had been taught in our youth. But as time went by, life in our home changed radically for the worse.
Because of the difficult problems we were facing, my wife decided to start attending church with our daughter. I had no desire to go with them, yet they returned home each week and shared what they had learned. Some time later I began to receive visits from home teachers, two faithful brethren who somehow envisioned my divine potential even though I couldn’t.
Slowly, a change began to take place in my heart, but I refused to acknowledge it at first. Every Sunday my wife would iron my clothes with the hope that I would attend church with her. I was too stubborn to put on the clothes, but I started going to sacrament meeting in jeans and a T-shirt. As less-active members often do, I sat on the bench nearest the door so I could be the last one in and the first one out without having anyone speak to me.
After several months I realized I was not being a good example to my children or blessing my family with the priesthood as I should. I made the decision to never again miss a day of church. I had watched the application of gospel principles brighten my life, and I realized that this simple decision should have been made long ago.
How eager the Lord was to bless my family and me! My wife and I and our children were soon sealed to each other in the Santiago Chile Temple.
I am grateful for a mother who diligently taught me the principles of the gospel, for a wife who encouraged me through her love and example to live them, for faithful home teachers, and for a Father in Heaven who patiently waited for me to live the gospel so He could bless me more than I thought possible.

“All right, let’s fire ’em up and roll ’em out!”
Eighteen trail bikes coughed and roared awake in the early morning silence, filling the canyonlands with their chain-saw burr. The predawn light gleamed on bright-colored fuel tanks as the double column spun off in formation through the cedars and pines of Dead Horse Point State Park. Behind them, churning wider plumes of dust, came three four-wheel-drive vehicles, one towing a trailer for wounded bikes.
The Orem (Utah) 15th Ward priests, almost a part of their bikes, rode easily over the rough ground. It was clearly not the first time they had done some hard riding.
It had all begun under the stars and the moon one night in Wyoming in a mad flight of spinning wheels and flying shadows known forever after as the “midnight ride of the Orem 15th.” The quorum was on a camping trip and a few priests brought along their motorcycles. One night about bedtime their adviser, Dave Anderson, jumped into the saddle, called his cohorts to horse, and they flew away over mountains and moonlit meadows like so many Paul Reveres. The night seemed to be alive. More animals than they had ever seen stood watching them pass as if hypnotized by the string of moving lights.
They got back to camp about 2:00 A.M., feeling that they were much more than just a few people assigned to the same quorum. They were friends.
Fired by the enthusiasm of the midnight riders, the whole quorum joined in, and in the weeks that followed they framed a lot of territory between handlebars.
Once they followed the old pony express trail for about 200 miles, stopping at the way stations just as if they were carrying the mail. They came home feeling like authentic time travelers.
And now, several months later, they were following the White Rim Trail in Canyonlands National Park in southern Utah, where the Colorado River and the wind have carved a canyon full of sandstone miracles.
They set up camp Friday afternoon at Dead Horse Point and began exploring on foot and bike. They walked the observation trail that winds around the edge of the canyon, overlooking a sheer drop of 300 million years. They saw an unbelievable panorama of sandstone filigreed with peaks, spires, ridges, and wrinkles. The whole broad chasm was a huge river of colored shadows, with the great brown and green Colorado winding through at the bottom.
The enthusiasm of the quorum had long since overtaken the rest of the ward, and there were more adults than priests on the trip. It was a great opportunity for a father to explain some of the wonders of nature to his son.
“Do you know why they call that the Green River, son?” asked one father, leaning over the edge of the observation wall and looking at the river far below.
“That’s the Colorado, Dad,” his son answered.
After awhile the group started drifting back, lured by the aroma of steaks sizzling on the campfire grill. The four-man cooking crew went about its work with the efficiency of old pros, using one fork and several convenient sticks for their tools.
“What do you mean, hot?” a young Navajo asked, reaching for a foil-wrapped, baked potato while his cooking partner licked burnt fingers.
The steaks cooked quickly, and what steaks! They eclipsed the paper plates and hung over the edges. Tender, juicy, and savory, they soon disappeared. Everyone said, “I can’t eat all that,” and then did.
Approaching the table one young man asked, “Do we have to use manners?” But no one stopped licking his fingers long enough to answer.
Later there was time for some fun and games, including an impromptu Olympics that featured long jumping from a sandstone boulder to the soft sand below. In the middle of it all, a huge moon came up and became an audience of one. The Indian youth pointed at it and said softly in Navajo, “Ooljee!” And everyone echoed still more softly, “Ooljee.”
An asthmatic bugle dribbled taps from somewhere in the darkness, announcing bedtime. Before climbing into their sleeping bags, the whole party got together for prayer. The priests quorum group leader called on one of the adults to pray, but before he could begin, a young man slipped to his side and whispered, “Pray for R.G.; he’s not feeling well.” It was done.
Stars seem to be made to lie awake under, but wind in pine boughs is the sleepiest of sounds, and soon most were unaware of the crackling red fire by which a few hungry young men were still roasting marshmallows.
At 4:30 the cooks were up, frying ham and scrambling eggs, long before the sun even hit the mountaintops. Before long an uproar followed as hibernating cyclists were turned out, and a frowsy-headed crew was soon attacking breakfast.
About halfway through the ham the bugler woke up. A sleepy reveille crawled from his tent and lay dying on the ground.
“What’d we bring you for?” someone asked.
Someone began singing a lively version of “Onward Christian Soldiers,” but trailed off under a barrage of glares.
Before sunup, breakfast was finished, and the cycles were gassed up and lined up in their assigned order, two abreast. On the handlebars of each cycle hung a helmet. Everything was ready.
The group formed a huge circle, and Kent Keller, the group leader, spoke with a suppressed smile.
“I guess you’re all wondering why I called you here …”
Safety rules were reviewed, last minute instructions issued, and the group knelt in prayer. Then it was to the cycles and away.
Along the rim of the chasm they went—sometimes over a thin layer of sandstone undercut with thin air—to a spot where the road gave up all inhibitions and dropped down the face of the all-but-sheer stone wall in a series of razor-sharp switchbacks hanging nonchalantly onto the edge of nothing. It was the first of many such roads. The priests zigzagged down as slick as slalom racers. The adults zigzagged down too, but some of them looked more sick than slick.
But the view made up for the nervous stomachs. The group stopped about halfway down just to look for a while.
“What do you think, Dad?”
A strong arm tightened around the young man’s shoulder. “I think it’s great, son.”
And then it was ride, ride, ride, through and over awesome desert valleys, passes, and peaks, on a road that sometimes degenerated into a trail and sometimes into an exercise in imagination. The riders often found themselves standing up more than they were sitting in order to absorb the jolts. But every bump and hill was an invitation to jump, and some young men were airborne so much they should have been licensed pilots.
They paused at the edge of the last plateau above the Colorado to make some minor repairs and adjustments on their bikes. All had been trained in bike maintenance and had received instructions in riding safety.
“Who’s got the chain lube?”
“Can I use your spoke wrench?”
Then over country steep, bumpy, and rugged, dotted with huge sandstone monoliths balanced on thin stone columns and fringed far away with pale mountains and colored mesas. Once the group went down a wash to the shore of the river, a road rough enough to test the most expert cyclist. They cut willows by the river for the wiener roast later on. Several million climbs, dips, and jumps later, they ate lunch on the wide stone ledge overlooking Monument Valley.
They built a wiener-roasting fire with the wood they had brought with them. One of the adults whittled kindling from the end of one of the huge, squat stove lengths.
“That’s not necessary, Brother Rasmussen,” one of the priests said kindly. “We’ve already got enough sticks, and you’ll never get that thing sharp enough anyway.”
Soon there was a roaring fire, just right for cremating wieners, and everyone did.
More roads, more bumps, more ruts, more breathtaking climbs and heart-stopping descents, more ravines to go around, more hours, and the group found itself down to the level of the Colorado again. By now the faces of the riders were a grimy, mottled brown. The young men were beginning to feel the wear and tear of the long ride, and some of the older men were past feeling it; and it wasn’t over yet. Ahead lay the ascent from the river back up to the top of the canyon.
It was done down dirt roads and up dizzy climbs, and finally down the home stretch through a pouring rain, and back into camp wet, muddy, tired, and happy, with 105 miles of hard biking under their belts. Had the rain come ten minutes earlier it could have made the climb out of the canyon very difficult, perhaps impossible. As it was, the four-wheeled vehicles had to grunt hard to make it.
In camp the bikes were loaded back into their trailers and the long haul back to Orem began. And in every car, jeep, and pickup, accompanied by the hypnotic squeak of windshield wipers, they all talked about the same thing. “Where shall we go next time?”
But to think of these young men just in terms of bike riding is to miss the whole point. Their quorum is a spiritual university to them. They’ve got a 100 percent attendance record going in their quorum meetings; they’re preparing for missions; and they’re learning to love each other. For them, fun, religion, spirituality, and all good things are getting tied up together, each supporting the others.
Their bishop once offered them a camping trip if they would maintain perfect attendance. “No, thanks,” they said. “We’ll attend our meetings all right, but for the right reasons—not for a prize.”
Their bishop goes along on their trips, and so does their adviser, but the priests themselves are in charge, right down to the last hot dog bun. Their adult leaders have been wise enough to recognize leadership potential in the young men of the ward and to let them develop it. They haven’t been sorry.
The group leader says, “It’s not just getting on the bike and riding and loving bikes. We’re getting out with each other, and that’s really the part we’re going to remember the most. On a trip like this you get to know each other. You take off the mask, and everybody really gets to understand each other. It’s not like at school where everybody goes down the hall, and when you meet somebody it’s ‘hi,’ ‘hi,’ and it’s not really the real person you see at all. You get out in the wilderness, and you know there’s not that much security all the time like we’re used to having, and there aren’t the luxuries—that’s when the masks come off.”
Another says, “It’s great! Everybody tries to help everybody out, not just in motorcycle riding either. If someone needs help in anything, everybody helps out. It’s almost like a family. When we plan meetings we have the Spirit there to guide us and tell us what to do. If you’re just in a group talking, it’s hard to get the Spirit there, but if everybody’s friends, and everybody knows each other well, it’s easier to get the Spirit there, and you’re able to get closer to the Lord.”
The spiritual balance of these young men surfaced in a van full of priests traveling from Orem to Dead Horse Point the day the outing began. The conversation was about motorcycles for a while, but then it shifted somehow to the scriptures—so smoothly and naturally that you couldn’t quite remember how it had happened. It was as if trail bikes and Bibles might have something to do with each other in the lives of these young men.
And maybe they do.

One night our family went out for pizza and games. When I finished eating my pizza slices, I was still hungry. I wanted to take a slice from my sister Eden, but my parents said not to. A minute later she decided to give me her last slice. That made us all smile.
Two nights later, Eden finished eating her dinner first. It was one of her favorite meals, and she wanted another helping. When I heard my mom tell her it was all gone, I decided to share mine. Eden was happy, and I felt good sharing something with her that she really likes. I remembered the good example Eden was to me when she shared her pizza.

When I was 14, my father was diagnosed with cancer. Doctors estimated that with chemotherapy, he had a 50 percent chance of living eight years or longer. Since the alternatives were even less encouraging, my father decided to suffer through the six months of weekly treatments.
At the end of the chemotherapy, my ward in Bountiful held a special fast for my father. It was a marvelous experience to join in faith for a common cause. When the diagnosis came back, the doctors could find no sign of cancer. After I left for my mission, I received letters from my father telling me of his continued improvements and how he even ran a marathon. Things seemed to be going well.
The summer before my mission ended, I was serving with a missionary named Elder Causse. He was from a branch in Bourdeaux, France, a place I had once considered “out there in the mission field.”
One morning my mission president called me into his office and told me my father would be calling. When the phone rang, the president excused himself and left me alone. I was apprehensive as I picked up the phone.
My father greeted me, then told me his cancer had relapsed. He would again go through chemotherapy. I then spoke to my mother, who told me our ward was going to fast again. I said I would join in the fast as well. After I hung the phone up, I wiped away a few tears and walked out of the office.
On the way back to our assigned area, I explained the situation to Elder Causse. He promised to fast with me, and his promise gave me comfort. But he did not stop there. He wrote to his family in France and told them what had happened. They, too, said that they would fast for my father and that they would ask the members of the Bourdeaux Branch to join the fast as well. I was astounded that they would fast for the health of a man they did not know.
At that moment, the Spirit spoke softly to me, and suddenly I understood what it means to be “fellow-citizens with the saints, and of the household of God” (Eph. 2:19). We are of one faith, united in the gospel with bonds stronger than illness or death. We are truly brothers and sisters. None of us is a stranger, no matter what land we happen to worship in.

“Father, how old do you have to be to receive a patriarchal blessing?” asked an Aaronic Priesthood youth one morning after Sunday School. My question had been prompted by the report of two missionaries. My father told me he knew of no age requirement, but one should be old enough to understand what the blessing would mean, and, of course, one must be worthy.
I asked him if he thought I was worthy. He informed me that he did think so, but he was not the one to say because that would be the responsibility of the bishop. “Why don’t you ask the bishop if you might receive a recommend for a patriarchal blessing?” he suggested.
This I did. After a careful but brief interview in one corner of the chapel—because fifty or sixty years ago many chapels didn’t have bishops’ offices—the bishop gave me a signed recommend.
When I showed it to my father, he pointed to a tall, white-haired man and said, “Brother Dalley, our stake patriarch, is visiting here today. Why don’t you present the recommend to him and ask when you might receive a blessing?”
The patriarch put his hand on my shoulder and said, “If you’ll come with me, we’ll walk up the road to the home of my son-in-law, Brother Winward, and I’ll give you the blessing right today.”
Up the road, arm-in-arm with this godly man, I went to the farm home. In the parlor, a room used for special occasions, with Brother Winward as scribe, this noble patriarch placed his hands upon my head and gave clear answer to a boy’s prayer. He promised that if I were faithful, I would go on a mission “to the nations of the earth, crying repentance to a wicked world.”
Filled with happiness and assurance that this and other promises in the blessing would be fulfilled, it seemed that I was walking on air during the mile walk to our farm home, where I broke the glad news to the family.

One day when I was younger, my stomach began to hurt. As the day went on, it got worse. It hurt so bad I couldn’t even walk. At night, I woke up crying because I just couldn’t handle the pain. My parents rushed me to the emergency room. The doctors there thought my intestines were twisted and that I would need an intensive surgery, so they sent me to a hospital where it could be taken care of.
My family was really worried, and before I left, my dad and grandpa gave me a priesthood blessing. At the hospital, I was prepped for a special kind of X-ray, but the doctors found out I was fine. The pain started going away too. I really believe that the priesthood blessing made everything OK.
Hearing about this story growing up has really helped my testimony to grow. I know that the Lord can perform miracles today and that He is always there when I need help. Even though this experience was hard, I am thankful for trials like this in my life because they have strengthened my faith and my testimony.
Kailyn S., Nevada, USA

My friend Julyette and I were chatting online when she told me she was looking for a church that had a living prophet who spoke with God face-to-face. I thought God had stopped speaking to men here upon the earth because we have a Bible, and I thought that was sufficient for our salvation.
But she said, “If God no longer called a prophet here upon the earth, He would be a liar, for He promised He would never do anything without calling prophets” (see Amos 3:7).
I asked her, “Where is this living prophet?” She did not know.
I began to reflect about how we could discover the right church. I knew that there were many different Christian churches with different doctrines. I thought, “Well, the Internet has a lot of sources,” so I searched for “the true persecuted church.” I don’t know why I typed it in that way, but several lists of churches appeared, including The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. There are many Christian churches in Brazil, but I had never heard of this church.
Upon entering the Web site, I read the story of a 14-year-old boy who had seen God and Jesus Christ face-to-face and had translated the Book of Mormon by the power of God. I had never heard anything about Joseph Smith or the Book of Mormon before, and I thought it was interesting. But what caught my attention was that the Book of Mormon told of Jesus Christ appearing to the ancient inhabitants of the American continent.
I had a great desire to read this book, so I requested a copy. I told Julyette about the site, and after she read the story of Joseph Smith, she was certain this church was the Church of Jesus Christ. She said I had been prepared by the Lord to find the Church for her.
I was impressed with her conviction and wanted to know for myself. I asked my mother if she knew about the Book of Mormon. She told me my sister had a blue book from two missionaries. I borrowed the book and read it from cover to cover in one week; I wasn’t interested in anything else. What a feeling of peace I had! I remembered a promise that everyone who read the book should ask God if it were true, and He would respond (see Moroni 10:3–4).
Early in the morning I went to my room to offer a prayer. I placed my trust in God and asked Him if the book was true, and I felt a burning inside. I did not know what the feeling was, but I felt joy. That night I had a dream in which a Book of Mormon prophet appeared. I asked him if the book was true, and he said it was. When I woke up I thought, “The Book of Mormon really is true.”
I asked around until I found someone who knew the directions to the church. One Friday I rode my bicycle to the chapel, but no one was there. I prayed for help to know when meetings were held. I went again the following week. When I arrived, an elderly lady told me that Church meetings were on Sunday mornings. I returned home happy and excited with my heart beating rapidly.
When I arrived on Sunday morning, I was well received by the members. I was impressed with the organization of the Church. I felt peace and joy in my heart during the meetings, and I asked the missionaries to come to my house to teach me. I returned home and told my mother that I had found the right religion.
The missionaries taught me about the Restoration of the gospel of Jesus Christ. I already knew the story of Joseph Smith, so when they invited me to pray to learn the truth, I told them I had already received an answer and told them about my experience. They were impressed with my testimony and suggested a date, May 15, 2004, for my baptism. In the meantime, my friend Julyette was also baptized. My baptism was the greatest joy of my life, and my friend and I are very happy we found the true Church of Jesus Christ.

Cold wind blew as Brigham Young arrived at Sugar Creek on the evening of February 15, 1846. Scattered around a snowy patch of woods, not far from an icy brook, hundreds of Saints shivered in damp coats and blankets. Many families collected around fires or underneath tents fashioned from bedsheets or wagon covers. Others huddled together in carriages or wagons for warmth.1

Right away Brigham knew he needed to organize the camp. With the help of other Church leaders, he divided the Saints into companies and called captains to lead them. He warned against taking unnecessary trips back to Nauvoo, being idle, and borrowing without permission. Men were to protect the camp constantly and monitor cleanliness, and each family was to pray together mornings and evenings.2

A good spirit soon settled over the camp. Safely out of Nauvoo, the Saints worried less about mobs or government threats to stop the exodus. In the evenings, a brass band played lively music while the men and women danced. Saints who practiced plural marriage also became less guarded and began to speak openly about the principle and how it linked their families together.3

“Where are we going?” Mark asked flatly, uncomfortably perplexed. Transfers had just occurred that day, bringing the reluctant Elder Macklind to a new area with which he was wholly unfamiliar, and pairing his antiathletic body with jog-happy Elder Hilversum. Mark felt very unsettled, and yet Elder Hilversum didn’t seem to notice. He just serenely breezed through the day as if nothing was new, which Mark found somewhat depressing; it’s tough to be gloomy without company, and this cheerful Hilversum guy just wasn’t cooperating. Mark frowned at the ground. His mind was still in Cedar Court, on the Caufields.
Mr. Caufield had grinned so widely, too, after accepting the baptismal challenge. His wife had cried and hugged Mark tightly as he left; he told her she would look so pretty in white. And she would have, too, if they had only tried harder. Mark winced at the memory. All the plans, filling the font, so much excitement, smiling all day, and then finding their note instead of them: “We just do not want to be baptized after all.” Mark shut his eyes tight.
Sometimes Mark wondered why he had come on a mission at all. Just like this stupid run, it often seemed like a lot of effort for no good purpose. He just got sore legs and an aching heart that beat too hard as if it were going to explode out of his chest. And he went back three times, but he never saw the Caufields again before the transfer. Maybe never again, period. Mark contorted his eyebrows into a knot, and tiny trickles of water fell down his face. He gritted his teeth. Why does he keep running?
The jog had become rudely taxing. Mark began to punctuate each plop of his heels with a gutterul groan, partly out of exhaustion and partly in an effort to complain: “Ugh!”—step—“Ugh!”—step—“Ugh!” His seeping energy was beginning to upset him. He could feel anger well up deep inside and churn up toward his head, as if his feet were pumping it farther with every plod. What’s the point in trying anyway? There was so much to be angry about. Mark wanted to give in to it.
They came to a crosswalk, and Elder Hilversum was jogging in place waiting for the light to change when Mark caught up to him. “Is anyone watching us?” Mark huffed to his companion, the pogo stick.
Elder Hilversum grinned again, glancing from side to side, “Nope.”
“Good!” Mark blurted, and promptly fell to the ground in a lifeless sprawl, moaning, “All over. All over. Any time now.”
Anxiously, Elder Hilversum reached for his land-grabbing companion. “Get up, Elder Macklind, get up! Are you all right?”
“Dying. Dying,” Mark lamented from among the grass blades and dirt.
“No, you’re not dying,” Elder Hilversum retorted impatiently, pulling at Mark’s arm. “But you’ll cramp up if you lie there much longer.”
Mark slowly stood again, leaning on Elder Hilversum with dedicated weariness. “Aren’t we done yet?” he wailed.
“Press forward, Elder Macklind,” Elder Hilversum advised, his patience returning with his place-running. “Have a perfect brightness of hope.”
“I’m beyond hope,” Mark murmured. “I’m well into despair.”
The pair jaunted on, Elder Hilversum slowing his pace to stay beside Elder Macklind. Mark wanted to cry. So hard. Thud, lift, thud, lift, thud.
Elder Hilversum began to gasp out a hymn, managing five words at a breath: “Let us all press on … in the work of the … Lord that when life is … o’er we may gain a …”
Mark couldn’t join in, because he wanted to scream. How could he act happy under these conditions? Another thud, lift, thud, lift, thud, lift … every day like this? And Elder Hilversum plowing ahead in breathy song with his permanent smile, like a marathon minstrel harboring a secret pleasure. Mark stared at him with aching eyes, torn between sincere anguish and raging rebellion.
“Elder Hilversum,” Mark called, turning the warbler’s sweaty head in mid-chorus, seeing the grin melt to concern, “how can you go like this every day, running on?”
Two hard plods. “This is silly,” Mark panted, unfinished. “I’m killing myself on this road; I really am. But you just keep going. Why, elder? Why?” And then, after a thud, “How?”
Elder Hilversum furrowed his wet, hot brow. “I don’t know, Elder Macklind,” he said, still tramping on. “I just keep reminding myself that the feeling of accomplishment will always be worth the temporary pain of effort.”
They stepped up to a curb, in lock-jog.
“You make it sound like spiritual persecution,” Mark muttered.
The senior companion grinned. “Do I?” he asked and laughed. Then he stretched the stride.
That grin was ingratiating. But the memory of the Caufields demanded his depression, and so Mark moaned. “I can’t imagine anything being worth this pain!”
“Don’t dwell on how much it hurts, Elder Macklind.”
“Everything hurts.”
“Just keep moving. Don’t worry about how fast you’re going, just keep going, and give it all you’ve got. I’ll run with you.”
Mark nodded, swallowing. “I know.”
“Elder Macklind, do your best. Push yourself, and don’t stop at less. You’ve been doing your best. Don’t quit now because it’s getting more difficult. Give it all you’ve got, and that’s all you need to give. Elder Macklind, all you can do is all you can do.”
Mark watched the sidewalk disappear under his feet. “Yeah, okay,” he said, but wanted to say something better. Elder Hilversum ran beside him, and so Mark pushed a little harder. Elder Hilversum grinned. He was always doing that. And the house wasn’t too far now, anyway.
Mark wiped his face with his hand and threw the sweat behind him. He was beginning to understand a little better, and the day didn’t look so bad now. Running on, he reflected, “All we can do is all we can do,” and smiled a little. That made sense, he decided, and brought his head up to see the sun, thinking, “Maybe I’ll run again tomorrow.”