Gospel Story Finder

Eleven-year-old John Roothoof lived in Rotterdam, Holland. He had once been happy going to school and church, playing with his friends, and doing all the things a boy enjoys. Then, without warning, a painful eye disease caused him to lose his sight. No longer could he go to school or read. He could not even see well enough to play with his friends. Each day was filled with darkness and suffering.
Word reached the Latter-day Saints in Holland that President Joseph F. Smith was coming to visit them. John thought about this for a long time, and then he said to his mother, “The prophet has the most power of any man on earth. If you’ll take me with you to the meeting so he can look into my eyes, I believe I’ll be healed.”
At the close of the meeting the next Sunday, President Smith went to the back of the small chapel to greet the people and shake hands with each one. Sister Roothoof helped John, his eyes bandaged, go with the others to speak to their beloved leader.
President Smith took the blind boy by the hand and then with great tenderness lifted the bandages and looked into John’s pain-filled eyes. The prophet blessed John and promised him he would see again.
Arriving home, John’s mother took the bandages from his eyes so she could bathe them as the doctors had told her to do. As she did so, John cried out with joy, “Oh, Mamma, my eyes are well. I can see fine now—and far too. And I can’t feel any pain!”

While studying dental surgery in Nantes, France, Gervais Gerard Zang began to have many questions about life that his Catholic faith did not answer. He began investigating many churches and, on this journey, he met the Latter-day Saint missionaries. He was baptized on 11 November 1989 and, after a few months, received the Melchizedek Priesthood and was ordained an elder in the Church. After obtaining his diplomas in dental surgery, he returned to Cameroon.
On 10 January 1993 the first branch of the Church in Cameroon was organized. Known as the Bastos Branch, it was established in Yaoundé, Cameroon, with Brother Zang as the branch president.
By September of the same year the Church was granted legal recognition by the president of Cameroon. Before the government granted recognition, about 30 people had been baptized and another 60 investigators were attending Sunday meetings. —Sister Julie Brough, Church History missionary in the Africa Central Area

As a bishop a few years ago l held a temple recommend interview with one good brother; a really fine member of the ward. All went well until we got to the question, “do you pay your tithes?” Then he began to stammer; words could not come out clearly. I looked him straight in the eye and asked a second time, “Do you pay your tithes?”

The answer then came out rather quietly, “l am not consistent in paying my tithes, because many times when I get my pay, l have a lot of pressing needs and the money seems not to be enough to cover all the expenses or commitments.” I knew that this was an opportunity to teach him about the principle of paying an honest and full tithe, as commanded by the Lord. He then asked for time to go and make good on his promise to become a full tithe payer. It took six months before l could have another interview with him to ascertain his worthiness. Indeed, he had begun to take baby steps in the right direction.

A few days after my 12th birthday, my grandparents, parents, and I went to the Denver Colorado Temple. My grandma and grandpa had done the family history work for many of my ancestors so I could be baptized for them.
In the temple everybody was kind to me. There was a reverent feeling, and I could tell the Holy Spirit was there. When I was being baptized, I felt warm inside. Every time I was baptized for one of my ancestors, I could picture in my mind each one of them being set free.
Since then, I have been able to return and perform more baptisms for the dead. I have even been baptized for my 12th great-grandmother, who lived in Switzerland in the 1600s.
I love going to the temple and the feeling I have while I’m there. I’m glad my grandparents are doing family history work so I can get to know my ancestors and help them receive the blessings of the temple. By doing this, I know my family and I are receiving many blessings.

Klarie dribbled hard and fast down the court. This is it, she thought. The tallest, fastest girl on the team had been guarding Klarie the whole game. But now she was guarding someone else. This was Klarie’s chance!
She quickly spun away from another player and set her feet. Then she jumped and took her shot. The ball sailed through the air as Klarie held her breath. Please go in.
The ball swished through the net.
Klarie’s team members gave her high fives. Then Coach Garcia looked down at the timer and blew her whistle. “And that’s the end of practice! Good job, everyone! I’ll see you all tomorrow. Make sure to rest up because we’ll be doing a lot of sprints.”
Klarie groaned and walked over to gather her stuff. Then she saw Coach Garcia waving her over.
“Hey, Klarie,” she said. “Good job today. I know you work really hard in practice, and I’m proud of you.”
“Thank you,” Klarie said with a big smile.
She was still smiling as she walked out to her mom’s car. And as they drove home, she replayed her last shot in her head. Especially the swish of the ball through the net. She hardly even noticed the conference talk Mom was listening to.
But then something caught her attention. The speaker said, “We must take time to actively exercise our faith.”* The words “actively exercise” sounded like something she would hear at basketball practice. How do you exercise faith? she thought. Do you run with faith? Or dribble faith like a ball?
Klarie turned to Mom. “How do you exercise faith?” she asked.
Mom smiled. “How do you get better at basketball?”
“I practice,” Klarie said. “My coach tells me how to get better. And when we do drills, I try really hard to do them right.”
“Is it easy?”
“No!” Klarie said, remembering how tired her legs felt after sprints. “I have to practice a lot.”
Mom nodded. “Heavenly Father wants us to have faith in Him, but we have to work on it. He gave us ways to practice and get better.”
“Like what?”
“He asks us to talk to Him in prayer. He’s kind of like our coach. He gives us scriptures. They’re like His playbook. And He inspires prophets to encourage us to learn as families. Our family is like—”
“Like our team!” Klarie interrupted.
“Exactly! Our family team works and practices together,” Mom said. “So what happens when you go to practice, Klarie?”
“I get better,” she said. She thought of how good it felt to make her final shot after working hard in practice for weeks.
“That’s right. When we practice, we’re exercising our faith. That helps our testimonies get stronger. And it makes us happier.”
Klarie had never thought of faith like that. She had heard faith was like a seed. But she’d never known it could be like playing basketball! She thought about how her coach made practice plans for their team. Maybe I can make a practice plan too, she thought, but for faith! As soon as she got home, she found a big notepad and started writing:
Prayer—morning and night
Scripture study—every day
Church—every Sunday
Maybe exercising faith wasn’t exactly like practicing basketball. But practice was practice. She felt warm and happy inside as she looked at her plan. She trusted Heavenly Father and knew He would help her!

As the Ellsworth Company started its third month of travel, food supplies began to dwindle. During this part of the journey, the pioneers were blessed to come across many buffalo on the Plains. The pioneers replenished their food supplies by shooting a few buffalo, cooking and eating the fresh meat, and then drying some meat for the days ahead. Buffalo chips were used, in the absence of wood, to build fires for warmth and for cooking. The pioneers spent many hours repairing the handcarts that often carried up to 500 pounds of goods over hard roads, through numerous streams and rivers, and up sandy bluffs from Florence, Nebraska, to the Salt Lake Valley. Meanwhile, the Saints already in the valley were organizing to help the approaching companies. Food was sent in wagons to Deer Creek to help the pioneers on the last leg of their journey.
1
Crossed Prairie Creek twice—second time brethren had to carry handcarts across (16 miles)
2
Forded two creeks; saw many buffalo; camped at Wood River (18 miles)
3
Sunday—rested and mended handcarts; ate shellfish from river (no miles)
4
Roads good; camped near Platte River (18 miles)
5
Roads pretty good; wood plentiful; water merely sufficient (16 miles)
6
Saw thousands of buffalo—killed four, which furnished camp with good supply of meat (12 miles)
7
No water found all day; at night dug for water, which was sufficient but very thick (25 miles)
8
Traveled without finding water; Brother Sanders somehow left behind; men unsuccessfully searched for him (13 miles)
9
Found Brother Sanders five miles ahead of camp; brought him to camp on a mule (13 miles)
10
Sunday—many ill; camped in excellent place near cold spring (14 miles)
11
Four men sent to shoot two buffalo; one milk cow died (17 miles)
12
Dried buffalo meat and repaired handcarts (no miles)
13
Roads difficult to travel, owing to rainfall last night (12 miles)
14
Travel hard; one handcart broke down (18 miles)
15
Forded five creeks; camped by Rattlesnake Creek, 352 miles from Florence (14 miles)
16
Camped on east bank of Wolf Creek; buffalo chips not plentiful; good grazing for cattle (17 miles)
17
Sunday—Brother Peter Stalley died; camped opposite Ash Hollow (12 miles)
18
Forded Hustle Creek; camped on banks of Platte River (19 miles)
19
Plenty of buffalo chips to burn; camped opposite Ancient Bluff Ruins (20 miles)
20
Started out at 7:30 A.M.; crossed sandy bluffs; camped by Platte River (20 miles)
21
Tolerably good road; camped two miles past Chimney Rock (16 miles)
22
Delayed in travels for three hours by thunderstorm; camped on Platte River half a mile from Spring Creek (21 miles)
23
Captain Ellsworth shot a buffalo, which was very thankfully received (16 miles)
24
Sunday—at evening meeting, Brother Ellsworth admonished those who had robbed handcarts or wagons to repent (no miles)
25
Saw many Indians; plenty of wood—quite a treat after burning buffalo chips (19 miles)
26
Forded North Fork of Platte River; camped three miles from Fort Laramie (17 miles)
27
Bacon and meal porridge for supper—best supper for many weeks (21 miles)
28
Camped near Horseshoe Creek, 4:30 P.M.; washed clothes and mended handcarts (15 miles)
29
Forded Platte River and camped where wood was plentiful and feed fair (25 miles)
30
Met two Californians, who said wagons from Salt Lake were waiting to meets Ellsworth Company at Deer Creek (19 miles)
31
Sunday—Brother Stoddard died of consumption; at Deer Creek met wagons with provisions for last part of journey (24 miles)

After earning his PhD, the family moved to Bristol, England, where Christophe worked as a computer science professor for six years. He left academia for a time to accept a manager position at ELCA Informatique in Lausanne, Switzerland. In Switzerland, they were just two hours from family for the first time in nearly 13 years. They loved living in Switzerland.

BYU had regularly asked Dr. Giraud-Carrier if he would consider accepting a professorship at the Provo campus. The answer was always no. When the Giraud-Carriers traveled to Utah in 2004, the Computer Science department chair asked them again, “What would make you stay in Utah?” Both Christophe and Isabelle had a strong impression that they should accept a professorship at BYU. They said yes and moved resolutely forward with the direction the Lord was revealing to them.

We need to make our homes a place of refuge from the storm, which is increasing in intensity all about us. Even if the smallest openings are left unattended, negative influences can penetrate the very walls of our homes. Let me cite an example.
Several years ago, I was having dinner with my daughter and her family. The scene is all too common in most homes with small children. My daughter was trying to encourage her young, three-year-old son to eat a balanced meal. He had eaten all the food on his plate that he liked. A small serving of green beans remained, which he was not fond of. In desperation, the mother picked up a fork and tried to encourage him to eat his beans. He tolerated it just about as long as he could. Then he exclaimed, “Look, Mom, don’t foul up a good friendship!”
Those were the exact words he heard on a television commercial a few days earlier. Oh, what impact advertising, television programs, the Internet, and the other media are having on our family units!

It was fast and testimony meeting in the ward. Several young people had stood up and testified of the goodness of the Lord and his blessings unto them. Then an elderly gentleman stood on his feet. There were lines of care on his face, and time had turned his hair to silver. But his voice was clear like the tones of a bell on a frosty morning:
“I know that God lives and guides our destinies. I am here today because he heard my prayers as a boy and guided my footsteps.”
To understand his words we must go back many years to the time when a 12-year-old boy became a man and went to work.
He lived in a coal-mining village in the little country of Wales where almost all of the male inhabitants worked at the colliery (coal mine and its connected buildings). In a few weeks he would be 12, and like other boys in the village he would go down the pit to dig coal. He was a normal boy who understood that he must leave school to go to work to help support the family. But one morning as he was on his way to school, an incident occurred that was to affect his life. He was to learn the meaning of fear.
Coming up the hill toward the cottages where the miners lived was a small cortege. Two men were carrying a stretcher while one walked in front. Their faces were black with coal dust. On the stretcher was a body, a small body covered over with a brown blanket.
“And who is it now?” someone asked.
“It is little Davey Edwards,” the man in front replied. “He was caught by a roof fall, poor lad.”
The boy continued on to school, but his thoughts were not of schooling but of Davey Edwards. Together they had roamed the hills. They had picked chestnuts from the copse on Mynyddyslwyn Mountain and picked wild blackberries along the bank of Gwyddon Brook. They had stood together where the golden gorse ended and the woodland began and listened to the plaintive call of the cuckoo telling of the approach of spring.
“Aye,” he thought to himself, “those days are gone. Soon Davey will be in the graveyard on Llanvach Hill, and it will be the pit for me.” For the first time in his life he knew the meaning of fear. But he kept the fear inside of him.
His 12th birthday came, and his father informed him he was to start work at the colliery come Monday. On Saturday afternoon they went down to the village where his father took him to the haberdashery and bought him a pair of moleskin trousers and a Welsh flannel shirt. He also bought him a tommy box and tea can, and a pair of yorks to buckle below his knees to prevent the coal dust from going up his trouser leg.
Monday morning came cold and wet, but not as cold as the boy’s heart. He was assigned to work as a butty (partner) to Dai Jenkins, an experienced miner. The management discouraged father and son from working together because it looked bad if two members of a family were killed in one accident.
He stood by the side of Dai Jenkins as the cage descended. Through the glimmer of the miners’ lamps he looked across the cage at his father, who smiled back at him. By his father’s side was another 12-year-old boy from the village.
The cage landed on the bottom with a bump. As the gate was opened and the men stepped out, the smell of horses and donkeys assailed the boy’s nostrils. These animals were used to pull the loaded trams out of the headings and the empties back in. A man with the title of hostler took care of the animals.
The boy followed his butty along the narrow tracks until they reached the face of the tunnel where they were to work. Dai removed his jacket and hung it on the nail that protruded from a timber that supported the roof. He did the same with his tommy box and tea can. The boy did the same.
The coal seam was only three feet thick so Dai spent most of his time on his knees swinging his pick. It was the boy’s responsibility to load the coal into the tram and the muck into other trams. The ostler would then come and take them to the cage at the bottom of the shaft where they would be hauled to the surface.
So the days went by, and each day the boy’s hatred for the darkness grew. There were times when there was a squeeze, a time when the earth settled and it seemed the timbers supporting the roof must snap and he and Dai be crushed. It was at times like this he thought of his friend Davey and wondered if he too would be taken home on a stretcher covered over with a brown blanket.
There was, however, a time during the day that he really enjoyed. Dai would lay down his pick and say, “Come, bachen, it’s time for a bit of food and a sip of tea.”
Together they would sit in the dim light of their lamps and eat the food in their tommy boxes. Occasionally, Dai would give the boy a Welsh cake that his wife made. This was like a bit of heaven.
One day while Dai was digging with his pick, a strange and unusual thing happened. They broke through the face of the tunnel into a small cave. It was no bigger than a small room, and the roof seemed to be of solid rock. At about shoulder height a shelf ran across one side of the wall.
One can only wonder why on that same day as they sat together eating their lunch there was a sound like thunder that echoed through the mine. The earth shook. Dai jumped to his feet and grasped the boy by the arm.
“It’s an explosion, bachen; there may be fire. We must put the brattice cloth (temporary partition of cloth) across the opening. It could be the only chance we’ll have.”
Hurriedly they nailed the heavy cloth across the mouth of the little cave and then sat and waited. Soon they felt the heat as the flames approached.
On the surface the villagers crowded around the mine top. Rescue squads had been sent down but came back almost immediately.
“No one could live down there” was their report. “The mine is on fire. God help those who are down there.”
The mine owners met and made a quick decision. A canal that ran close by must be turned into the mine to extinguish the fire.
A woman cried out, “What about our men?”
Her anguished cry was answered with a shake of the head. In the little cave the heat was almost unbearable, but somehow a little air was coming in. Time seemed to stand still and hours went by. Then they heard the water. It came seeping into the cave, first to shoe tops, then to the knees, and it continued to rise.
Dai climbed up onto the shelf and pulled the boy up beside him. As the water rose, the heat subsided. Then came an eerie silence.
“Bachen,” whispered Dai, “can you pray?”
“Aye, I can,” replied the boy. “Before my mam died, she taught me.”
“Then pray for us. ’Tis all we have left.”
The boy closed his eyes, and for a few moments no words would come. Then they came slowly as from a troubled heart:
“Gentle Jesus, we reach out to you in this darkness, having nothing left but your help. If it be thy will, let us see the light once more. Let our feet climb the hill to our homes. Let us hear the song of the birds and see the sun rise over Rhysog Mountain. We are alone and we need your help. Amen.”
He felt Dai’s arm around his shoulder and heard his voice. “Thanks, bachen. It’s not afraid I am anymore.”
Hours went by and night must have come for they slept. When they awoke, their lamps had gone out. Now there was complete darkness, darkness that was black and foreboding. With the blackness came fear, cold, trembling fear. The boy saw himself being carried up the hill on a stretcher, his body covered with a brown blanket. Dai sensed his fear and put a comforting arm about his shoulder.
“Bachen,” he said, “is it a bit of singing you could do?”
The boy hesitated for a while, and then in a fear-stricken voice, he sang: “Jesus lover of my soul, let me to thy bosom fly, While the nearer waters roll, when the tempest still is nigh.” In his boyish tenor he sang the chorus: “Hide me, oh my Savior, hide, till the storm of life is past.” He felt Dai shaking with emotion, so he could not continue.
It is hard to know how fast or slow time passes in the darkness, but the pangs of hunger and thirst came to them.
“Chew on a bit of leather, bachen,” Dai reminded him. “It will help the hunger.”
The boy removed the leather york from below his knee and chewed on it. It was new leather, and the taste of the tanning was still in it. But it helped to assuage the pangs of hunger.
Sleep came again and another day passed. Dai was quiet now, as if realizing the end was close. As a result of hunger and thirst, the boy had become quiet and listless. The complete darkness had settled on him like a shroud. He only waited now for that complete sleep.
Then suddenly from far away a voice was heard: “Is anyone about?” The voices came closer. Then someone threw aside the brattice cloth, and his light shone on Dai and the boy.
“A miracle it is,” he shouted to the other rescuers. “It’s alive they are!”
Dai was able to walk, but they carried the boy to the cage that transported them to daylight and life.
The boy’s father had been killed in the explosion, so Davey Edwards’ family took him in. In a few days some relatives from farther down the valley came to pick him up and take him to their home. They were lovely people, it was said, except they had joined some strange church that had originated in America.
Together the boy and his new family made plans, and the day came when they emigrated to America. Here they made their home in the valley of the mountains.
The old man was bringing his testimony to a close. “So, my brothers and sisters, out of fear came faith, and out of darkness came living light.”

It had little effect, due in large part to the moral courage of one man, a nonmember named George Ramsden, manager of the passenger department of the Guion Line. At his death the Millennial Star published an obituary describing him as a man of “integrity and honour.”3 Several of Mr. Ramsden’s colleagues warned him that he would run a great risk if he attempted to land any Latter-day Saints in America, but he had the courage to ignore the circular, knowing that it had its origins in prejudice and religious intolerance. When government officials put up posters on his ships stating that Church members would not be allowed to land in New York, he had them taken down and forbade the distribution of the circulars among his passengers. To the American consul he simply said that he was not willing to apply a religious test as to who should, or should not, be his passengers.4
The Millennial Star concluded “that the Latter-day Saints, notwithstanding the hostile attitude of the American government towards them during a number of years, have not been prevented from landing in America is in great degree due to the wise discretion and superior tact displayed by this courageous and broad-minded gentleman.”5 Qualities still in great need today.

Linda Buysse-Vergauwen, who teaches elementary school in Belgium, was on a study trip with a colleague and gave her a copy of the March issue along with a special note and an invitation to come to hear her speak in church on Easter Sunday. The friend went and had a positive experience. “The special issue of the Liahona gave me the opportunity to put a little seed in the heart of a friend,” Sister Buysse-Vergauwen said.

One day when President Hinckley was about five years old, he was sitting on his front porch with some friends. A family of another race walked down the street in front of the house. Young Gordon and his friends made some unkind remarks about the people. His mother heard what they said, and she took them inside to talk with them. She told them that all people are sons and daughters of God. That day he learned that we must respect and help one another, regardless of race, religion, wealth, or anything else.

“All those who can sustain Brother Rulon T. Sheets as our new bishop, please show it by raising your right hand.”
My hand shot into the air. I was excited to have Brother Sheets as our new bishop. His daughter, Peggy, was a friend of mine. Even though she was a few years older, she often invited me to activities at her house. Brother Sheets would pop in and out of these activities, showing us a certain dance step with Peggy or taking his turn at a guessing game. Sometimes he would make popcorn and sit down and talk with us for a while.
I was happy to sustain Brother Sheets as our new bishop. But as I held my hand up in church and looked around at the chapel full of upraised hands, I wondered what kind of support my small, 11-year-old hands could offer to such a great man.
One of the first things I did was use my hands to make cookies for our new bishop. My mother told me that bishops spend a lot of time at the church and sometimes miss meals at home, so we whipped up a batch of our best oatmeal cookies. I stirred the batter until it was just right. Then, when the cookies were ready, I carried them carefully to his house. He was thrilled, but I wanted to help more.
A few weeks later, I was at an activity at Peggy’s house. She put me in charge of the music. I used my hands to turn the dial on the radio, listening for a station with appropriate music. Then I turned down the sound so it wasn’t too loud. This was the bishop’s house, and I wanted to help make it a peaceful place.
When school started, the bishop’s family invited a foster girl named Carla to live with them. The first time I met her I extended my hand and welcomed her. I knew it would help the bishop if Carla was able to make some new friends.
As the months passed, the bishop became ill and had to use a cane to help him walk. My mother said he was sick and he needed our prayers and support more than ever.
When my 12th birthday approached, I had an interview with Bishop Sheets. My mom and I walked to the church and arrived just as the bishop got out of his car. He gave me a cheery wave and shuffled over to the sidewalk. I noticed that, even though it was Saturday, he had dressed in a suit and tie just for my interview. I felt honored.
When the bishop got to the curb, he paused and looked worried. I realized that he was too weak to step up. I ran over to him.
“Take my hand,” I said. “I can help you.”
Gratefully, he grasped my hand and pulled himself up. Then I ran ahead of him and pulled open the heavy church doors.
“I should be doing that for you,” he said softly. “Thank you.”
In his office he eased himself into his chair with a sigh. He then asked me to offer a prayer. I folded my arms reverently, and even though I didn’t mention the bishop in my prayer, in my heart I asked Heavenly Father to bless and strengthen him.
When the prayer was over, the bishop looked more like his old self again. He sat up straight in his chair, and there was a light in his eyes. At the end of the interview he gave me a firm handshake, which I happily returned.
As my mom and I walked home from my interview, I thought about how much I loved Bishop Sheets, and I knew he was called of God. I was grateful that, even though my hands were small, I could still find ways to support and sustain my beloved bishop.

“Come on, Dad,” I pleaded. “It’s only rated that bad for violence. A little fake fighting isn’t going to hurt us.”
My 16-year-old cousin and I weren’t in the habit of asking to see movies rated for older audiences. We were good kids, active in seminary and our priest quorums. But we had both heard how great this movie was and how many awards it would win. Besides, we’d been told there was no sex, no innuendo, no nudity, and very little swearing. That’s all of the bad stuff, right?
My dad wasn’t seeing it that way. Finally he changed tactics. “Fine,” he said. “You know what’s right and wrong. You do what you feel is right.”
Church leaders have told us not to watch inappropriate movies, and in our family the rule was we could not watch R-rated movies. (In the United States an R rating requires an adult to accompany anyone under 17.) I guess I had been trying to get my dad to say it was all right for my cousin and me to see the movie so I could do what I wanted and not feel guilty. Instead, he had placed the decision squarely on my shoulders.
Well, he didn’t say no. And besides, it was only a little violence.
After my cousin and I saw the movie, I felt awful. I thought I felt bad because of the movie’s rating, so I promised myself I would never watch another R-rated movie again. But later after watching a somewhat violent movie (though its milder rating allowed teen audiences), I realized I had that same awful feeling.
What happened? Hadn’t I done the right thing by choosing a movie with a milder rating? Maybe it wasn’t just a movie’s rating that mattered. Maybe it was the violence itself. But could violence really affect me that much?
When I pulled out my wallet-sized For the Strength of Youth pamphlet, I was surprised I had missed such an important point before. Under “Entertainment and the Media,” it says, “Avoid anything that is vulgar, immoral, violent, or pornographic in any way.”
Still, I resisted. “OK,” I told myself, “maybe there are people who are affected by violence, but I know it’s not real. And yes, some movies are pretty graphic, but a little bit never hurt anybody, right?” All of a sudden I wasn’t so sure.
Then came the stinger. Right after telling us to avoid violence, the pamphlet says, “Commit to keeping God’s standards.”
Ouch. I was guilty. Sure, I could rationalize that I was choosing the right by avoiding vulgarity, immorality, and pornography. But was keeping most of God’s standards good enough? Was I truly committed if I wasn’t willing to keep all of them?
It didn’t matter what the movie was rated, and it didn’t matter that there was only a little violence. It had been enough to offend the Spirit. And if that’s the case with movies, could the same principle hold true with other things? Maybe there are some words that offend the Spirit even if they aren’t swear words, and maybe some music offends the Spirit even if the lyrics aren’t bad.
When I committed to being more selective about the things I watched, played, read, said, and listened to, within days I could feel a difference. I didn’t realize how desensitized I had become to the influence of the Spirit.
When I cut back on my diet of violence, I found it was easier to control my temper, and I didn’t fight as much with my brothers. I noticed that, while my language wasn’t foul, cleaning it up made a big difference. Best of all, I could feel the Spirit more strongly.
It taught me that “just a little violence” is more than the Spirit wants to see.

Justin hunted through the raspberry canes for a ripe, unblemished specimen. By passing inferior fruit and deceptive berries that had flawless fronts with bird-pecked backs, he suddenly found a beauty. It looked almost too perfect, hanging there among the gentle swish of green. Almost a mean thing to pluck such perfection, almost a crime to crush that splendour between teeth so the tangy juice could satisfy his stomach.
He plucked it from the bush, and his mouth was watering in anticipation when he saw the bug. There it was, hidden deep in the dark hollow of his prize, crawling swiftly from the snug depths to discover the cause of the disturbance.
Justin flung the raspberry to the ground in disgust, squashing it underfoot with sharp jabs. Typical, he thought, feeling a familiar rebellion rising through his system. Everything’s fake these days—family, friends, Church, life, and above all, missions. As that word filtered through his brain, it oozed in and out of his thoughts like the red stain spreading between the cracks of the old paving slabs.
His lean, tanned features drooped in sulky lines. “Mission, mission,” he muttered, “hadn’t I known it would come one day?” He punched the nearest leaves in frustration. “All my life’s been preparing for this time, and now it’s here I feel cheated. Two years of my life thrown away. And for what? To serve here in England—not even in foreign parts—but here, in my own country.”
Justin stuffed his clenched fists into his jeans pockets, angrily scuffing the dead berry with the toe of his shoe. Friends can have jobs, cars, girls, and I’ll miss the best time of life because I’m serving, keeping rules, suffering hardships, and for what?
A terribly honest thought struck Justin—I’m not sure I believe the Church is worth all this sacrifice. Panic replaced his anger.
He could see his mother heading for the fruit garden. Oh, no, not again, he thought in frustration. I can’t stand another motherly chat. But there was no escape. Mum’s cheery smile did nothing for his bad mood.
“I’m so glad you’re down here, Justin. I really am pushed for time. If you can help me pick these gooseberries, I’d be so grateful.”
“Okay, okay,” Justin sighed, steeling himself for the advice he was sure would come.
Mother began filling her earthenware bowl, fingers moving carefully between the greenery, uncovering plump, hairy fruit. Justin scowled at the bushes. He parted leaves with half-hearted movements. “Not worth the effort,” he muttered. “There’s hardly anything here.”
“It takes careful searching, dear. See, I’m finding loads by looking deeper.”
Justin gritted his teeth, waiting for the next words. He wasn’t disappointed.
“Like missionaries,” she said. “You know, never giving up.”
How is it, Justin thought, that Mother has such a knack for finding analogies to missionary work in everything we do? He thrust rebellious fingers deep into the bush, then, with a furious cry, jumped back, nursing a bleeding finger.
“That bush kills!” he yelled. “That’s stupid, that bush is. Fancy having murderous thorns lying in wait like that. I’ve gone off fruit picking. You seem to be doing all right without me. Do you mind if I go for a bandage?”
Ignoring the pleading in her son’s voice, his mother calmly handed him the bowl. “We’ll only be a few more minutes if you hold this.” She dropped a particularly fine, tawny gooseberry into the bowl. “It’s strange, Justin, but special people can be a lot like that too, you know. They’ll hide behind prickly exteriors, but with a little questioning and love, they’ll come into the fold. You’ll be able to find those people on your mission.”
“I don’t think I want to talk about this,” muttered Justin, but his mother had already taken the bowl and was on her way to the house.
“What’s that dear?” his mother asked.
“Oh, nothing,” said Justin. He plodded on, trying to turn his mind away from the gloomy rut it kept travelling. It always seemed like he was moving down a continual motorway in the dark with lights snaking off into the distance, but he could never see where they were headed or where they ended.
By his farewell sacrament meeting, he still wasn’t sure he was happy about this “sacrifice.”
“This fine young man, Elder Justin Barnes,” the bishop was saying, “is about to exchange two years of his life for something out of this world.”
Justin’s head was spinning as he sat on the stand, dreading his turn to speak. Why me? kept echoing inside. I don’t want to be out of this world. Why not Andy and Phil down there? They’re 19 and refused to go. Why don’t I stop all this and say no too? He looked down at his family, sitting on the front row, smiling at him—Mum and Dad looking proud; Adam, Sam, and John, eyes big with hero worship; and little Suzy and Pam, the twins, open-mouthed in awe of the occasion.
Justin moved to the rostrum, amazed his feet moved him. With dry mouth, perspiring hands, and trembling knees, he stumbled through his talk. “And although I’m not too sure why I’m going,” Justin concluded, “I suppose … er, I mean, … no, I am going because the prophet has said all young men should serve and because my family and I follow the prophet.”
Justin sat down in a dazed state, wondering where those words came from, wondering if he had really said them.
Two weeks later at the Missionary Training Center, his dad said, “First time I’ve felt like crying for many a year.” With his dad’s arm around his shoulders, Justin stood gazing up at the London Temple. Two hours later Justin wished he could have those minutes back, so he could say all the things he hadn’t been able to put into words. Things like, “I love you, Dad. You’re the greatest. Thanks for everything, Dad. I promise I’ll work hard.”
In the whirl of the MTC, however, it was hard to be lonely. It was study all the time, and soon Justin began to feel a sprinkling of testimony that quickly turned into a shower and then a downpour of spiritual experiences as new friends became brothers and sisters, sharing knowledge and insights. Those three weeks became an oasis, and Justin could see the clear road of the motorway until his first assignment in his mission field came along.
Justin stared at his new companion. This must be a joke, he thought. He looks like a boxer—a heavyweight. Talk about muscles. And that huge, flattened nose. No one will open the door to us!
“I’m glad to meet you, Elder Barnes. I’m Elder Warriner from Texas.” His voice was warmly encouraging, his smile transforming grim features to genial humour. But the handshake! Justin imagined his fingers would never return to normal.
Oh, wow! he thought. How do I cope with this one?
He soon found out. Elder Warriner never stopped. His energy and enthusiasm were exhausting, or catching, depending on Justin’s mood that day. But Justin gained an appreciation for his companion’s beefy shape the day they knocked on one particular door.
“Yeah?” snarled the sloppily dressed man, thrusting wide his front door. He was massive. A soggy cigarette dangled from half-closed lips, and a beer can looked ready to make a fast exit from his fist in the direction of the pair.
“Good morning.” Elder Warriner’s smile clipped corners off the man’s invisible barrier. At least that’s what Justin tried to tell himself as the beer can lowered and the man’s eyes narrowed.
“We’re from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and we wondered if we could share a message with you for a few moments?”
The man’s eyes widened. He sniffed hard, wiping ash off his stubbled chin with the back of his hand.
“Um … yeah. Thought you were the TV license spies. What you want then? You a boxer or something?” he asked, staring at Elder Warriner’s craggy features. “Used to go in for boxing myself,” he went on, not waiting for a reply. “Well, come in then. Could do with a change from telly.”
Following him down the dark hallway, Justin noticed peeling wallpaper, tatty carpet, and the smell of damp chips.
This is not worth the effort, Justin thought. Poking Elder Warriner in the back, he pulled a waste-of-time face. A Texan eye winked back.
“My name’s Charlie,” their host announced. Then pointing to a frail woman hunched by the gas fire, he said. “This is my missus, Elspeth, and them’s my kids—Jimmy, Jane, Sally, and Thelma.” Four pairs of eyes flicked from TV to the elders, then back to TV.
“He actually sounds proud of them,” mused Justin, looking with astonishment at the thin, little foursome. “Wouldn’t Mum love to fatten them up,” he thought.
Charlie continued the introductions. “This here man’s a boxer, kid. Take a look at this face now. Your Uncle Bert looked like that when he went to Canada. Where you been boxing then lad?” This last question was flung at Elder Warriner from a sparring position. Charlie’s frame blocked the light as his weight shifted to his toes, his hands held in loose fists.
“Er … Charlie?” Elder Warriner sounded unusually solemn. “We have something more important than boxing to discuss. I used to box every day in the boys’ clubs back home, and I was pretty good, but I gave that up to come here and share this message with you.”
Charlie looked puzzled, then skeptical. “You a wimp or something?” He began moving towards the door, his face surly again. “No time for wimps.”
Justin scrambled to his feet, giving a let’s-move-it eyebrow signal to his companion. But before he could step forward, he heard his own voice speaking, “By the way, Charlie, is your mother important to you?”
The words quivered in silence. Justin’s mind did a swift action replay. For a brief second he was back in his own garden picking gooseberries. His Mum’s voice was saying, “They’ll hide behind a prickly exterior, but with gentle questioning and love they’ll come into the fold. You’ll be able to find those people on your mission.”
Justin jumped as Charlie took a step in his direction. “What do you know about my Ma?” With neck pushed forward, his head looked even more aggressive. But his tone softened as he began pacing the floor. “My little Ma, oh she was right lovely was my Ma.” His face took on a gentle sadness the more he reminisced.
Justin glanced at the children whose gaze had at last left the flickering screen. Tears dribbled down Charlie’s cheeks when he spoke of his mother’s death during his tenth year. Little Thelma jumped up and ran towards her Dad. She hugged him as far around as her thin arms could reach.
The effect was startling. Tenderly scooping her into his arms, he held her close, patting her back. “I still think of my Ma every night before going to sleep, I do. She had a tough life, but she loved every hair of my head.”
Charlie brought his focus back to the elders. He squinted closely at Justin’s face. “Young man, if you can tell me anything at all about Ma, then you’re welcome to stop and chat.” He motioned to his wife. “Let’s see a bit of that fire, Elspeth. How about a cup of tea for these boys. And you kids hitch up on that sofa. Give the lads a seat.”
While Elder Warriner began explaining their taste in drinks, which didn’t include tea, Justin recognized the familiar feeling creeping out of his heart, only this time it was different. He felt like he could catch a glimpse of their destination as he felt them moving together down the road. He thought back to his reluctance to go on a mission and his feeling of travelling a dark motorway. For all the trials and sacrifices, the Church was still worth more. Justin wanted Charlie to know that too.
Charlie and his family were baptized six weeks later. Baptism day produced a radiant family, washed, mended, and full of smiles.
Charlie’s big hand squeezed Justin’s shoulder when the service ended. “Lad, I can’t find words to thank you and your mate for all you’ve taught us. Your finding us has brought out feelings I never knew existed.” He sniffed. “You’re a cracking bit of inspiration from the eternities, you missionaries. There’s no more important work, is there, than getting this message across. Thanks, lad, a million thanks.”
Justin shook his hand. He felt a mixture of warmth and love for this big brother, and at the same time he envisioned a brightly lit motorway where he could see forever. As Justin caught another Texan wink from his companion, he had the warmest assurance that they were on the right path. His silent prayer of gratitude moved heavenward.
“Like Charlie says,” he whispered, “there’s no more important work.”

On 21 July 1847, Orson Pratt and Erastus Snow went down Emigration Canyon ahead of the others to scout out the area. They had only one horse, so they took turns walking and riding. A few miles from the mouth of the canyon, Erastus realized that he had lost his coat. He took the horse and turned back to find it. Orson walked on alone and was the first of the pioneers to set foot in the Salt Lake Valley. He and Erastus returned to camp, and the next day the advance company entered the Salt Lake Valley and headed north.

Photograph courtesy of Dani K.
Many teens in rock bands would probably tell you that playing rock ’n’ roll is its own reward. Beyond that, they probably don’t feel they really need a reason for doing it. Well, when six friends in Colorado, USA, formed a band together (Dani K., Jake G., Joey B., Matt N., Michael B., and Scott L.), they set higher goals, and because of that, they also had greater rewards.
For one thing, they wanted their music to lift rather than degrade. “We know that there’s a lot of filth we could be playing,” says Michael, “but we choose only songs that are clean and uplifting.” And Jake adds, “The music we’ve written is uplifting and clean (not to mention catchy and fun!), inspiring people to build their talents in a manner that will bring others unto Christ.”
In addition, they wanted their band’s behavior to make an impression—in a good way. “I remember when we walked through the studio doors the first day of recording,” recalls Dani, “and our producer was shocked that we were on time, awake, and sober.”
Matt adds, “We have covenanted with God to stand as a witness of Him at all times. We have been given wonderful gifts and opportunities, and I want to use them to share the message of the Savior with the world.”
The band has also been able to fulfill their goal of serving others in a variety of ways. For instance, they have performed at firesides and other Church events, and they have performed for the sick and injured, both in small, intimate settings and at big fundraising events for large organizations. One of those organizations is special to the band, since it helps those with type 1 juvenile diabetes, a disease that Jake has had since age four and that Dani was diagnosed with two years after joining the band.
“Our band friends are aware of our medical needs and help us endure the trials we face with the disease,” says Jake. “The band has been such a blessing to us and strengthened our friendship.”
Their friendship has extended beyond the band experience as well. They’ve been together at Eagle Scout projects and other major milestones in each other’s lives. And their friendship will continue even after they go their separate ways for missions and college.
“My fantastic friends in this band have helped me to live the gospel,” says Joey. “This band has given me strength to overcome temptation. I have a testimony of the power and influence that good friends can have.”
And Scott believes that their band “is proof that living the gospel can be done anywhere. That is a great comfort to me.”

Despite the cost of the trip, Brother Mateo; his wife, Altagracia; and three of their children were sealed in the temple in 2001. Since then they have sacrificed to save enough to visit the temple at least twice each year.
The work and the sacrifices, both physical and spiritual, are worth it to Brother Mateo.
“It’s not hard when you know what the purpose is,” he says. “We’re fighting for something more sublime than wordly things.”

The young women of the Pleasant Ridge and Grove Park Wards from Knoxville, Tennessee, got together recently to make personalized “military dolls” for the children of parents who are stationed overseas. The young women took pictures of the child’s parent who is away, transferred the image onto material, and sewed stuffed dolls for the children to have. Then the girls hand delivered the dolls along with thank-you cards to the families.

Sometimes I get upset about my disabilities, but I try not to show this. Usually I’m a happy person, and I just don’t show my frustrations to others.
When I was a teenager, however, there was a time when I was depressed.
I didn’t want to go to church. I asked God, “Why am I this way? Why can’t you make me better? Why don’t I have good relationships with others?” These questions discouraged me and made me feel really sad, and I didn’t know how I could change my situation, so I thought that maybe ending my life was the answer.
But then I thought about my mother and how she would react. I thought that she would probably feel really sorry and feel that she did something wrong or did not do enough to help me. That’s when I decided that I was going to live and keep going.
In the end, I feel that I’m a pretty happy person.