Gospel Story Finder

I continued my services in the parish, but my preaching was mixed with the new words of the book. The members of my congregation were so interested that they became dissatisfied with my colleagues’ sermons. When members began leaving the chapel during their sermons and remained when I occupied the pulpit, my colleagues became angry with me.
The beginning of real discord began Christmas Eve, 1910. In my sermon that evening, I told the story of the birth and mission of Jesus Christ as given in my new book. When I had finished, some of my colleagues publicly contradicted all I had said. They denounced me and turned me over to the Committee of Censure for disciplinary action.
When I appeared before this committee, the members gave what they supposed to be fatherly advice. They counseled me to burn the book, which they said was of the devil, since it had caused so much trouble and had destroyed the harmony of the pastoral brothers. I replied, “I will not burn the book because of the fear of God. I have asked him if it were true, and my prayer was answered affirmatively and absolutely, which I feel again in my soul as I defend his cause now.” I felt then that the day would come when the source of the book would be known to me and I would be able to enjoy the effects of the faith that led me to solemnly resist the Committee of Censure.
Not until 1914 was I once again brought before the council. A church official spoke in a friendly way, suggesting that the sharp words at the previous hearing may have provoked me, which was regrettable, since they all loved me. However, he said, I must remember that obedience is the rule and that I must burn the book.
I could not deny the words of the book nor burn it, since in so doing I would offend God. I said that I looked forward with joy to the time when the church to which the book belonged would be made known to me and I could become part of it. “Enough! Enough!” the official cried. He then read the decision, of the council:
I was to lose my position as a pastor of the church and of every right and privilege I had previously enjoyed.
In November 1914, I was back in my native Italy, and called to serve in the Italian army and fought in France. Once I told some men in my company the story of the people of Ammon—how they had refused to shed the blood of their brothers and had buried their weapons rather than be guilty of such great crimes. The chaplain reported me to the commanding officer, and the next day I was escorted to his office. He asked me to tell him the story I had told. Then he asked how I had come into possession of the book. I received as punishment a ten-day sentence of bread and water, with the order that I was to speak no more of the book.
After the end of the war, I returned to New York, where I met an old friend, a pastor of my former church. He interceded for me with the synod, and I was finally admitted to the congregation as a lay member. As an experiment, it was agreed that I should accompany one of the pastors on a mission to New Zealand and Australia.
In Australia, we met some Italian immigrants who asked questions about the errors in some Bible translations. They were not satisfied with my companion’s answers. When they asked me about it, I once again told the story of Christ’s appearance to the people of America. When they asked me where I had learned such teachings, I told them of the book I had found. The story was good to them but bad for my colleague. He reported me to the synod, and once again they cut me off from the church.
I returned to Italy shortly after. Then, in May 1930, while looking in a French dictionary for some information, I suddenly saw the entry “Mormon.” I read the words carefully and found that a Mormon Church had been established in 1830 and that this church operated a university at Provo [Brigham Young University, Utah]. I wrote to the university president, asking for information about the book and its missing pages. I received an answer two weeks later telling me that my letter had been passed on to the president of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
On June 16, 1930, President Heber J. Grant answered my letter and sent a copy of the Book of Mormon in Italian. He informed me that he would also give my request to Elder John A. Widtsoe, president of the European Mission, with headquarters in Liverpool, England. A few days later, Elder Widtsoe wrote to me, sending me a pamphlet that contained the story of the Prophet Joseph Smith, the gold plates, and the coming forth of the Book of Mormon. Finally, I had learned the rest of the story of the torn book I had found on top of a barrel of ashes.
On June 5, 1932, Elder Widtsoe came to Naples to baptize me, but a revolution had started in Sicily, and the police at Palermo refused to let me leave the island. The following year, Elder Widtsoe asked me to translate the Joseph Smith pamphlet into Italian and to have 1,000 copies published. I took my translation to a printer, Joseph Gussio, who took the material to a Catholic bishop. The bishop ordered the printer to destroy the material. I sued the printer, but all I received from the court was an order to him to return the original booklet.
When Elder Widtsoe was released as president of the mission in 1934, I started correspondence with Elder Joseph F. Merrill, who succeeded him. He arranged to send me the Millennial Star, which I received until 1940 when World War II interrupted the subscription.
In January 1937, Elder Richard R. Lyman, successor to President Merrill, wrote that he and Elder Hugh B. Brown would be in Rome on a certain day. I could meet them there and be baptized. However, the letter was delayed because of war conditions, and I did not receive it in time.
From then until 1949, I was cut off from all news of the Church, but I remained a faithful follower and preached the gospel of the dispensation of the fulness of times. I had copies of the standard works, and I translated chapters into Italian and sent them to acquaintances with the greeting, “Good day. The morning breaks—Jehovah speaks!”
On February 13, 1949, I sent a letter to Elder Widtsoe at Church headquarters in Salt Lake City. Elder Widtsoe answered my letter on October 3, 1950, explaining that he had been in Norway. I sent him a long letter in reply in which I asked him to help me to be quickly baptized, because I felt that I had proven myself to be a faithful son and servant of God, observing the laws and commandments of his kingdom. Elder Widtsoe asked President Samuel E. Bringhurst of the Swiss-Austrian Mission to go to Sicily to baptize me.
On January 18, 1951, President Bringhurst arrived on the island and baptized me at Imerese. Apparently, this was the first baptism performed in Sicily. Then, on April 28, 1956, I entered the temple at Bern, Switzerland, and received my endowment. At last, to be in the presence of my Heavenly Father! I felt that God’s promise had been fully fulfilled—the day had come indeed when the source of the book was known to me and I was able to enjoy the effects of my faith.

Meanwhile, Brother Coppin had also contacted the mission headquarters in Geneva. In May I received a telephone call from a full-time missionary, Elder Bishop, who told me that there was a chapel nearby in Clermont and gave me the telephone number of the missionaries there. I called the missionaries that very evening, and we met the next day at the chapel. The door to the gospel was opening for me.
The following Sunday, I attended meetings at the chapel and arranged to receive the missionary discussions from a missionary couple, Brother and Sister Bair of Provo, Utah. I was baptized on 24 July 1990.
My joy in becoming a member of the Church grew as I attended the Swiss Temple and worked in the family history center in my branch. Then, in September 1994, on a trip to the United States and Canada, I met Elder Card and his wife, who served as proxies as I was sealed to my parents in the Alberta Temple. The eternal union of my parents’ family had begun.
For many years I had searched for the church that would fulfill my spiritual needs and unite me with my loved ones who had passed on. Now, in a miraculous way, I had received the blessings of the temple and was able to share those blessings with my loved ones.

It bothered me for some time that a grocery store had magazines with offensive covers in full view of everyone in the checkout line. After I returned home one day, I called the manager and explained that I enjoyed shopping at the store, but it offended me that magazines with sexually suggestive covers were in full view of everyone. The next time I shopped there, I was grateful to see that the magazines had been moved to a less conspicuous location.

Just a few weeks ago a young man, while at a Scout camp in the mountains east of Salt Lake City, was struck by lightning, which took his life. His parents, grief stricken and devastated at the sudden loss of their son, struggled quietly and asked why this happened. Because their hearts were submissive and their faith strong, there came a great outpouring of love from the Lord. In the midst of their grief came a quiet, tender resolve to accept without anger the outcome of this experience. With their acceptance came a larger vision of the purpose of life and a remembrance of the covenants that were in place. Though still filled with anguish from their sudden loss, they found themselves standing on a higher plane, committed to hold even faster to their covenants and to live such that they might be assured of a joyful reunion with their son.

In her sophomore year, Julie was allowed to attend a missionary zone conference. The Spirit inspired her to accept the challenge from President Ezra Taft Benson to read the Book of Mormon a half hour a day.
“I set a certain time to study and wouldn’t let anything get in the way. I asked Heavenly Father to help me understand and apply the Book of Mormon in my everyday life.” Julie decided to accept another challenge and “flood the earth” with the Book of Mormon. She set a goal to give one away each week.
A few days later as she rode the bus to a track meet, she talked to a few of the team members. One of them asked, “Well, Julie, what do you believe?” Others turned and started listening.
“The Holy Ghost whispered scriptures I’d learned in seminary. I think they were surprised at how well Mormons are taught the scriptures. From that conversation the Lord helped me to give away four books,” she said.

When I reflect on my life there has never been a moment when I doubted that the Church was true. In my youth, raised in a Mormon community, testimony was never a question among my peers because virtually all of our activities centered on the Church. Belief was automatic. Without seminary there was almost no dialogue about our knowledge or our understanding of the gospel. The Church was just there and we were a part of it. Then I was called to serve a full-time mission in the Spanish-American Mission, working with the Mexican people.
My companion and I entered the mission field at the same time and for some reason, unknown to us, we were assigned to begin our missionary labors together. Neither one of us knew the Spanish language, and both of us were virtually illiterate in the gospel. (This was before there were any Missionary Training Centers.) We were timid, untrained, and a little frightened, but eager to start to work.
In those days there were very few member referrals. We knocked on doors from morning to night and did our best to communicate with the Mexican people, using a few words of Spanish and a lot of English. For the first time in my life I was required to bear my testimony to nonmembers who had little knowledge or respect for the Church. It was a challenging and humbling experience.
One day, to our surprise, we met a couple who brought out a Book of Mormon, saying that in their church they also used this sacred book as scripture. We were overjoyed until they began to criticize us and mock the doctrines of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. We discovered that they were missionaries from another religion who had been serving for 11 years. They were very knowledgeable and skilled in using the scriptures. My companion and I were no match for them. We were just boys fresh off the farm. They totally intimidated us, demeaned us, and tried to destroy our faith. In my heart I prayed for divine help.
Then, as I looked at that couple, a remarkable feeling came over me. For the first time in my life I felt the power of the Spirit rest upon me. Although I was somewhat ignorant, unlearned in the things of the gospel and the world, there was an absolute assurance that I held the holy priesthood of God and that they did not! That I was His minister of truth and they were not! With all the power of my soul I told them that I knew we were just boys and that we were not experts in the doctrine of our religion, but I knew that what we were doing was correct, that the Church was true, and that Joseph Smith was a prophet of God. They were silenced. They could not refute my testimony.
The testimony I bore that day was different than any other I had ever given. It was not a passive thing, nor simply an accepted thing. It was real. I knew it. And my testimony which began at that moment has grown stronger and stronger every day of my life. There is no doubt, you see, for it is true!

Over the years, Gus and his father regularly visited Sister Joyce Miller, at the time a less-active member of the Church who was battling cancer.
“The thing I remember most about Gus as a young boy was that whenever I asked him to say a prayer, he would stand up and do it,” Sister Miller says. “A lot of young boys and girls roll their eyes when you ask them to do something like praying. Not Gus.”
Now the young man who stopped by was a deacon with a priesthood responsibility. “I wasn’t active when they first started visiting me,” Sister Miller continues, “but their visits meant everything. I wanted to come back to church, but I was smoking and didn’t want to go because I was afraid people would smell the smoke on me.”
“All I knew is we always went to Sister Miller’s house and had fun when we home-taught her. I didn’t think any different of her when I found out she smoked because we were already really good friends,” says Gus. “I was pretty impressed and proud of her when she did stop smoking because I have heard how tough it is to quit.”
When she did stop smoking, Sister Miller began going to church again. “I was so glad because I liked seeing her. I would be able to see a smile on her face and be able to tell she really liked being at church,” Gus adds.

Writing in your journal should not be just for your posterity though, cautions Colleen Bell, 17, of Chicago, Illinois. You should get satisfaction from it, too. “When I began writing in my journal three years ago, I was painfully aware that I was writing for posterity. I felt that my life should be recorded and that I should portray the best part of me that nobody knew. I wanted my great-grandchildren to see what I had been and to like me. I’m afraid that the first few passages of my journal were a bit stilted because of this.
“Yet as time went on and I became more used to writing thoughts that had always remained unexpressed, I was no longer writing for posterity, but for myself. It became the most effective way for me to talk to myself and figure out what I was thinking. Reading it over now, I see my growth over the past three years.”

I stood next to my father in a hospital room. My mother, his wife of 41 years, lay on the bed. We had watched her for hours. We began to see the lines of pain disappear from her face. The fingers of her hands, which had been clenched into fists, relaxed. Her arms came to rest at her sides.

The pains of decades of cancer were ending. I saw on her face a look of peace. She took a few short breaths, then a gasp, and then lay still. We stood there waiting to see if another breath would come.

Finally, Dad said quietly, “A little girl has gone home.”

He shed no tears. That was because the Holy Ghost had long before given him a clear picture of who she was, where she came from, what she had become, and where she was going. The Spirit had testified to him many times of a loving Heavenly Father, of a Savior who had broken the power of death, and of the reality of the temple sealing he shared with his wife and family.

The Spirit had long before assured him that her goodness and faith had qualified her for the return to a heavenly home where she would be remembered as a wonderful child of promise and be welcomed home with honor.

For my dad, that was more than a hope. The Holy Ghost had made it a reality for him.

Now, some might say that his words and the pictures in his mind about a heavenly home were just a sweet sentiment, the clouded judgment of a husband at the moment of his loss. But he knew eternal truth the only way you can know it.

He was a scientist who searched for truth about the physical world throughout his entire adult life. He used the tools of science well enough to be honored by his peers across the world. Much of what he did in chemistry came from seeing in his mind’s eye molecules moving about and then confirming his vision by experiments in a laboratory.

But he had followed a different course to discover the truths that mattered most to him and to each of us. Only through the Holy Ghost can we see people and events as God sees them.

That gift continued in the hospital after his wife died. We gathered up my mother’s things to take home. Dad stopped to thank every nurse and doctor we met on the way out to the car. I remember I felt, with some irritation, that we should leave to be alone with our grief.

I realize now that he saw things only the Holy Ghost could have shown him. He saw those people as angels sent by God to watch over his sweetheart. They may have seen themselves as health care professionals, but Dad was thanking them for their service on behalf of the Savior.

The influence of the Holy Ghost continued with him as we arrived at the home of my parents. We talked for a few minutes in the living room. Dad excused himself to go into his nearby bedroom.

After a few minutes, he walked back into the living room. He had a pleasant smile. He walked up to us and said quietly, “I was worried that Mildred would arrive in the spirit world alone. I thought she might feel lost in the crowd.”

Then he said brightly, “I prayed just now. I know Mildred is all right. My mother was there to meet her.”

I remember smiling as he said that, imagining my grandmother, her short legs pumping, rushing through a crowd to be sure she was there to meet and embrace her daughter-in-law as she arrived.

Now, one of the reasons my father asked for and received that comfort was because he had always prayed in faith since his childhood. He was used to getting answers that came to his heart to give comfort and direction. In addition to having a habit of prayer, he knew the scriptures and the words of living prophets. So he recognized the familiar whisperings of the Spirit, which you may have felt today.

When I returned home from my mission, my grandmother was dying of cancer. She wanted to know what would happen after this life, so I taught her the gospel. She didn’t join the Church, but I had faith that the testimony I shared with her about Heavenly Father’s love for her and about life after death would have an impact on her in the next life.
After she passed away, my family went to the temple for her. I know that because of the work we did for her in the temple, she and my grandfather can be together forever—and I can be with them! The differences that we had can be resolved by knowing the truth and having the gospel be a part of our lives.

Perhaps less visible than the Prophet’s father, but equally important in shaping and influencing his life, was his mother, Lucy Mack Smith. Although this strong woman gave occasional leadership, her primary role appeared to be support to the family. She gave birth to eleven children and endured faithfully as all but four preceded her in death. During her life, she watched six of her immediate family and one grandson die as a result of ruthless mob violence and persecution.
Lucy prepared herself early in her marriage to raise a prophet. On one occasion she became seriously ill, and the doctors said she would die. Lucy records that she “made a solemn covenant with God that if He would let me live I would endeavor to serve him according to the best of my abilities.” After a voice assured her that she would live, she told her mother, “The Lord will let me live, if I am faithful to the promise which I made to him, to be a comfort to my mother, my husband, and my children” (Lucy Mack Smith, History of Joseph Smith, ed. Preston Nibley [Salt Lake City: Bookcraft, 1958], pp. 34–35).
She gave continual encouragement, support, and strength to her son Joseph the Prophet. His mother was the first person with whom young Joseph shared some of his momentous experiences of the Sacred Grove. Years later, he shared with her the joy and relief he felt when the Lord allowed others to view the sacred plates of gold. Lucy wrote that “Joseph threw himself down beside me, and exclaimed, … ‘You do not know how happy I am: the Lord has now caused the plates to be shown to three more besides myself. They have seen an angel, … and they will have to bear witness to the truth of what I have said, for now they know for themselves, that I do not go about to deceive the people, and I feel as if I was relieved of a burden which was almost too heavy for me to bear’” (Lucy Mack Smith, History of Joseph Smith, p. 152).
The Prophet’s mother shared also in his sorrows, sufferings, and persecutions. One time a mob took Joseph and his brother Hyrum prisoner and threatened to shoot them. The two brothers were confined under a cloth cover in a wagon. Their courageous mother risked her life and forced her way through the hostile mob to comfort her sons. Joseph and Hyrum could not see their mother and could only extend a hand from under the confining cover. As Lucy’s hand and the hands of her sons touched, the wagon drove off, literally tearing the sorrowing mother from her two sons.
Her determination to testify to the restoration of the gospel may have led her to dictate her well-known History of Joseph Smith. This was a major undertaking in her day. The book’s importance to the Church today is immeasurable! It contains many details of the Prophet Joseph’s life that might never have been known otherwise. It stands as a monument to the devotion of Lucy Mack Smith and her family.
Like great parents of all ages, Lucy turned to prayer for divine help to sustain her family. During the march from Ohio to Missouri known as Zion’s Camp, Joseph and Hyrum were seriously ill with cholera, and their lives were almost taken. At one point, “Hyrum sprang to his feet and exclaimed, ‘Joseph, we shall return to our families. I have had an open vision, in which I saw mother kneeling under an apple tree; and she is even now asking God, in tears, to spare our lives. … The Spirit testifies, that her prayers … will be answered’” (Lucy Mack Smith, History of Joseph Smith, p. 229).
In the exercise of agency and in the divine providence of God, Lucy’s sons Joseph and Hyrum ultimately sealed their testimonies with their blood. As the grieving mother looked upon their lifeless remains, she cried, “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken this family!” As a kind blessing to a faithful mother, the Lord softened her grief and granted to her the peace that only God can bestow. A voice spoke to her soul: “I have taken them to myself, that they might have rest” (Lucy Mack Smith, History of Joseph Smith, p. 324).

This was my first year at a new high school. I thought I’d been getting along all right, making friends and fitting in. Then one day in history class I overheard a group of people talking—right in front of me—about something they were going to do. They were talking about going to an activity that all the Mormons wouldn’t be able to come to because it was on a Sunday and because of the things they were going to be doing. I was friends with them, but they didn’t invite me.
It got me thinking. At first I was hurt that I wasn’t even considered to be part of the group, but then I thought about it. Did I really want to be invited when they would be doing something “Mormons” wouldn’t do? And after thinking about it for a bit more, I decided they unintentionally gave me a compliment. I’ve been living my life in such a way that I’m an example, and they knew—without my verbalizing it—what I stood for.

Frédéric, a research biologist from Sandy, Utah, was born in France but his roots are in India. In 1854 his great-great-grandfather, Arokium (he had no last name and his name has become the family surname), left his village of Thanjavur in Tamil Nadu and sailed from Chennai with his parents to Mauritius. His father was an indentured servant contracted to work in the sugar cane fields there.

After the death of his own father two years ago, Frédéric began to wonder about his family history. “We could trace all our family in Mauritius, but the connection to India was lost,” he explained. “I was curious about this great-great-grandfather Arokium, whose first name became my last name, so I asked my aunt for his picture. I had tears in my eyes when I saw it. I took a copy to the National Archives [in Mauritius] to find out where he came from.” That is where Arokium’s quest began.

More than 150 years after his ancestors left, Frédéric returned to India to find out more about them. “Being in Chennai,” he said, “is very emotional for me. This is where all my ancestors boarded ships at different times to come over to a strange land. I believe that it was heart-rending to leave, but they kept moving forward with hope in their hearts. They have sacrificed a lot for us to be where we are today.”

He added, “It is important to know their story to better appreciate my life now and understand the amazing legacy they left to me: courage, hope, hard work, hospitality, strong family values and faith in God.”

Frédéric wants to help others find their Indian roots. For this reason, he has created the Indian Diaspora Genealogy Group on Facebook.

His message to Saints in India is to get a temple recommend; start talking to family members and gather names, old photos and stories; get in touch with a family history consultant; download the FamilySearch app and create an account; enter your ancestors’ names and get their temple work done.

After the fireside in Chennai, Frédéric talked excitedly with a young woman from the audience. It appears that they have ancestors from the same village in Tamil Nadu. Perhaps her research can help him find another generation of family. They exchanged contact information.

“This is a labor of love,” Frédéric said. “After all they have done for me, this is the least I can do for them.”

Bear and Chipmunk were sitting at their kitchen table. “Do you remember what day today is, Chipmunk?” Bear asked his friend.
“Tuesday?” said Chipmunk.
“Yes, it’s Tuesday,” said Bear, “but do you remember what else today is?”
Chipmunk looked at the calendar on the wall. “Why, it’s your birthday, Bear! Happy Birthday!”
“You remembered!” said Bear smiling. “Wouldn’t it be nice if someone baked me a birthday cake and gave me a birthday present?”
“That would be nice,” said Chipmunk. “Maybe someone will.”
“Maybe I’d better leave so that someone can get busy,” said Bear.
“Maybe you’d better,” said Chipmunk, trying hard not to smile until Bear was safely gone.
“I love birthdays, especially Bear’s,” Chipmunk said, opening the kitchen cupboard and taking out a cake. “I’m glad I baked this yesterday.” He mixed up a batch of honey frosting and spread it over and around the cake. “I hope Bear likes it.”
Bear was peeking through the kitchen window. “I will,” he said quietly. “I will!”
Chipmunk carried the birthday cake into the dining room and put it on the table, then went to the bedroom and took a big box out of the closet. Taking some wrapping paper out of the desk drawer, he wrapped the big box. “I hope Bear likes it,” he said.
Bear was peeking through the bedroom window. “Oh, I will,” he said quietly. “I know I will.”
Chipmunk carried the big box into the dining room and put it on the table next to the birthday cake. “There now,” he said. “Everything’s ready. I’ll call Bear.”
But Chipmunk didn’t have to call Bear. Bear was standing right there next to him! Chipmunk laughed. “Happy birthday, Bear!” he said.
“You really did remember, Chipmunk!” Bear said happily.
Bear opened the big box. His eyes shone with pleasure. “Oh, Chipmunk,” he said, “I’ve always wanted a pair of roller skates just like these!”
“Do you like them?” asked Chipmunk.
“I love them!” Bear said, putting them on and lacing them up.
“I’m glad.”
Bear stood up. “Let’s go roller-skating together right now, Chipmunk.”
“I’m sorry, Bear,” said Chipmunk, “but I can’t.”
Bear looked surprised. “Why not?”
“I don’t have any roller skates.”
“Well then,” said Bear, “why don’t you take the money Grandma Chipmunk sent you for your birthday last week and buy some.”
“I already spent it.”
“On what?”
“On something special.”
Bear looked down at the new white roller skates he was wearing. Suddenly he knew what that something special was. Bear didn’t know what else to say, so he just said, “Thank you, Chipmunk.”
“You’re welcome,” said Chipmunk, smiling again.
Just then the doorbell rang. Bear skated over and answered it. A delivery person handed Bear a big package. It was from Uncle Bear. Bear unwrapped it, and his eyes opened wide. “Look at these, Chipmunk!” he said, taking a pair of glowing purple roller blades out of the box. Bear had never seen such fabulous skates before!
Chipmunk hadn’t either. He didn’t say anything, but the pair of white roller skates he had given Bear for his birthday seemed quite plain and ordinary now.
There was a card in the big box. It said:
Dear Nephew,
I Hope you enjoy these.
Happy birthday!
Uncle Bear
P.S. If there is something else you’d rather have, please exchange these for it.
Bear looked at the glowing purple roller blades he was holding. He looked down at the white roller skates he was wearing. He looked at Chipmunk. Then Bear put the glowing purple roller blades back into the big box and skated out the front door with them. “I’ll be back soon, Chipmunk,” he called over his shoulder.
Chipmunk watched Bear disappear down the road. “He didn’t even take time to have a piece of his birthday cake before he left!” Chipmunk said sadly.
He was sitting in his favorite chair when Bear came back. Bear was still wearing the white roller skates Chipmunk had given him, but he was not carrying the big box from Uncle Bear. Instead, he had a little box. Bear skated over to Chipmunk and handed him the little box. “Open it, Chipmunk,” he said.
Chipmunk’s eyes shone with pleasure. “Oh, Bear!” he cried, taking a pair of little white roller skates out of the little box. “I’ve always wanted a pair of roller skates just like these!”
“Do you like them?” asked Bear.
“I love them!” Chipmunk said, putting them on and lacing them up.
“I’m glad.”
Chipmunk stopped lacing up the little white roller skates. “Bear,” he said, “where are the purple roller blades Uncle Bear sent you?”
“I exchanged them for those,” said Bear, pointing to the little white roller skates Chipmunk was wearing.
Chipmunk didn’t know what else to say, so he just said, “Thank you, Bear.”
“You’re welcome,” said Bear, smiling again.
Chipmunk finished lacing up his little white roller skates. He stood up. “Let’s go roller-skating together right now, Bear!”
“I’m sorry, Chipmunk,” said Bear, “but I can’t.”
Chipmunk looked surprised. “Why not?”
“I haven’t had a piece of my birthday cake yet! And honey frosting is my very favorite.”
Bear ate three big bear-size pieces of birthday cake. Chipmunk ate two big chipmunk-size pieces. Then Bear wiped his mouth with his napkin and said, “I’m ready, Chipmunk. Let’s go roller-skating together right now!”
Chipmunk wiped his mouth with his napkin and said, “Let’s!”
And the two friends did.

It was the third day that Kiwal’s tribe had fanned out through the swampland in search of two missing white men who had ignored warnings and entered the marshy land in pursuit of rare specimens of moths and butterflies. Privately, the Indians considered the search a waste of time. Too many white men, some of them criminals fleeing the law, vanished forever once they had poled a boat into the gloomy maze of winding waterways.
Kiwal’s boat moved through the murky swampwater as silently as a moth on the wing. He stood upright at the back of the boat and pushed against the mud with a long pole. Most of the water was too shallow to use a paddle.
The youth’s dark eyes darted from the walls of bright green foliage to search overhanging boughs, ever alert to the dangers of this forbidding but wildly beautiful place. His passageway was a narrow tunnel through lush vegetation too dense for sunlight to penetrate. The steamy air seemed eerily green. Streamers of gray moss dripped from giant cypress trees. Delicate orchids of many colors bloomed freely, where few human eyes would ever see them. Tiny wild canaries flashed yellow and filled the air with beautiful music. Stately long-legged birds waded and used their bills to search the mud for crayfish and minnows.
As much as Kiwal loved his swampland home, it was not a place where one could relax or loll back in a boat to soak up the beauty of nature. Poisonous snakes lurked in the trees overhead or swam silently through the water that was almost black from rotting vegetation. What seemed like a floating log might instead be a dozing and hungry alligator. Kiwal shuddered as he remembered the time his pole had struck a giant hornet’s nest, and he had been forced to dive overboard to escape their vicious, stinging retaliation. He had almost landed on the snout of a surfacing bull alligator! Striking out blindly with his knife, he had desperately scrambled back into his drifting boat. The powerful, gaping jaws had missed his legs by inches!
Kiwal also felt pessimistic about the fate of the lost men, who worked for what was called a museum. He had been told that it was a place where people could go to see and study wildlife that had been collected from all over the world. Do the visitors there appreciate the courage of those who risk their lives so that they might stand safely in front of such exhibits and learn about the wonders of wild and foreign lands? he wondered.
The bronzed youth reached an open area, where the water was clear and deeper. Patches of water hyacinths floated light green bulbous leaves and spikes of lavender flowers. The clearing was encircled by narrow channels, like fingers, that led off in every direction. Storms, like the one two nights ago, often pushed together floating islands and closed them, thus slicing open new pathways through the dense growth. This made it impossible to map the constantly changing network of waterways. What seemed to be solid ground was often a slowly moving water-borne mass that only looked like an island. A man could step out into lush grass and trees and suddenly plunge through the tightly matted growth that held no soil.
Kiwal rested the long pole used to propel his craft and wondered which waterway to choose for searching next. Have the men already been saved by one of our tribesmen? Will they ever be found? he puzzled. Kiwal had been out since before dawn and his stomach gnawed with hunger. An old abandoned chikee caught his eye. It was an Indian home on stilts with open sides and a thatched roof of palm leaves.
The hut would be a good place to eat his noon meal of smoked fish, hard-boiled eggs, and round, flat bread cakes. He could rest for a time before resuming the almost hopeless search that would most likely be stopped after today if no trace of the men were found.
Kiwal slowly poled his craft toward the chikee. He would have to be cautious about tying his boat to the log stilts and leaving it there. Wasps and other stinging insects might live among the dry thatch. Snakes often sunned on such rotting floors of the many old stilt homes scattered throughout the swamp. Decay caused by the damp and steamy climate made it necessary to build often. Old ones were left standing to shelter hunters until the posts rotted through and the hut toppled into the brackish water and broke apart.
The youth was puzzled by what appeared to be a pile of rags on one corner of the wooden platform. But then the pile moved! He caught his breath and poled faster when he saw that it was a man trying to sit up. Then the man sagged and fell back again. There were two of them—white men! And at least one was still alive!
Muscles rippled as Kiwal poled harder, his light craft skimming over the still water. The young Indian leaped onto the sagging floor and threw a rope around one of the upright posts supporting the tilted roof, but his heart sank as he approached the men. Both were exhausted, their clothing tattered, and they bore little resemblance to the clean and nattily dressed men who had entered the swamp more than ten days ago.
He felt better when he found that one was breathing though still unconscious. The other man’s eyes were open and he struggled to speak. “I’m Professor Atwood,” he finally croaked. “My assistant, Mr. Carter, and I were lost and found this hut. Our boat tore loose and sank in the storm. We ran out of safe drinking water yesterday morning. Carter twisted his leg. It’s terribly swollen,” he finished in a whisper.
Kiwal shared his waterbag, then raised up the other man and let cold water trickle into his mouth. He choked, then sucked greedily until the youth had to snatch it away. Too much at once would make the man even sicker.
Hordes of hungry mosquitoes had left both men covered with ugly, splotchy welts. They had suffered cuts from the razor-sharp sawgrass through which they had forced their boat, and the slashes were swollen with infection. Any cut or bite festered quickly in the swamp and could poison the blood and even kill if not treated properly.
“Don’t leave us!” the professor begged, as Kiwal handed him his cloth-wrapped bundle of food and stepped back into the boat.
“Eat, and save some for your friend,” Kiwal said. “I must get something for your wounds. It won’t take long.”
The men were more alert by the time the Indian boy returned, but Mr. Carter was still too weak to sit up. They watched curiously as Kiwal piled stinking black mud and freshly cut foliage onto the platform and climbed out of his boat.
The youth removed a knife from his belt and pounded and slashed the leaves into a mushy green pulp. The strong-smelling herb gave off a sharp, medicinal odor, as Kiwal kneaded the pulp into handfuls of oozy mud. Then he added water to thin it into a salve.
“It stinks, and you will look like boats patched with pitch, but it cools an soothes instantly. It will also repel the swarming insects,” he explained, applying the mixture to the feverish men. They sighed with relief as their torment eased. Next, he dipped large green fronds into the water and used tough vines to bind the cool leaves to Mr. Carter’s purple and swollen leg. Color began to seep back into the pallid face that had been twisted with pain.
From the slanting rays of the sun, Kiwal knew they would have to spend the night here. Alone he could easily have made it back to his village before dark but not with the white men and the specimen cases Professor Atwood was so concerned about. The overloaded boat would ride low in the water and it would be harder to pole. It would be safer to wait until dawn.
Kiwal unwound a fishing line, pried up a piece of the rotting floor, and found a family of white worms to use for bait. Fish were plentiful and their supper was soon cooking over a fire he built on top of a round bed of stones nearby, blackened by many cooking fires over the years. The white men were grateful for the company of the capable youth, who knew well how to survive in the hostile environment of the swamp.
As night closed in, they sat by the fire and the men talked about a previous trip they had made to a land where other Indian tribes lived. Kiwal’s face reflected wonder as Professor Atwood described a land of ice and snow where birds walked but could not fly. Bears there were not small black or brown ones, but seven-foot-tall white giants. People lived in houses made of ice blocks and were clad in furs from head to toe. They had to saw holes through thick ice to catch fish. He could hardly wait to see the picturebook the professor had promised to show him.
The naturalists were scheduled to return to the land of ice soon, and, as the professor gazed into the fire, he said, “Just think. Next year we may be rescued from an ice floe by a boy in furs, driving a sled of dogs. Will he believe we were saved from death in this swamp by a tribal cousin of his who lives in an open-thatched house on stilts, where the whole world is green and the air like hot steam?”
“Perhaps you had better take along a picturebook about the Everglades—just in case,” Kiwal suggested tactfully. The professor and Mr. Carter roared with laughter.

Neil raced down the front steps, his boots crunching on the snow. Wow! he thought, tucking his sled under his arm. What a great day for sledding. If he hurried to Andover Park, he’d be there before anybody else.
He rushed down the street, pulling his woolen hat so tightly over his ears that he almost didn’t hear Mr. Hoffman calling to him. Oh no! Not now, Neil thought, reluctantly turning back.
Old Mr. Hoffman stood by his door, a sweater thrown over his shoulders. Mrs. Hoffman is probably sick again, Neil decided. Mr. Hoffman didn’t like to leave her alone when she was ill, so sometimes Neil went to the store for him. He liked helping out, but did it have to be today?
“Neil, could you please get me a loaf of bread and some strawberry jam?” Mr. Hoffman smiled wanly and held out some dollar bills.
Neil was about to object, but when he saw the old man’s face, he just said, “Sure. Isn’t Mrs. Hoffman any better today?”
“No,” said Mr. Hoffman. “She won’t get much better, I guess. She’s old and worn-out.”
Neil propped his sled against the fence. “I’ll be right back,” he said. He hurried to the grocery store, his hands shoved into his jacket pockets. All the way there he wondered, How can Mr. Hoffman live like that? He’s healthy. Why doesn’t he put Mrs. Hoffman in a nursing home where other people can take care of her?
At the grocery store, Neil picked up a loaf of bread and a jar of jam, plunked the money down, put the change in the grocery bag, and went back out into the snow. By now everyone will be at the park, he thought miserably.
When he got to the Hoffmans’ house, Mr. Hoffman opened the door immediately. “Thank you, Neil,” he said. “Come in and have some hot chocolate.”
“No, thank you,” Neil said. “I’m sort of in—“
“Henry,” a high, thin voice called from a back room.
“Coming, Eleanor,” Mr. Hoffman answered. As he hurried off, he said to Neil, “Just put the bread and jam on the table.”
“There’s change, too,” Neil called after him. Neil stamped the snow off his boots and stepped inside. He’d never actually been in Mr. Hoffman’s house before. He saw that the furniture was old, with doilies on the arms of the chairs. Magazines were stacked neatly on a side table. When he set the grocery bag down, he noticed an unfinished model ship next to the magazines. Small pieces of the ship lay on an open newspaper, but the ship already had masts, a flag, and intricate webs of thread for ropes. And on shelves around the room were many ships, all different types and sizes!
“Thank you again, Neil,” said Mr. Hoffman, coming back into the room.
“Mr. Hoffman,” said Neil, forgetting about sledding, “did you make all these?”
Mr. Hoffman chuckled. “Yes, I did. Not quite like their real counterparts, but I like them.”
“Have you been on any of the real ships?”
“Not on old sailing vessels like this one, of course,”—Mr. Hoffman pointed at the unfinished model—“but I was a navy submarine captain in World War II, and I’ve been on a few ships in my life.”
“Submarines! Wow!” Neil exclaimed. “I’ve only been in my dad’s rowboat.” Then he wondered, How does a submarine captain feel about being stuck in a house, nursing someone?
Mr. Hoffman looked out the window and noticed Neil’s sled. “Going sledding?” he asked. “It’s a good day for it.”
“Yes,” said Neil. “At Andover Park.”
“That’s where I used to go,” said Mr. Hoffman. His eyes became misty. “I grew up in this town. Many a snowy day I spent in Andover Park—Eleanor too.” He nodded his head toward the bedroom where his wife was. He chuckled. “I remember once I threw Eleanor’s hat up into a tree.” He added, winking, “But then I got it down for her.”
Neil looked up, surprised. He had never thought of Mr. and Mrs. Hoffman being children together.
Mr. Hoffman scratched his head, still smiling at the memories. “Neil,” he said, “if you’d like, you can come back sometime, and I’ll show you how to build these.” He pointed to the ships.
“Thanks,” said Neil. “I’d like that.”
Approaching the hill in Andover Park, Neil saw children laughing and pelting each other with snow. His eyes shifted to a tree atop the hill, and for a moment he imagined Mrs. Hoffman’s hat dangling from a branch. Mr. Hoffman’s not stuck, he thought. As long as Mrs. Hoffman is alive, he wants to be with her because he loves her. So he’s exactly where he wants to be.

“Stay here with the baggage,” Father said. “I’ll get the family and return shortly.” Elizabeth nodded and tried to look brave as she watched him hurry off the boat. She turned to look across the muddy waters of the Missouri River. It was wide, but nothing compared to the Atlantic Ocean her family had crossed on the sailing ship Cynosure. She decided that if she could survive the eight-week crossing from England, she could certainly endure a one-day trip down a river.
“Are you going to the Salt Lake Valley?” a woman asked her.
“Yes,” Elizabeth replied. “I can’t wait to get there to fulfill my third promise.”
“Third promise?”
“Yes. When I was very sick, the elders promised me I would get well, join the Church, go to Utah, and be a mother in Israel.”
The woman smiled. “That’s wonderful. Perhaps we’ll be in the same wagon train. I’m Sister Rowley.”
Elizabeth shook her hand. “I’m Elizabeth Beardall, and here comes my family.” Elizabeth pointed to where her parents and brother and sister were hurrying up the road toward the boat.
“Oh dear,” Sister Rowley said as the sailors bustled around the deck. “I hope they make it in time!”
Elizabeth’s family was still a block away when the boat pulled away from the dock. “No!” Elizabeth cried. “Wait!”
Sister Rowley put her arm around Elizabeth. “There is another boat tomorrow. Your family will come then. Don’t worry. I’ll tell the Church leaders that I will take care of you in the meantime.”
When they got off the boat in Florence, Nebraska, Elizabeth waited outside a business office while the Rowley family went inside. When Sister Rowley came out she was smiling. “It’s all settled, my dear,” she said. “You can come with us.”
Elizabeth frowned. “With you? But I need to wait for my family.”
Sister Rowley looked around at the noisy crowds and shook her head. “I can’t leave you here alone. Your parents will be told where to find you. And by leaving now,” she added with a twinkle in her eye, “you’ll hasten the fulfillment of your third promise.”
Elizabeth felt tears prick her eyes. She knew that the trip would be hard, but she had never imagined she might be making it by herself. And what if she never saw her family again? Was any promise worth that?
Sister Rowley seemed to read her thoughts. “It will all be worth it in the end,” she said. “Our sacrifices may seem great, but God has promised us a much greater reward.”
As the wagon train rolled westward, Elizabeth kept busy washing clothes, gathering buffalo chips for fuel, and fetching water. But at night when the company gathered around the blazing campfire to sing and dance, Elizabeth missed her family terribly. She found comfort in the evening star that shone in the western sky. It seemed to whisper, “God is over all. He knows your secret sorrow and will not forsake you.” Elizabeth knew that she was not really alone.
After two weeks of travel, the company stopped for repairs. Elizabeth asked Sister Rowley what she could do to help. “Go out and play, dear,” Sister Rowley told her. “You have been too solemn. You need more laughter and fewer tears.”
Elizabeth nodded and went to join some children who were playing marbles and rolling hoops. The other children were kind, but the games did not cheer Elizabeth. Suddenly a boy called out, “Who is that stranger coming into camp?”
Elizabeth saw a man in the distance, hurrying toward them. She looked more closely, hardly daring to believe her eyes. It was her father! She ran to him, and he clasped her in his arms. Both were crying for joy. “We were only a day behind,” Father said, “but I despaired of ever catching up.”
“I knew we’d be together again someday,” Elizabeth sobbed. Now, with the Lord’s help, they could continue their journey to Utah and to the fulfillment of the third promise.

Some 23 years ago I was called as a young man to serve as the bishop of a large ward in Salt Lake City. The magnitude of the calling was overwhelming and the responsibility frightening. My inadequacy humbled me. But my Heavenly Father did not leave me to wander in darkness and in silence, uninstructed or uninspired. In his own way he revealed the lessons he would have me learn.
One evening at a late hour my telephone rang. I heard a voice say, “Bishop Monson, this is the hospital calling. Kathleen McKee, a member of your congregation, has just passed away. Our records reveal that she had no next of kin, but your name is listed as the one to be notified in the event of her death. Could you come to the hospital right away?”
Upon arriving there, I was presented with a sealed envelope which contained a key to the modest apartment in which Kathleen McKee had lived. A childless widow 73 years of age, she had enjoyed but few of life’s luxuries and possessed scarcely sufficient of its necessities. In the twilight of her life she had become a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Being a quiet and overly reserved person, little was known about her life.
That same night I entered her tidy basement apartment, turned the light switch, and in a moment discovered a letter written ever so meticulously in Kathleen McKee’s own hand. It rested face up on a small table and read:
“Bishop Monson,
“I think I shall not return from the hospital. In the dresser drawer is a small insurance policy which will cover funeral expenses. The furniture may be given to my neighbors.
“In the kitchen are my three precious canaries. Two of them are beautiful, yellow-gold in color, and are perfectly marked. On their cages I have noted the names of friends to whom they are to be given. In the third cage is ‘Billie.’ He is my favorite. Billie looks a bit scrubby, and his yellow hue is marred by gray on his wings. Will you and your family make a home for him? He isn’t the prettiest, but his song is the best.”
In the days that followed, I learned much more about Kathleen McKee. She had befriended many neighbors in need. She had given cheer and comfort almost daily to a cripple who lived down the street. Indeed, she had brightened each life she touched. Kathleen McKee was much like “Billie,” her prized yellow canary with gray on its wings. She was not blessed with beauty, gifted with poise, nor honored by posterity. Yet her song helped others to more willingly bear their burdens and more ably shoulder their tasks. She lived the message of the verse:
“Go, gladden the lonely, the dreary;
Go, comfort the weeping, the weary;
Go, scatter kind deeds on your way;
Oh, make the world brighter today!”
—Deseret Sunday School Songs, 1909, No. 197

Ramón ran, skipped, and jogged on the way to school. All at once he slowed to a walk.
Today was Monday. New helpers would be chosen in his class at school.
Ramón wanted very much to be a classroom helper. Every changeover day he smiled hopefully at his teacher, Mrs. Martin. Mrs. Martin always smiled back at him, but she had never chosen him to be a classroom helper.
The warning bell was ringing as Ramón hurried into the school building. He had almost reached his classroom when he saw a little girl sitting on the floor, crying as she tried to pick up crayons she had dropped.
Ramón bent down beside her. “I’ll help you.”
Soon all the crayons were picked up, and the little girl hurried on her way.
Mrs. Martin stood at the door of the classroom. Ramón smiled at her. “I’m sorry I’m late,” he said. He sat at his desk and waited for Mrs. Martin to announce this week’s helpers.
She chose Alise to put the library books away, Matt to pass out the study pages, Maria to take care of the art supplies, and Robert to feed the fish.
Ramón was sad that he was not chosen for any of the jobs. He took his pencil out of his desk and got ready to start his work. Just then Matt, who was passing out the study pages, dropped the whole pile.
Ramón jumped up. He helped Matt pick up the papers. Matt didn’t say thank you, but Ramón smiled at him anyway.
The classroom door opened, and the principal walked in. With him was a boy Ramón had never seen before. Mrs. Martin spoke to them for a moment.
When the principal left, Mrs. Martin said, “Class, this is Steven, who will now be in our class. I want you to welcome him.”
Then Mrs. Martin said, “Ramón, you are always friendly and smiling and helpful. Will you be my very special helper today and show Steven all around our school? He needs to know where the gym, the cafeteria and the washrooms are.”
Ramón smiled at his teacher and nodded. He smiled at Steven too.
On the way home from school that day, Ramón ran and skipped and jogged. He was too happy to walk.
“This was a very special day,” he told his mother, “because I got to be a very special helper.”

When Ulisses was 15, his bishop asked him to teach a youth Sunday School class. One lesson he taught centered on gaining a testimony of the gospel. Ulisses had studied the Book of Mormon, always felt that the Church was true, and believed in the Savior Jesus Christ.

As he prepared his lesson, he wanted to strongly testify to his class of the gospel’s truthfulness. “I studied and prayed fervently,” Elder Soares recalls. “After I knelt down, there came to my heart a very sweet feeling, a small voice that confirmed to me that I was on the right path. It was so strong that I could never say that I didn’t know.”