Gospel Story Finder

My husband and I learned an important lesson while we were in the mission field about the blessing of being able to hear and the concern when you can’t hear.
Because Heber’s station in the Navy was right next to two huge artillery guns that were fired frequently—and not having ear protection in those days—his hearing began to deteriorate. This deterioration has accelerated over the years. Today—without the benefit of hearing aids with a large amplifier over each ear—he is almost totally deaf. My niece asked me how I whisper sweet things to him at the end of the day when he has removed his hearing aids. I tell her I shout, “I love you,” and he can read my lips. I believe there are many times our Father in Heaven might be shouting to us along our journey as well, saying “I love you,” but because of all the road noise, the loud music and the distractions to our mind, the message can’t get through.
During our mission we had an unusual experience while on our way to a zone conference. While traveling in an unfamiliar heavily-wooded area, both of the batteries in Heber’s hearing aids died at the same time. That had never happened before. I could speak to him but he could not hear me. He could speak to me but there was no two-way conversation. Can you imagine what an anxious feeling of isolation that was? What if we could never talk to each other or hear each other and be in communication with each other again. Tears filled my eyes as I prayed. Fortunately, as we drove in silence through the wooded area, we spotted a small convenience store. There we were able to get new batteries, and open up our line of communication again.

Harlow Ward members in the St Albans Stake enjoyed a wonderful morning of outdoor service at a meadow nature reserve in Harlow town in October. Members of all ages, including teenagers and full-time missionaries, helped to rake, clear and dispose of grass cuttings. Their work allowed for the growth of a wild-flower meadow in the spring, which will add to the beauty of the area and improve its ecology.
Ward community outreach specialist, Edith Cells, who organised the activity, was delighted to receive feedback from Volunteer Conservation Coordinator, Andrew Tomlins, who said; “Your efforts have made it possible to mow almost the entire meadow – it is looking a lot more like it should at this time of year. If it was just our small group we would have done only a fraction of what was achieved.”
Andrew hopes the Church members will return in the spring to do more work. This is the second time the Harlow Ward has worked with Andrew on local conservation projects, and the members and missionaries are becoming known to Harlow Council’s parks department as a force for good in the town.

We provide for our children as we teach them how to work. Let me tell you about my grandson Jacob. He did not want to go to school. His mother had tried so many things. Finally she sat him down and said, “Daddy’s job is to go to work and earn money. My job is to stay home and take care of you and your brothers and sister. And your job, Jacob, is to go to school.” When Jacob understood the principle, he accepted it and went to school.

Upon graduating from high school, I had the opportunity to serve a full-time mission in my homeland of Tonga. The first area that I was assigned to was the island of Ha’afeva in Ha’apai, where I traveled by boat with my mother as my companion. My mother was given permission from the Mission President to accompany me in order to ask her mother, my grandmother, to allow the missionaries to live with her. You see, my grandmother was not a member of our faith however, she agreed to allow the missionaries to live with her under one condition: that the gospel not be preached in her home. She did tell my mother that the missionaries were required to join with her in morning and evening prayers. My companion, Sister Masiu, joined me on the island two days later. We happily agreed to my grandmother’s arrangement, and already saw opportunities to share the gospel with her “under her conditions.” We also resolved to leave some of our church pamphlets around the house, hoping that she would read them.

At the time that I was serving, there was maybe about 300 people living on the island and the only members were the Branch President and his family along with my companion and me, so you can imagine the amount of work we had ahead of us. Most of the people on the island were my family members and even though they provided us with meals, they refused to hear the message that we had to share of the restored gospel. We continued to pray and plead with the Lord for an opportunity to find a family that would not only be willing to let us in their home, but also be accepting of His message. Through acts of service, we were only able to answer the inquiries of those who received us. Because we were young and recently graduated from high school, many people associated our age with naiveté, which is why many rejected our invitations. After four months of serving with no one accepting our invitations to hear the message, we felt discouraged. Even though we prayed, fasted, obeyed missionary rules and worked diligently, we felt that we had yielded no fruit.

On April 2, 1978 which was a fast Sunday, Sister Masiu and I decided to set a specific goal that we would fast and pray about. We asked the Lord to direct us to one person on the island who would be ready to hear the message of the gospel and accept the invitation to be baptized. That night as we evaluated our day and made plans for the week, Sister Masiu suggested that we each prepare scriptures to help us focus on our goal for the week. I turned to Alma 29:1-4:-
“O that I were an angel, and could have the wish of mine heart, that I might go forth and speak with the trump of God with a voice to shake the earth and cry repentance unto every people!
Yea, I would declare unto every soul, as with the voice of thunder, repentance and the plan of redemption that they should repent and come unto our God, that there might not be more sorrow upon all the face of the earth.
But behold, I am a man, and do sin in my wish; for I ought to be content with the things which the Lord hath allotted unto me.
... I know that he granteth unto men according to their desire…”3
Sister Masiu then shared her scripture from Alma 37:36-37:-
“Yea, and cry unto God for all thy support; yea, let all thy doings be unto the Lord, and withersoever thou goest let it be in the Lord; yea, let all thy thoughts be directed unto the Lord; yea, let the affections of thy heart be placed upon the Lord forever.
Counsel with the Lord in all thy doings, and he will direct thee for good; yea, when thou liest down at night lie down unto the Lord, that he may watch over you in your sleep; and when thou risest in the morning let thy heart be full of thanks unto God; and if you do these things, ye shall be lifted up at the last day.”4
After sharing our scriptures and thoughts with each other, we had both felt the impression to act. We decided we would pray unto the Lord all night in a sincere petition for His help to achieve our goal of finding one adult to teach and commit to baptism. Throughout the night, we would pray together as a companionship and then individually. The most meaningful and sincere prayers we offered contained many expressions of thanks, asking forgiveness for our shortcomings and imperfections and petitions for assistance to improve the work in that area.

Monday morning came and although we had been up all night praying, we felt rejuvenated and ready to tackle our goals for the week. I felt armed, not only with the understanding that our answers, or assistance, may not arrive immediately, but also with the comfort and confirmation from the Holy Ghost that the Lord had heard our pleas and was aware of each of His children on that little island. As we were leaving the house that morning, my grandmother called us back to ask if we could help with the cooking and house chores because she was not feeling good. We gladly told her not to worry and made slight changes to our schedule for the day. Grandmother was sick that whole week, so we adjusted our schedule to accommodate the chores at home. Our week was successful in rendering service and finding joy while building the Kingdom, but we still hadn’t found someone who fully accepted the gospel and the invitation for baptism.

The following Monday, April 10th, as we were leaving the house for the day, grandmother called us back to the house. She wanted to speak to me in private, and had asked Sister Masiu to wait outside.

Grandmother looked at me seriously and my first thought was, “This is it! She will tell me her last wishes and I will have to relay them to her children.” But to my surprise, she whispered to me very quietly, as if there were someone in the room over hearing our conversation. She made me promise that I would not tell a soul of what she was about to share with me. I didn’t know what to expect at this point, so I made the promise as she proceeded to tell me of a dream she had.

She told me that she had this dream the previous Sunday and didn’t understand what it meant. It caused her to worry, which resulted in her being sick the whole week. In her dream, she said she was laying in her bed and a man came to her window calling her by name, “Sioana.” She said she looked at the man and didn’t recognize him, so she got out of bed and went to the window to find that the man calling her was her father, Sulivenusi Hafoka. He told her, “Come join the true church.” Grandmother couldn’t make sense of this and asked him, “What is the true church?” He answered, “The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints”. Then he walked away. My grandmother followed him because she didn’t understand his response of “The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints”, but wanted to know what this “true church” was. In her dream, she recalled that they arrived at a place that was not familiar to her. Her father stood on one side and her on the opposite side of the room. My grandmother said she saw a white cemented space, surrounded by pipes, with stairs leading into water. Her father told her once more, “Come, join the true church.” Grandmother said she asked him again, “What is the true church?” Her father answered, “The Mormon Church”, which is when she awoke from the dream.

While laying sick in bed, she wondered how her father knew that the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was the “true church”. He had been a minister in the Methodist Church and was very devoted to his faith. It didn’t make sense to her and she couldn’t understand the dream, in addition to that, she did not speak to others about it for fear that she would be mocked.

Tears of happiness rolled down my face while my grandmother recounted her dream. In my heart, I shouted for joy. I couldn’t help but think of the many prayers offered that night by our own families and many church members asking the Lord’s assistance for missionaries to find the honest in heart. I called my companion into the house and we knelt in prayer, giving thanks to the Lord for hearing and answering our pleas of assistance to further his work on the island.

My companion and I told grandmother of our goal, the plans we committed to carryout to achieve that goal, and the struggles that we had in the work. I told her that the place her father took her to in her dream was a baptismal font. We helped to answer questions she had about the church as well as questions she had about how her father had joined the Church even though he had already passed on. We shared the Plan of Salvation with her and our conversation turned from minutes to hours.

That day, brothers and sisters, my testimony was strengthened and I knew that we were not alone in the isles of the sea. Heavenly Father had heard and answered our prayers reminding me of the promise given by the Savior in the books of Matthew and Mark:
“Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you:
“For every one that asketh receiveth; and he that seeketh findeth; and to him that knocketh it shall be opened”.5
“What things soever ye desire, when ye pray, believe that ye receive them, and ye shall have them.”6
My grandmother was 77 years old when she was baptized on June 11, 1978. I was able to serve on her island for ten months. After being baptized and confirmed a member of the church, she remained faithful in attending her church meetings and received her endowments in the Tonga Temple in 1982. Some of her children were sealed to her and their father on April 6, 1982 in the Oakland Temple.

“Blessings require some WORK or EFFORT on our part before we can obtain them.” This experience required work and effort not only on our part as missionaries, but also my grandmother, our families at home who prayed for us and the members of the church who prayed on our behalf. We did not see blessings as an immediate result our efforts alone, but as the continuous and combined work or efforts of everyone involved in the work.

Mickey Mantle, the great baseball player, once told of a little five-year-old boy who had grown up with a great fear of the barber. His parents tried to cut his hair at home, but that never seemed to work out well. Even if the boy held still, which he seldom did, their haircuts always looked worse than if his hair were left long and shaggy.
One afternoon the boy’s father said that they were going to the barber to get a haircut. The boy replied, “No, I’m not going to get a haircut!”
“Yes, you are,” his father explained, “but don’t worry about it now.”
The father and the boy went to the shopping center and parked the car. They stopped for a few things that they had to buy, and several times the father reminded his son that they were going to stop for a haircut too. Each time the boy answered, “No, we’re not!”
Suddenly they were in front of the barbershop door, and the boy froze in his tracks. He held onto his father’s hand and stared straight ahead. The father looked down at the boy but didn’t say a word. The boy’s face was solemn and serious as he stared through the glass of the shop. Finally he softly said to himself, “I am going to get my hair cut.”
The father opened the door, and together they walked inside. They had to wait a few minutes, and so they sat down on the chairs along the wall. The boy sat on the edge of his chair without saying a word.
Finally one of the barbers called, “Next please.” Then the boy turned and looked at his father, and his father nodded. The boy got up, walked slowly to the barber chair, and climbed up onto the little seat that barbers put across the arms of their big chairs for children. The boy let the barber put the sheet around him as he sat still as a statute.
No one said a word until the haircut was finished. Then the young boy took a deep breath and climbed down from the chair. His father paid for the haircut and the two of them left the shop.
Outside the boy stopped and looked up at his father. “I got my hair cut!” he said proudly.
This father later told Mickey Mantle that the bravest act he had ever seen was when his little boy stood up to something that had terrified him.

In a hospital not more than fifty miles from this beautiful building, an eleven-year-old boy lay comatose. He had been electrocuted while attempting to retrieve a kite that had blown into the electrical wires near his home. The parents had been given no hope. All muscle tone was gone. Medical science, with all of its marvelous equipment, was being utilized under the skilled hands of highly-trained medical people, but to no avail. Soon several men placed their hands upon that unfortunate boy’s head. A neighbor had administered, and now the prayer was being offered by another to seal that anointing. As the last few words were spoken, slight movement began again, and the boy made a small noise. A miracle? Yes! And may we all understand that God’s functions and procedures there and here are the true foundations of learning.

The boy watched his father’s horse plunge away into the frigid whiteness. Then he started back toward his tepee, anxious to share the story of his first coup with his mother, grandfather, and little sister. But he had only gone a few steps when someone pulled at his arm. It was Yellow Fox, a village boy. “Your pony is gone too,” he said excitedly. “I saw it run away when the Shoshones first came!”
“My father will find it, with the others,” Little Wind responded confidently.
“He’ll not find your pony!” Yellow Fox insisted. “I saw your horse go toward the high rock county. Your father and the others rode off in another direction. They’ll not find your pony. But maybe a Shoshone will.”
Little Wind gazed anxiously toward the great mountains veiled in glacial mist. His pony had been given to him as a gift by his father before the big hunt. It was priceless to him. He had to find it before the next storm or he might never see it again. If he hurried, he could be back before his mother even knew he was gone. If he waited for his father to return with the horses, it might be too late. I’m well dressed against the weather in this big otter coat Mother made me, he assured himself. Besides, my pony probably hasn’t gone very far.
Little Wind pulled his wrappings snugly around him, gave a quick glance toward his tepee, and hurried off in the direction of the hoofprints in the snow.
What Little Wind did not know was that a new storm was gathering just beyond the mesas. Hidden behind the fog, it crouched like some huge, nameless beast ready to lunge across the sky and engulf anyone or anything careless enough to leave the fires of home.
(To be concluded.)

Joseph Spallino of the Makati Villages Branch, Makati Philippines Stake, responded to an emergency situation and aided 55 families in reconstructing their homes as part of his Eagle Scout project.
When a typhoon unexpectedly destroyed homes in the Bicol area of the Philippines, Joseph saw people in need of help and jumped right in. Joseph organized a project that helped many families get material to rebuild their homes after this disaster.
Much of the money he collected had been raised by Scouts and other youth who worked together to contribute to the bigger project. Then he contacted local building contractors and requested help from them. This resulted in more than $2,000 worth of donated building materials in addition to the $1,460 in purchased materials.
Through his organizational skills and his willingness to help, Joseph not only earned his Eagle Scout Award, but he learned more about what it feels like to comfort those in need.

One day a young woman came to my office wanting help with a problem. I asked what it was. She said she was pregnant but not married. Furthermore, she did not want to be pregnant or be married. She wanted an abortion. She claimed to have prayed a lot about what she should do, but didn't seem to get any answers to her prayers. I told her the answer to her prayer was in my file cabinet. I took out a statement by the First Presidency and read to her what the Lord thinks about His children aborting their children. The Lord had already revealed through His prophet the position of heaven on that subject. All she needed to do was to trust Him and thereby avoid the resultant regrets and sorrow that always accompany decisions that are contrary to the Lord's teaching. When she finally decided against the wisdom of having an abortion, she began at that same moment to build on the only sure and safe foundation.

I conclude with just one of many illustrative experiences from President Monson's life--one that he shared recently in general conference:

On one occasion many years ago, I was swimming laps at the [gym] when I felt the inspiration to go to the University Hospital to visit a good friend of mine who had lost the use of his lower limbs. ... I immediately left the pool, dressed, and was soon on my way to see this good man.

When I arrived at his room, I found that it was empty. Upon inquiry I learned I would probably find him in the swimming pool area of the hospital, an area which was used for physical therapy. Such turned out to be the case. He had guided himself there in his wheelchair and was the only occupant of the room. He was on the far side of the pool, near the deep end. I called to him, and he maneuvered his wheelchair over to greet me. We had an enjoyable visit, and I accompanied him back to his hospital room, where I gave him a blessing.

I learned later from my friend that he had been utterly despondent that day and had been contemplating taking his own life. He had prayed for relief but began to feel that his prayers had gone unanswered. He went to the pool with the thought that this would be a way to end his misery--by guiding his wheelchair into the deep end of the pool. I had arrived at a critical moment, in response to what I know was inspiration from on high.

President Monson concluded:

My friend was able to live many more years--years filled with happiness and gratitude. How pleased I am to have been an instrument in the Lord's hands on that critical day at the swimming pool.[31]

Another time, Joseph was again playing ball with some men and young men from town. When the game was finished, Joseph called the men together.
Brethren, hitch up your teams.
The men did just as Joseph asked and drove into the forest to gather wood.
This is the 39th and last wagon.
We did good work today, brother. Would anyone like to pull sticks?
Joseph was strong and good at a game called pulling sticks. He pulled up each opponent, one after another.
When they finished pulling sticks, Joseph called the men and young men around again.
Take these wagons out, and cut the wood for anyone who needs it.
The Saints loved to do what the Prophet asked, even if they were weary from a long day of hard work and play.
Haul ’em out, boys! Let’s do what the Prophet asks.

But like most success stories, it didn’t start out being that easy. Not long after making his decision, Elder Backman found himself all alone on a train heading for Dayton, Ohio, after meeting briefly with his mission president in Chicago. “Bear in mind that I was this little kid who had no self-esteem. By the time I got to Dayton, I was so scared, so homesick, that I was almost literally sick. I got off the train and there was nobody there to meet me! I got a taxi and went to the apartment of the missionaries and sat on the front doorstep all afternoon waiting for them to come home from their work. If I’d had enough money, I would have bought a train ticket and been on the train heading back to the safety and security of my home.”
As unlikely as it seemed in that moment of homesickness and depression, Elder Backman was about to experience one of the transforming moments of his life.
“The missionaries finally arrived and made me feel welcome. That evening they had a cottage meeting that we were to attend. During the course of the cottage meeting, they invited me to participate with them in singing a song as a quartet. So without any rehearsal we got up and sang ‘More Holiness Give Me.’ Right then and there as I was singing those words, such a feeling of peace and serenity and belonging came upon me that it filled my whole soul. I knew absolutely that I was right where I belonged, doing just what I should be doing. For the first time in a long while I felt completely at peace.”

Has it occurred to you that sincere and heartfelt prayer brings discovery, and discovery brings joy? Of all the challenging times in our lives, I think Laurel would agree with me that our three-year mission in Venezuela would count high on the list. We had our young family with us. Their happiness and well-being were an ever-important issue balanced with the everyday challenges of the missionaries, culture, language, illness, crime, political turmoil, and so forth.

I remember so well a particular day on the island country of Trinidad and Tobago. We were trying to gain official recognition for the Church. After many failed attempts I remember falling to my knees in my hotel room in the capital city, Port of Spain. I poured out my heart to God, saying, “Heavenly Father, I can’t do this alone! The obstacles are too great.” I remember feeling waves of peace coming over me. A voice came to my mind saying, “Be patient. I will open the pathway to establish my Church here.” The Spirit spoke to my mind, bringing great peace and consolation to my heart. Prayer indeed brings peace, healing, and a sense of joy.

The summer of 1831 was a time of great promise for a young printer by the name of William Phelps. He had just arrived with his family in Kirtland, Ohio. Brother Phelps was born in 1792 in New Jersey. In the spring of 1830, he read an announcement indicating that the Book of Mormon was about to be released from the press. His interest in this book later led him to purchase a copy from Parley Pratt. It was the reading of this book that prompted him to move to Kirtland where he sought audience with the prophet and inquired as to his duty. On June 14, Joseph received a revelation from the Lord, recorded in Section 55 of the Doctrine and Covenants.

The revelation also directed Brother Phelps to be ordained an Elder and to travel to Missouri to assist Oliver Cowdery with printing and writing books for children.
Brother Phelps had many significant opportunities to serve and his name is mentioned in four additional sections of the Doctrine and Covenants. One of the things for which he is best remembered is the fact that he composed or adapted the lyrics of fifteen of the hymns of our church, including the ones we will sing today. He helped print the 1835 copy of the Doctrine and Covenants, and he printed the first hymnal for the Church that same year.
One of the high points for the early saints came in March of 1836 with the dedication of the first temple of this dispensation in Kirtland. From the pen of Brother Phelps came the beloved words sung at the dedication service.

The time of rejoicing, however, was soon followed by a time of great trial. It was only thirty months after the glorious visitations from the Savior and other heavenly beings that Joseph Smith found himself imprisoned in the tiny jail at Liberty, Missouri. There he remained through the Christmas season of 1838, through the winter, and well into 1839. The pain and sorrow he suffered were expressed vehemently in letters to the saints. Many who stood beside him in the beginning of this dispensation and even shared in heavenly manifestations had apostatized and been excommunicated for one reason or another. Some of these dissenters testified against him during hearings in Richmond and facilitated his imprisonment.
Among these traitors was William Phelps.

Not long after this revelation was received, the incarceration in Liberty Jail came to an end. It was finished. Joseph moved with the Saints to Nauvoo, and enjoyed a few years of peace before the fateful day of June 27, 1844. Most of those who had apostatized from the Church in Missouri remained distant from the saints and some contributed to the horror of Carthage. One brother, however, felt the influence of the Holy Spirit, prompting him to repentance, sore repentance. Through prayer and answers in a remarkable dream, he was motivated to take the necessary steps. Hoping humbly, even desperately, for just a little mercy, William W. Phelps wrote to the prophet from Dayton, Ohio. It was the 29th of June 1840:
“Brother Joseph: I am alive, and with the help of God, I mean to still live. I am as the prodigal son, though I never doubt or disbelieve the fulness of the Gospel… I have seen the folly of my way, and I tremble at the gulf I have passed . . . I know my situation, you know it, and God knows it, and I want to be saved if my friends will help me . . . I ask forgiveness in the name of Jesus Christ of all the Saints . . . I will make all the satisfaction on every point that God or Saints can require. Amen. W. W. Phelps (HC 4:141-142).
William Phelps was in a dark place. More than anything, he wanted the darkness to end. Like Peter, he longed for a second chance. He wanted the terrible choice of the past to be finished.

On July 22, less than a month after William Phelps had written his letter of repentance, the prophet Joseph responded with the following:
“Dear Brother Phelps: I must say that it is with no ordinary feelings I endeavor to write a few lines to you in answer of yours... Believing your confession to be real, and your repentance genuine, I shall be happy once again to give you the right hand of fellowship, and rejoice over the returning prodigal. Your letter was read to the Saints last Sunday, and an expression of their feeling was taken, when it was unanimously resolved that W. W. Phelps should be received into full fellowship. ‘Come on, dear brother, since the war is past, for friends at first, are friends again at last.’ Yours as ever, Joseph Smith Jun.” (HC 4:162-164).
William W. Phelps joined the Saints in Nauvoo. He became an ordinance worker in the Nauvoo temple. He traveled west with the Saints in 1849. Shortly thereafter, he served a mission for the Church. In 1872, he passed away in Salt Lake City, an active high priest.

Not long after we were married, we built our first home. We had very little money. I did much of the work myself. It would be called “sweat equity” today. The landscaping was entirely my responsibility. The first of many trees that I planted was a thornless honey locust. Envisioning the day when its filtered shade would assist in cooling the house in the summertime, I put it in a place at the corner where the wind from the canyon to the east blew the hardest. I dug a hole, put in the bare root, put soil around it, poured on water, and largely forgot it. It was only a wisp of a tree, perhaps three-quarters of an inch in diameter. It was so supple that I could bend it with ease in any direction. I paid little attention to it as the years passed.
Then one winter day, when the tree was barren of leaves, I chanced to look out the window at it. I noticed that it was leaning to the west, misshapen and out of balance. I could scarcely believe it. I went out and braced myself against it as if to push it upright. But the trunk was now nearly a foot in diameter. My strength was as nothing against it. I took from my toolshed a block and tackle. Attaching one end to the tree and another to a well-set post, I pulled the rope. The pulleys moved a little, and the trunk of the tree trembled slightly. But that was all. It seemed to say, “You can’t straighten me. It’s too late. I’ve grown this way because of your neglect, and I will not bend.”
Finally in desperation I took my saw and cut off the great heavy branch on the west side. The saw left an ugly scar, more than eight inches across. I stepped back and surveyed what I had done. I had cut off the major part of the tree, leaving only one branch growing skyward.
More than half a century has passed since I planted that tree. My daughter and her family live there now. The other day I looked again at the tree. It is large. Its shape is better. It is a great asset to the home. But how serious was the trauma of its youth and how brutal the treatment I used to straighten it.
When it was first planted, a piece of string would have held it in place against the forces of the wind. I could have and should have supplied that string with ever so little effort. But I did not, and it bent to the forces that came against it.

At a critical moment in the battle of Waterloo, when everything depended on the steadiness of the soldiery, an anxious courier dashed into the presence of the Duke of Wellington, announcing that unless the troops were immediately relieved or withdrawn, they must yield before the impending assault of the French army. The Duke replied, “Stand firm!”
“But we shall perish!” remonstrated the officer.
“Stand firm!” again was the answer of the ironhearted Duke.
“You’ll find us there!” rejoined the courier, as he galloped away.
And, of course, the British were victorious that day as a result of such loyalty and determination (see Walter Baxendale, ed., Dictionary of Anecdote, Incident, Illustrative Fact, New York: Thomas Whittaker, 1889, p. 225).

Night was falling as we approached the mesa. In the failing light, six ragged figures stood out against the orange sky, scarecrowlike with painted faces. Their shredded black robes blew in the wind. Tin cans hung from them, clanging dully. They were eerie and alien in the gathering dusk.
“I think we’re in over our heads,” I said to my companion. Turning the pickup around, I drove off across the empty reaches of the Navajo Reservation. As missionaries in the Arizona Holbrook Mission, we wanted to share the gospel with everyone, but maybe that didn’t include the man who had set up these weird manlike scarecrows.
During the next week, however, we felt an urging that we should return to the hut of the old sheepherder on his remote mesa. We tracted on foot a lot that week so that we could drive out and see him without exceeding the mileage limit set by the mission.
We found him on his mesa. A wooden staff was in his hand, and he wore a long black coat. He stood by a gnarly old tree, as motionless as one of his scarecrow men. Silently, he watched us get out of our truck and approach. His hair was white. His eyes were calm. There was no expression on his wrinkled brown face.
My companion was new and couldn’t speak any Navajo. I wasn’t a lot better. I introduced us in Navajo with a phrase that means essentially, “Hi, who are you? We’re the missionaries.”
He looked at me. I think he was impressed that I knew enough Navajo to greet him. He answered me in English. “I’m Baptist. No hear you.”
His words were harsh, but we felt something else behind them—a kindness, a welcome that was louder than his words. We didn’t argue, but we went on talking with him and before long we had an appointment to come back and see him.
During the months that followed we visited the old shepherd often. He wandered far with his sheep and sometimes we had to drive atop a mesa and scan the country for miles to find him. Every visit was precious because we had to make sacrifices and do a lot of walking so we could save up the mileage to drive to see him.
We had no place to sit and talk with him because his shack was too small. At first we would just sit on the tailgate of our truck. When the weather was too cold, we would crowd inside the cab. We started out very slowly. I knew just a little Navajo, and he knew about the same amount of English. Sitting on the tailgate, I would point to a tree and say, “Tree.” He would point to the same tree and say the word in Navajo. I would point at a dog and say, “Dog.” He would point and tell me the Navajo word. We would both repeat the new word. Little by little I learned enough Navajo, and he learned enough English for us to communicate.
We gradually got to know him. We found out that his name was Peter Wolley. The name had been given to him when he served in the army during World War II. After a number of visits, we began to teach him the gospel. I felt the influence of the Spirit very strongly as we talked. My Navajo was not fluent, yet at times I felt inspired to use certain Navajo words that I didn’t think I knew. Even though I couldn’t communicate clearly, he seemed to know the truth of the things I was telling him.
He was a very traditional Navajo, and he taught us many of the Navajo ways. I learned not to be so inquisitive, because this is considered bad form in the Navajo culture. When I stopped asking questions, and when the mood suited him, he would tell us about his life. He took us out to the river and his other favorite places. He showed us foxholes and where the coyotes had been. He taught us to herd sheep. He showed us how he built the tall, black-robed figures that had ended our first visit. They were not designed to terrify sister missionaries but to frighten away coyotes that might harm his flock.
He loved his sheep and would take them miles each day in search of the best grass. He took the lambs inside with him when the nights were cold. He was a very caring man.
He knew his sheep. He knew their names and he knew each of their ways. One day when we were searching for him and his flock, we saw one of his sheep separated from the rest.
When we found the flock, I said, “Peter, one of your sheep is lost. We saw it over on the other side of the mesa.”
He seemed remarkably calm about the news and said, “Oh I know. That’s Box. He’s the old one. He doesn’t have any teeth. He’s all right.” I was amazed. He knew all about that one particular sheep even though it was out of sight. Peter saw my surprise and smiled. He didn’t have any more teeth than Box.
I knew that I had really earned his trust when he began calling me his “tall white friend.” For a Navajo to address you as “my friend,” instead of by your name is a big compliment. The “tall white” part reflected my five-foot-ten stature and light blonde hair.
One time we made him a placemat. It was a piece of paper with the four steps of prayer on it. We had it laminated, and he kept it on his little table. He loved that little placemat, and I think it was because he loved prayer. He had plenty of time to pray while he watched his sheep.
We taught Peter for seven months before I was transferred. Some Navajo elders then taught him in his own language. He asked them, “Where is my tall blonde friend?” He was receptive to their teachings and joined the Church. I am proud to have helped open the door for my good friend to receive the gospel.
Peter couldn’t go to church very often because there was no one to stay with the sheep. He lived 60 miles away from a church and had no truck. He couldn’t walk that far, and few could go the 120 miles round trip over rough country both to pick him up and to take him home. But I didn’t worry too much about him because Peter was a good man who lived a good life. I knew that his Heavenly Father knew where he was just as surely as Peter knew where to find old Box. Even alone on top of his distant mesa, he was within the fold.
I think of Peter as my teacher. He taught me most of the Navajo I know. He taught me about sheep and coyotes and patience and silence and pasture in barren places. Better still, he taught me about good shepherds who love and know each sheep, even the old one with no teeth who is seemingly lost and far from the rest of the flock.

1. Grace was nervous. She was going to sing with her little brother, Ethan, in sacrament meeting.
2. When it was time for Grace and Ethan to sing, Grace looked at Mom. “You can do it, Grace,” Mom whispered.
3. Grace and Ethan walked to the front of the chapel and stood behind the podium so that everyone could see them. Grace saw Dad smiling at her.
4. When the music started, Grace and Ethan sang “Jesus Has Risen.” Grace remembered all of the words and all of the notes.
5. When the song ended, Grace gave Ethan a big hug. Grace felt happy inside.
6. Grace and Ethan walked back to their seats and sat next to Mom and Dad. They were happy too. “That was beautiful,” Dad whispered.
7. Grace smiled. She was glad she and her brother could sing about Jesus.

What produces light? A candle, a flashlight, a lightbulb, the stars. What is the greatest source of light for us? No, it isn’t the sun. It is Jesus Christ. He said, “I am the light of the world: he that followeth me shall not walk in darkness, but shall have the light of life” (John 8:12).
This light “is given to every man, that he may know good from evil” (Moro. 7:16). Each of us has the Light of Christ to help us choose the right.
Elder Robert D. Hales of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles reminds us how we can have spiritual light: “When I was a boy, I used to ride my bicycle home from basketball practice at night. I would connect a small pear-shaped generator to my bicycle tire. Then as I pedaled, the tire would turn a tiny rotor, which produced … a single, welcome beam of light. … I learned quickly that if I stopped pedaling my bicycle, the light would go out. I also learned that when I was ‘anxiously engaged’ in pedaling, the light would become brighter and the darkness in front of me would be [forced away].”
Elder Hales explains that “spiritual light comes from daily spiritual pedaling. It comes from praying, studying the scriptures, fasting, and serving—from living the gospel and obeying the commandments” (“Out of Darkness into His Marvelous Light,” Liahona, July 2002, 78).
When we live the gospel and keep the commandments, we can have the Light of Christ with us always.
Trace the picture on page 6 onto plain white paper, and color the traced picture. Brush your picture very lightly with salad oil, and blot it with a towel. Elder Dieter F. Uchtdorf of Presidency of the Seventy said that when he was growing up, his “chapel had a stained-glass window of Joseph Smith in the Sacred Grove. Whenever the sun shone on it, I felt that the story it illustrated and what I had learned in Primary about the First Vision were true” (Liahona, Apr. 1999, F3). Place your picture in a window to remind you of the light the Savior provides in your life.

With the birth of each of their four children, Richard and Jennifer Fisher have felt an intense responsibility to rear them in righteousness and help them return to their heavenly parents. To see one of those children surrender his life to drugs and alcohol has been almost more than they can bear. The heartache, they say, is indescribable.
“There’s such an overwhelming feeling of failure,” says Sister Fisher. “I review every day from the time he was born and ask myself what happened. What did we do wrong? What did we do differently with him than with the other children? And of course we can’t find any answers.
“I have felt a sense of failure to the Church family, too, not just to my own. At first I felt unworthy to serve in my Church calling and I asked to be released. When something appears in the paper about my son’s problems with the law, I think, how can I be an effective missionary?”
Those words describe the darkest periods of Sister Fisher’s struggle, intervals that recur less often now that her son has largely withdrawn from cocaine and other drugs, though he continues to use alcohol. The intensity of her distress also has diminished as she has learned not to blame herself but to see her son as a child of God with divine agency. He himself has reassured her many times that his choices are his own and that she was, indeed, a good and loving mother.
The Fishers found they could draw on their ward’s love and fellowship without reserve. “I told the ward in testimony meeting that I needed the ward members to join in prayer for my son, and I got a tremendous response. They have written notes and have made extra effort to speak to Jason when he attends church.”
Jason himself says he considered suicide but didn’t proceed with it because he knew of the love that others had for him. He has told his parents that their prayers and those of ward members protected him and that his life was spared because of it.
For Sister Fisher, the fruits of her faith have not yet fully materialized, and she realizes her son may never turn entirely away from his chosen way of living. Still, she refuses to give up.
“I will never cease to have hope. Never.”