Gospel Story Finder

One day while taking a math test, I couldn’t remember how to solve one of the problems. I had prepared for this test, but I could not remember what I had reviewed at home. I did, however, have faith that I could ask my Father in Heaven for help.
I decided I would accept the first prompting I felt. After the prayer, I had the feeling that I could solve the problem in a specific way. But I began to doubt because it seemed like an odd way to work the problem. So I went ahead and did it on my own as well as I could.
Once all the tests had been handed in, our teacher went over the test with us. I found that the feeling I had had after the prayer would have led to the right answer, but I had not listened.

David peered down at the chewed rope end in his hands. Dusty had freed himself again. Dropping the rope, the boy ran to the coop. He opened the door and counted the chickens, pointing his flashlight at each one. They clucked softly and blinked their eyes. All 18 were there. The week before there had been 20 hens, but Dusty, the yearling Labrador retriever David had bought for hunting, had killed two. After the killing, David had promised his father that he would work with the dog, tying him up until they could be sure he would do no more damage.
The boy walked quickly back to the post where his dog had been tied. “Dusty,” he called softly; then he glanced beyond the house at the sky. The glow in the east was becoming brighter.
He moved out past the haystack and whistled. He heard something moving beyond the fence in the field and crawled through. A dark form became Dusty, who bounded toward the boy, then crouched down, front legs forward, and barked. David reached for the rope, but the dog bounced away, ready for their usual romp.
“Dusty!” The words shot out. “Come here!” The dog came closer, and David grabbed the end of the rope. Even in the half-light David could see something smeared around Dusty’s jaws. He put out his hand and touched it; his fingers felt sticky. He ran his hands over the dog’s body—no cuts or breaks. Small tufts of something like fur clung to the black-red around the dog’s mouth. The dog had killed a cottontail once. David took some of the stuff in his palm and shone the light on it. Despite the blood he saw that the pieces were yellow, kinky. It was sheep wool.
David climbed under the fence, pulling Dusty behind him; then he leaned against the stack of hay. The dog could have gotten into the sheep hides that were tacked to the shed wall, but that wouldn’t explain the blood. “Stupid dog!” David jerked the animal back to the post where he untied the short rope and retied the long end onto Dusty’s collar. Just to be sure, he ran to the pelts, moving his fingers along their edges. They were untouched. Watching the back door of the house, he walked back to Dusty and stood next to him. He thought of their neighbors who had sheep—Johnsons, Morgans, Franklins, Mitchells.
Several years before, David had seen a sheep-killing dog shot. The recollection raced through his mind. He moved toward Dusty, then hesitated. Working the knot loose from the post, David quickly led him to the water trough. He tied him and sprayed water from the hose over Dusty’s head and chest. The dog shrank back, but the boy pulled him up again. Then, with a curry comb from the tack room, he cleaned the half-dried blood from Dusty’s hair and rubbed him all over with a gunny sack before tying him up again. He took the short, chewed piece of rope and put it in a paper sack in the trash barrel.
By now it was light, and David hurried to finish the chores. He looked at the back door. With his brothers grown and gone, David was responsible for the chores. For once he was glad his dad hadn’t come to help as he sometimes did. He had fed the pigs and chickens and was just separating the calf from the milk cow when his dad called from the back door. He tried again to get the stubborn calf in its pen before he left, but his father shouted, “Just come! I’ll do that later. Hurry!”
David went into the kitchen and followed his father through the house out to the truck. Climbing in, he looked across at his father’s grim face. “Something’s got into Morgan’s sheep. I saw them when I was down watering the cows.” David turned away, staring out the window. His hand gripped the seat edge. He didn’t look at his father all the way there.
At the pasture, David walked to open the gate. The sheep were huddled in a corner. The boy put his shoulder against the post to free the loop from the top. As he swung the gate around, he saw that halfway down the field several sheep lay quiet in the grass.
“Leave it open,” his dad called from the window of the truck. “I phoned Morgan, and he’ll be here soon.” David climbed back into the truck. They drove into the pasture and stopped by the first dead sheep. David opened the door and walked over to the carcass of the ewe.
His father stood next to David, shaking his head. “Probably a pack of dogs.” The boy looked up, the corners of his mouth turned down. A few flies crawled slowly over the flesh and yellow fat where the wool above the ribs had been laid back.
“Rotten deal,” his dad muttered, looking down the field at the other sheep. David nodded as he pushed on one of the sheep’s legs. It moved loosely.
“Davie.” He turned to see his father pointing down the road to where dust billowed from behind a truck. “It’s Morgan. He’ll want to know about Dusty.”
David bent over as if examining the sheep. “He’s tied up,” he mumbled without looking up.
“Are you sure? He hasn’t pulled himself loose?”
David put his hand out, touched the sheep on the neck, then pulled back quickly. It was warm and reminded him of the time he had touched the shot dog.
“David!” The bullet had crashed into that dog’s shoulder, smashing it. David looked at the truck turning into the pasture.
“No. He was tied up. I checked him this morning.”
David felt his father’s eyes on him; then he heard “Good.” The boy stood up. He watched his father walk toward Morgan, who was getting out of his truck. The two men shook hands.
“You see what did it?” Morgan leaned over the dead sheep.
“Nope. Too sloppy for coyotes though.” David’s father pushed a flap of loose skin on the side of the ewe with his shoe.
Morgan stood and turned toward David. “I think you’re right. I’m looking for dogs.” He was still looking at David, who was unable to move. There was silence; David heard his father’s steps, then felt his hands on his shoulders.
“Well, you’ll have to look somewhere else.” Morgan scowled for a minute, then turned back to the sheep. “Help me get them out of here.” David hadn’t moved, but stood looking at the ground. When his father called, he slowly came to help them. Bending over the body, they each grasped a leg, then lifted the sheep up, flopping it over into the truck. They drove on to the next dead sheep and tumbled it in with the other.
The last one wasn’t dead yet and tried to get up when they came. Morgan pulled a .22 from in back of the seat and shot her behind the ear. In the truck bed the bodies looked strange, sprawled together, their legs sticking out.
“I’ll call them that have dogs around.” Morgan’s voice was bitter. “We can’t have this happening.” The door to his truck slammed; dust followed him up through the field.
They got into their own truck. David picked at a torn place in the knee of his pants. Then he stopped and stared out the window.
“How much would those three cost now?” David looked up at his father.
“Oh, about $300.”
David played with the knob of the bin. He had $43 in his savings account. Summer was over, the time when he could make some good money, and he had spent quite a bit just getting Dusty. Even if he did pay back every cent, who would let him keep a sheep-killing dog?
“That’s sure a loss to Morgan.” His dad turned into their driveway. “I hope they find the dogs.”
David nodded, “Yeah.” He walked slowly up to the front door, then moved faster as his mother called out, “Hurry! The bus’ll be here any minute.” She was taking food out of the oven, where it had been kept warm, and setting it on the table. David put his school clothes on, then washed, his eyes showing in the bottom of the mirror. He reached for the soap, then stopped and listened. His mother had said something about a pack of dogs. “Was Dusty with them?” she asked.
“No.” It was his father’s voice. “Davie said the dog was still tied.” David refocused on his own image in the mirror, and then he bent over and scrubbed his hands. At the table he pushed the eggs into the potatoes on his plate.
“Are you feeling all right?” his mother asked, laying one hand on his arm.
“I’m just not hungry.” David moved his chair back and excused himself.
“Those sheep all torn up don’t exactly make for a good appetite, do they?” His father wiped his hand across his mouth.
In his room, David sat on his bed. Dusty wouldn’t try to get loose during the day, and tonight he’d tie him double tight. David would tie him with baling wire. He couldn’t chew through that.
“The bus’s here.” David took his book bag from his mother’s hand and ran out the front door. He climbed onto the bus and sat with the other sixth graders from the valley.
Butch, Mr. Morgan’s son, was talking with the other boys. “Yeah, there was six or seven dead.” David started to say something, but then stopped. “Dad said he’d shoot any dog anywhere around them sheep.” Butch went on, the others still watching. “I didn’t find no blood on my dog, but I chained him up anyway.” David thought of the Morgan’s dachshund, then laughed nervously with the other boys.
“What about your dog, Jimmy?” Butch still had them all listening. They turned to Jim Mitchell.
“That’s none of your business!” The boys, even Butch, were silent. Then Butch said, “Well, you’ve got to realize we just can’t have sheep killers around here.” But now the other boys were turning away.
David looked at his hands. He and Jimmy, sitting in the same seat, didn’t talk at first. Then Jimmy turned to David. “There was blood on our dog. Dad said we’ll probably have to get rid of him.” David said nothing but looked out the window on the opposite side of the bus. The bus passed their own field where his dad was just climbing onto the swather. David waved, making only a small motion, then leaned his head against the seat in front of him and looked at the floor.
Although the other boys moved straight to the lawn to play football after the bus unloaded, David went inside to the library. He found the book which he had read after Dusty had killed the chickens. It had told him that “once an animal gets a taste for blood, it isn’t easy to break him of that habit, but sometimes tying the victim around the dog’s neck will help.” They had left the chicken tied to Dusty until it was greasy and stinky, but it hadn’t worked. He had killed another chicken and now some sheep. David smiled at the thought of Dusty with the sheep tied around his neck. But he soon frowned again. “Once an animal gets a taste for blood. …”
The bell rang, and David went to his class. He watched Jimmy Mitchell, who sat staring at his desk, supporting himself with one hand to his forehead. No man in the valley would keep a sheep-killing dog. He looked across at Butch Morgan. He was chunky, like his father, and had plump cheeks and pink skin. He thought of Mr. Morgan’s .22. Dusty’s head would flop over; his body would crumple. He shook his head, bending over his book again.
“David,” he looked up at the teacher. “Will you work the first division problem for us now?” David walked to the front of the room, trying to remember how these problems should be done. He scratched the numbers onto the blackboard, then returned to his seat. He realized that he had forgotten to invert before he multiplied.
History seemed to go overtime, and the class dragged on through science. Finally the day was half over. David stood in line for lunch. Before he knew it, the secretary was holding out her hand for his ticket. He fumbled for his wallet and took out a ticket. He started to put his wallet away, but then he stopped, running his fingers across the deer pattern his dad had cut into the leather. It had been perfectly formed and carefully shaded, unlike store-bought things. He slowly folded the wallet and put it in his pocket.
David ate his lunch alone, away from the others. He then went back to the library and read more from the book about dogs. He turned the pages awhile, then put it away, walking to look out the window. Whatever the book said, people in the valley would remember that Dusty was a killer.
Butch, Kenny, and the others were out playing ball. David watched as Jimmy marched across the playground and pushed Butch down. David moved through the door and joined the group just as a teacher broke up the fight. Butch ran for the building, one hand across his face, his nose bleeding. The teacher walked away with one arm around Jimmy’s shoulders.
“What happened?” David asked.
“Oh, Jimmy called home and found out that his father shot their dog,” Kenny Jesperson answered, kicking his foot against the pavement.
David walked back to his class, his hands in his pockets. Jimmy came in and slumped into his seat. David watched him for a long time, but he turned quickly when Jimmy looked up. David felt his face turning red; he hoped no one noticed. He sat staring at the page.
The rest of the day was as slow as the morning. At last it was over. David wished the bus driver would go faster, but he went at half speed as usual. Then the bus stopped, and he was running from it, going around to where Dusty was tied. The dog wiggled his entire body in greeting. David found several loops of baling wire and hooked them together, trading them for Dusty’s rope. David held his arms around the dog and felt the fur against his face. He got some food and poured it into Dusty’s dish. The dog gulped the food, noisily crunching the pieces with his teeth.
David walked into the house. His mother was washing the dishes, singing as she dipped the plates into the soapy water. Half-afraid, David asked, “Where’s Dad?”
“Out in the machine shed.”
David hesitated; then he turned through the door and moved his feet several steps toward the shed. He stopped in the yard, returned to the kitchen through the back door, and walked to his room.
David lay on his bed. “They would shoot him if they knew.” He took off his shoes and slowly pulled off each sock. He walked to his dresser where the family picture stood. His older brothers were there and his dad was directly behind David in the picture, his hands on David’s shoulders. The boy held the picture; then he put it back. He finished dressing and left to do the chores.
“No TV tonight, eh?” His mother smiled as he walked through the kitchen. He shoved the screen door, letting it slam behind him. When he turned at the back gate, she was standing behind the screen, wiping her hands and watching him.
He put the milk bucket on the post next to the gate of the cow pen and walked over to dump wet barley to the grunting pigs. They ran in circles around him until he slopped it into their trough. The chickens ran to the fence, pecking at his feet as he filled their food and water containers. Some of them flapped their wings, trying to fly to the food. As David turned, he saw his father, squatting before Dusty, scratching the dog’s ears. Dusty wagged his tail. His dad’s back was toward David, who watched unnoticed. His dad stood; David turned to get grain for the cow. He poured the grain in front of her, and then sat on the milk stool, his head against the cow’s flank. He milked fast until his forearms ached.
“How was school today?”
“All right, I guess.” He turned his back to the milking.
“Only all right?” His dad was smiling. David kept milking. His father walked away, and soon David saw him return, pulling the strings off a bale of hay he had brought for the cow.
“I helped Morgan dress out the last sheep. It was good it wasn’t completely wasted.”
“Yeah.” David’s hands hurt, but he milked harder and harder.
“About through out there?” his mother called from the house. “Dinner’s ready.”
His father looked over at David’s nearly full bucket. “We’ll be right there,” he shouted back to the house. As David stripped the last of the milk from the cow’s teats, his dad climbed the fence to let the calf out of its pen. David finished and walked to the gate, where he stood waiting for his father. He looked at the ground. Tomorrow he would ride to school with Jimmy, sit in the same classroom. His legs and arms felt weary. When he was smaller, if he were tired his mother would hold him, rocking in the chair.
“Davie?” His father had already passed through the gate and was turned back, waiting for David. “Is something wrong?”
David’s chest tightened again. He thought of eating dinner tonight with his mother and father watching. He shook his head, blinking his eyes quickly. Then, gripping the pail handle, he moved through the gate. The boy heard the gate shut; then he felt his father’s hand on his shoulder, turning him around.
“What’s the matter, Davie?” David leaned against his father’s chest, feeling the man’s arms around him. He felt the cloth of his father’s shirt, rough on his face. He felt warm, but then the fear made his body grow tight again. He stepped back, still gripping the handle of the bucket, and looked up. His father’s face was puzzled. David began quickly.
“Dusty …” He waited, eyes down, until he could talk again.
“Yes?” His father took a step closer.
David took a breath. “Dusty was one of the dogs that killed Morgan’s sheep.”
His dad stared at him. “How do you know?”
“There was blood and wool on him this morning.” David kept his eyes on the ground. “I washed it off.”
His father’s shoulders seemed to sag; he looked away from David. The boy hesitated, then walked to the house, putting the milk bucket on the table. His mother looked at him, but neither said anything. The door opened and David’s father came in and rested his hand on David’s shoulder.
“What do we do now?”
David touched his father’s arm, then walked to the phone. “I’ll call Morgan.”
“Come on.” His father moved toward the door. “Let’s drive over there.” He told David’s mother what had happened; then together they walked through the back door of the kitchen. The screen door banged shut behind them.

On an afternoon in April 1989, Pablito, one of the many children who live in my apartment complex, came running to me for help. He had been robbed and mistreated by three thirteen-year-old boys, he said, and he wanted me to help him recover his watch and chain that they had taken. When I walked up to the boys, they did not run away as they normally did. I asked them to return Pablito’s watch and chain. They ignored me. I then searched them, but I didn’t find anything. They were upset because I had searched them, and as they left the complex, they insulted and threatened me. But I didn’t take their threats seriously.
Two days later, some friends of mine told me that several young men had been looking for me.
The next Monday, a group of about twenty-five young men came toward me. I could not imagine what was happening until one of them lunged forward and punched me in the nose. I tried to escape, but it was too late. It was impossible to get away from them. At first they hit me all over, but then they started to slash me with broken bottles. Suddenly I felt something cold in my left side. One of them had knifed me close to the ribs.
The attack ended, and the gang ran away as two police cars arrived. A friend helped me up, but because I had lost a great deal of blood, I was very weak and kept losing consciousness. In addition to the knife wound, I had gashes on my head and thigh, and my face was badly bruised and swollen.
I was taken in one of the police cars to a local hospital. Although the doctors there were able to stitch my wounds, they had to send me to a larger hospital for X rays to check for any internal damage.
After examining the X rays, the doctor said I needed emergency surgery so he could properly assess and treat possible damage to my internal organs.
While I was waiting to go into surgery, my father asked for a few minutes with me. The doctor told him to be brief. Then my father and another priesthood holder placed their hands on my head and gave me a blessing.
After I had been in the operating room for a while, the doctor came out and told my father, “The knife wound in your son’s side is very deep, but the blade did not touch any vital organs. I only had to clean out the wound. I don’t know what you did when you placed your hands on his head, but whatever it was, it worked.”
I was in the hospital for four days and then in recovery for three months—delaying my anticipated mission call. I quickly regained the blood I had lost, my wounds healed, and soon I could stand up and walk.
I know it was because of the power of the priesthood and faith in Jesus Christ that I am alive today. I know the Lord wanted me to serve where I am now, in the Venezuela Maracaibo Mission. I am grateful that he spared my life so I can work in his vineyard.

I have asked that serious question of myself: “Where would I be without the gospel?”
It was that gospel testimony that persuaded me to say no to my Navy friends when our first “liberty” came to leave boot camp training in Farragut, Idaho, in early 1944. On the train from Farragut to Spokane, Washington, the invitations were presented in a most appealing way to go with them to get a “manly” tattoo and then be off to find the real pleasures that men seek.
I was the only Mormon in that group, and, yes, I felt a little lonely as I broke off to go by myself to the USO facility and then to a movie. The following day I found church services and church friends who strengthened and reinforced a lonely Mormon boy from Provo, Utah.
To have come home from the service in World War II with virtue intact has held for me eternal rewards.

“We think Australia is the greatest!” said Bill Foggle as he and the other young Latter-day Saints rushed to explain some of the unique and unusual facts about their homeland and its inhabitants.
Young Latter-day Saints in Sydney often meet together to do service projects, work on the local Church welfare farms, participate in sports, and see the sights of their fair city. On this Saturday the young people met at the famous Sydney Opera House, then took the ferryboat across the harbour to Taronga Zoo, where they laughed at the animals’ antics and lunched on meat pies and chips.
From the zoo, the young people caught another boat ride back to the Rocks area on the western shore of Sydney Cove. Here they caught a glimpse of the very early colonial life of the city. After a walk under the bridge and a stop at the Argyle Center to see some aboriginal art and shops featuring Australian sheepskins, pottery, and needlework, the day was gone. Bill and his friends had to hustle back to the opera house parking lot where everyone said their good-byes and ta-ta’s and went their separate ways for home.

During a recent open house and media day for a new house of the Lord, I led a group of journalists on a tour through the sacred structure. I described the purposes of temples in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and responded to their many excellent questions.
Before entering the celestial room, I explained that this particular room in the house of the Lord symbolically represents the peace and beauty of the heavenly home to which we can return after this life. I indicated to our guests that we would not speak while in the celestial room, but I would be happy to answer any questions after we moved to the next stop on the tour.
After exiting the celestial room and as we gathered at the next location, I asked our guests if they had any observations they wanted to share. One of the journalists said with great emotion, “I have never experienced anything like that in my entire life. I did not know quiet like that existed in the world; I simply did not believe such stillness was possible.”
I was struck by both the sincerity and the starkness of this person’s statement. And the journalist’s reaction highlighted one important aspect of stillness—overcoming and tuning out the commotion of our external environment.
As I later pondered the journalist’s comment and reflected on the often hectic pace of our modern lives—the busyness, noise, diversions, distractions, and detours that so often seem to demand our attention—a scripture came to my mind: “Be still, and know that I am God.”

When I was a young mother with my first baby, my husband was still in college. We both worked part time to make ends meet.
Looking forward to a day off work, I had planned to watch an old movie on television. This was before DVDs or streaming services.
The movie would begin at the perfect time—10:00 a.m.—when our son would be napping. It starred Cary Grant, one of my favorite American movie stars.
The night before my anticipated day off, the ward Relief Society president called. A sister in our ward had suffered a mild stroke and needed care the next day until her son returned from work.
“I would do this myself, but I have company,” the Relief Society president said. She explained that she had no one else to ask and offered to watch our son while I cared for the sister. I reluctantly agreed.
The next morning, I dropped off our son and went to visit the sister. Her name was Louise, and I felt a sudden rush of affection for her. She was old enough to be my grandmother, who had recently died.
I helped Louise dress and then prepared her breakfast. She eased into a chair and turned on the television. Soon it was 10:00 a.m. As she flipped through the channels with the remote, she said, “This television has nothing to offer.”
I hesitated and then said, “There’s a Cary Grant movie on channel 11.”
“Really?” she asked. “I love Cary Grant!”
We watched the movie and thoroughly enjoyed it. Afterward, she shared things about her life when she was my age. She told me about her son, and I told her about mine. She talked about the Church and how she missed it.
When her son returned, I promised to return. I told the Relief Society president to call me first if Louise ever needed anyone.
Sometime during the next two weeks, Louise suffered another stroke and passed away before I had a chance to see her again. We had shared only nine hours and a movie, but she became a dear friend. I think of her often.
I am thankful I didn’t lose the chance to help a sister who needed me—and whom I needed, though I didn’t realize it.

Sometimes we don’t understand the reason for heavenly instructions. God will occasionally send us instructions that we do not expect. I remember sitting in a sacrament meeting when an impression came clearly to my mind. The instruction was not a voice or a whisper but a clear thought indicating something I should do. I did not expect to receive such instruction during sacrament meeting.
I turned to my wife and told her the prompting I had just received. She indicated that I should obey the prompting, even though we did not understand the reason behind it.
As we obeyed that instruction, and as time went by, we had several witnesses that the direction we received brought us greater peace and ensured we remained on our path of growth.

Elder Yoon Hwan Choi of the Seventy says two 14-year-old boys brought his family into the restored Church.
Elder Choi was born on May 18, 1957, to Dong Hun Choi and Jeung Soon Lee. His father allowed Elder Choi and his siblings to choose any Christian religion, but they often argued over their different beliefs during dinner. His father wanted to change this. Impressed by the Mormon religion of Elder Choi’s 14-year-old brother, the family listened to the missionaries. After learning about another 14-year-old, Joseph Smith, they were all baptized.

For 14-year-old Tien Pham and his four young traveling companions—none of whom could swim—this was not your average back pack and river outing. Tien, his scratched and aching arms draped over a gallon plastic bottle, was trying to cross the Mekong River in Laos, far upstream from his Vietnam homeland. He was literally holding on for dear life.
Tien’s Vietnamese family was living in Laos, where his father had been a diplomat. When the South Vietnamese government fell from power, so did Tien’s father. And the government in Laos was unfriendly to the South Vietnamese now, too.
Life became very difficult very fast. Tien’s family had lived in a large home with many maids. His father had a private helicopter and many business connections in foreign countries. Their home was taken over by the new government, and the family was forcibly moved. Suddenly poor and without employment, they walked to another part of Laos.
Tien’s father knew that there was no future for Tien in Laos. Tien would not be allowed to go to school after the eighth grade without government approval. There would be no approval because of his father’s position with the previous government. In addition, he would not be able to find employment because the government was the only employer. For these and other reasons, Tien and his companions decided to take a hike, so to speak, to freedom in Thailand.
The group of boys packed no food or provisions. They did not wish to raise the suspicions of officials as they left town. The journey to the Thai border could have been made in a day under normal circumstances but it took three days for Tien and his friends. They traveled only by night to avoid detection by military patrols. In the daytime, they slept in trees and remained quiet. They lived on bananas and wild fruits as they meandered through a jungle shared with occasional snakes and panthers and a constant supply of insects. The boys, all between 10 and 14 years of age, had already zigzagged through 30 miles of Laotian jungles when they reached their biggest obstacle: the Mekong River.
The Mekong River is the Mississippi of Southeast Asia. It flows for over 2,000 miles through China, Thailand, Laos, Cambodia, and Vietnam before it nourishes the Mekong Delta near Saigon and empties into the South China Sea. On the other side of the Mekong, about a half-mile wide at this spot, Tien and his companions could at least see Thailand through the moonlight. It was almost morning. The boys, although afraid to cross, reasoned that they would be killed anyway if they were found by patrols in the morning, and they decided to make the attempt.
While walking along the river, they found the help they needed. Tien and a friend found a pair of plastic bottles discarded near the river. The other boys found plastic sacks. With the floating aids, they thought they had a chance for a successful crossing. Tien and his friend hugged their bottles and waded into the water. With similar hopes, the other boys paddled out into the swift current clutching inflated plastic garbage bags. The water level was high from late summer rains.
As two of the makeshift floats snagged on branches and debris in the river, the plastic easily split and the bags deflated. Without floating aids, Tien’s nonswimming friends first struggled and finally drowned in the murky Mekong water. Tien and the others, unable to come to their aid, could only look on with horror and helplessness. Due to the swift current and their lack of swimming skills, it took Tien and the others three long, exhausting hours to reach the other side. Widely separated during that time, the boys managed to find each other. They had reached the western bank sobered but not shattered; after resting, they pressed on.

Finances became a major concern. I had enough money in the bank to cover 11 of the remaining 15 months of my mission and hoped Mom could get enough together for the remaining four. My plans for college were now pushed back into the realm of hopes and dreams. However, the Lord takes care of his missionaries.
I received a letter from my mother telling me that I needn’t worry about finances anymore. A man had contacted my bishop and asked if he could support me for the rest of my mission. This is not too unusual, since there are many good-hearted men in the Church, but the twist in this instance was in what the man told my bishop: “I’m not a member of your church, but out of the love and respect I have for Horace Rappleye, I’d like to support his son for the rest of his mission.” And he did. For 15 months the money was placed regularly in my bank account by the anonymous benefactor.
He remains anonymous to this day.

I was grateful for that school year to end. The summer was a welcome escape from my old friends who didn’t understand why they saw less and less of me. I knew that the less I saw of them the easier it would be to begin repenting. Every day was a constant struggle. But, by the following August, I ended my relationships with all of those old friends. Some of them didn’t care. Some hated me and my new religion. Some were hurt and just didn’t understand. But I understood, and I knew that from then on I would always be different.

William eased onto the floor and carefully laid his gun at his side. “Good-night, Brother Joseph.”
“Sleep well,” the Prophet replied.
William doubted he’d be able to sleep at all. Even when he did rest here on the Smiths’ floor, he often slept fitfully, awakening in starts to watch and listen.
Lying on his back, he stared at the dark ceiling and strained to hear anything suspicious outside—footsteps approaching, horse hooves plodding closer, muffled voices. But the only sounds were chirping crickets and water lapping against the nearby riverbank. William only wished life in Nauvoo could be as peaceful as it seemed tonight.
Lately persecution against the Saints, especially Joseph Smith, had become so great that William now slept in the Nauvoo House as the Prophet’s bodyguard. He lay with his feet braced against the bedroom door, which swung inward. That way an intruder would have to awaken William before being able to reach Joseph.
Eventually William’s eyes drooped closed and he fell into an uneasy sleep, but not for long.
“William, are you awake?” Joseph whispered.
William’s eyes flew open to see the Prophet crouched next to him. He reached for his weapon, but Joseph placed a calming hand on his shoulder. “Why don’t you go home and get some rest in your own bed tonight?”
William blinked in disbelief. “Will you be safe?”
Joseph smiled. “I should think so. The Lord has revealed to me that little children have been praying for my welfare, and He will honor their faith by protecting me. Your guard service will not be needed tonight.”
As William walked down the quiet Nauvoo streets toward home, he glanced up at the stars and grinned. He was grateful to know that he was not the only one helping to protect the Prophet.

As a young stake president, I met many of the General Authorities when they came to speak at our stake conference. What a wonderful experience! President Hugh B. Brown came to one of our stake conferences just a week before he was called and sustained as a member of the Council of the Twelve. We enjoyed his warm spirit and his good humor. As I helped him put his coat on and walked out to his car with him, I said, “Elder Brown, do you have any personal advice for me?”
His answer was, “Yes. Follow the Brethren.” He did not choose to elaborate or explain, but he left that powerful message: Have the simple faith to follow the Brethren.

Although many of our activities are the same as those of other boys around the world, we get to see and do different things because of the unique land we live in. For example, a few weeks ago the Cub Scouts and the Boy Scouts hiked through Wadi Kelt. A wadi is a riverbed at the bottom of a valley that is usually dry except during the rainy season. This wadi winds through part of the Judean wilderness, and is it hot! All you can see for miles around are bare, rocky hills and clear blue sky.
Many people believe that Wadi Kelt is the place where Elijah, an Old Testament prophet, was fed by ravens when he sealed the heavens so that no rain would fall.
After hiking through this wadi, I can see why Heavenly Father had to provide food for Elijah—there is nothing out there to keep a person alive! So before we started, we made sure that we packed a lunch and filled our canteens full of water. Our Cub Scout leaders kept reminding us to drink lots of water so that we wouldn’t get sick from the heat.
Our hike began fifteen miles away from Jericho and took us about four hours. We had lots of fun as we followed the wadi through the desert. Some of the boys spotted ibex on the steep cliffs. They look like wild goats, with huge horns that they butt with.
My friends and I also saw a bedouin shepherd with a herd of goats. Bedouins are desert people who live in tents and wander from place to place. Many of them still wear long robes and veils to protect them from the scorching sun.
About an hour after we had started, we came to a small waterfall that tumbled into a green pool below. Swimming in it was my favorite part of the hike, because that’s my best sport, besides basketball. The cool water felt good after our climb down the hillside, and before long we were all in the pool, splashing around and sliding down mossy rocks.
Ryan and Shaun Dennett, two friends in my den, found some dead crabs in the water. They scared some of the boys when they threw the crab legs at them. We also found some frogs, only they weren’t dead.
We sat on big rocks in the sun and dried off while we ate our lunches. Boy, did the cheese sandwich my mom packed taste good! I was starving! Just as I finished my last mouthful, Joel Galbraith, one of the older Scouts, called out, “Time to go. We still have a lot of hiking to do.”
As we climbed deeper into the dry valley, Shaun, Aaron, and I pretended that we were in the army. Aaron was a general, Shaun was a sergeant, and I was a colonel. We ran ahead and hid and dropped off cliffs, scaring the others as they came by.
Sometimes we would march along in the wadi, which was full of water from desert springs. The bottom and sides of it were slippery, and we pretended that we were ice-skating. At times the water was flowing so fast that it would push us along. The moss along the bottom was great to throw, and we had the best water and moss fight. We called it slime fighting.
Some parts of the hike were really steep, and a lot of us slipped on the loose rocks on the path. Joshua Rona, another Cub Scout, fell and hurt his foot. But Ian Boyd and Steve Rona, two older Scouts, made a foot brace for him out of a bandanna. It was pretty tricky.
The last part of the hike was the hardest. The sun beat down on us, and my feet hurt. But I continued to run ahead and look for the place that marked the end of our hike—St. George’s Monastery.
On my way I saw a man and two donkeys by the side of the wadi. The wadi is the only place where desert people can obtain water, and donkeys and camels are the only means by which water can be carried from the wadi to their tents.
At last I saw the great monastery, built on the side of the cliff. It sure looked neat, but I was just as interested in getting to the top, where a stand with cold drinks and ice cream was waiting.

When Leigh got home from school, she found her mother carefully going through a big cardboard box of clothes. “What’s that?” she asked her mother.
“Another box of things from the Ellers.” Her mother held up a green corduroy jumper and asked, “Do you like this one?”
Leigh nodded her head, but after rummaging through the box, she held up a red velveteen party dress with lace ruffles and said, “I like this one better.”
“That’s lovely, Leigh!” her mother exclaimed. “It hardly shows any wear at all.”
“Why do the Ellers give us their clothes?” Leigh asked, examining a white silk blouse.
Her mother looked up and reached out to stroke Leigh’s copper hair, then turned away and sighed, “Because we need them, Leigh, and the Ellers are kind enough to share with us.”
Leigh didn’t mind wearing the Ellers’ pretty clothing, even if it was used. Since the Eller girls went to a different school, no one in Leigh’s school recognized her “new clothes.” Leigh never told anyone about the hand-me-down box.
One day in school Mrs. Kratz, Leigh’s fourth-grade teacher, announced, “I want each of you to think about what you want to be when you grow up.”
All the children moaned—all except Leigh. Leigh had wanted to be a writer ever since she had first learned how to read.
“And,” Mrs. Kratz continued, “I want each of you to be prepared to tell us what you’ve decided in a little speech next Wednesday.”
“A speech!” Leigh gasped quietly. She had never spoken in front of a class before. What will I say? she wondered. What will I wear?
When Leigh got home from school that day, she tore through the house, frantically calling her mother.
“What’s the matter, Leigh?” her mother cried. “Are you hurt?”
Leigh explained breathlessly, “I have to give a speech in class next Wednesday.”
“A speech?”
“I have to talk about what I want to be when I grow up, and I have to do it in front of the whole class! I have to look my best so no one will laugh at me, and I don’t have anything to wear!”
Mother came down from the ladder where she’d been hanging some curtains that she had washed. “What about one of the dresses that the Ellers gave us?”
“Not hand-me-downs,” Leigh protested. “Not this time. For once can’t I have a new dress?” she pleaded.
“Well, perhaps we can afford to buy fabric to make you one,” offered her mother.
Looking at her feet, Leigh barely whispered, “Not a homemade dress. A new store-bought dress—like the Ellers wear. Just this once. Please.”
Mrs. Baugh knelt before her daughter, placed her hands on Leigh’s shoulders, and looked straight into her troubled eyes. “We can’t spend very much on a new dress, but we’ll go look Saturday.”
Leigh was ecstatic as she hugged her mother. Later that night Leigh lay awake in bed, thinking about a store-bought dress. She said “look,” Leigh reminded herself, not “buy.” But I have twelve dollars saved from babysitting, and with what Mother has, I should be able to buy a dress as nice as the Ellers wear. She drifted off to sleep, dreaming about her first trip to one of the fine dress shops in town.
But when Saturday came, they didn’t go to a fancy shop. They went to a factory outlet store that didn’t look much different from the local grocery store. Leigh tried to conceal her disappointment as her mother led her to a rack full of dresses her size. One by one, they pulled the dresses off the rack and held them up to Leigh, looking for the perfect one for her first speech. The dresses were nice but not special—just plain cotton-polyester dresses like Leigh had worn before the Ellers started sending their clothes. Leigh hesitated, then asked, “Where are the fancier dresses, Mother?”
“Oh, Leigh,” her mother sighed good-naturedly. “There aren’t any fancy dresses in here, and if there were, we couldn’t afford them.”
Leigh wandered to the front of the store and peered out the big plate-glass window. Across the street a little girl in a beautiful blue coat and hat was just leaving an expensive dress shop with her mother, who was laden with ribbon-tied boxes. Leigh turned toward the check-out counter in the factory outlet and watched the cashier stuff purchases into plain brown paper sacks.
Mrs. Baugh came up and put an arm around her daughter, then looked out the window at the store across the street. “Maybe someday, Leigh,” she murmured.
“Let’s go home and see if we can find something in the hand-me-down box,” Leigh offered, trying to smile. “The red velveteen dress with the ruffles is much prettier than any of these dresses.”
Back home, Leigh tried on the red dress and was as pleased with how it felt as with how it looked. The velveteen was wonderfully soft, and the red brought out the natural rosiness in her cheeks and the highlights in her hair. Her mother pinned a new hem while Leigh twirled about in her slip, planning her speech.
On Wednesday Leigh practiced her speech aloud one last time while her mother carefully pressed the velveteen dress. Leigh had never felt more confident in her life.
When she got to school, Leigh noticed Linnie Lubette staring at her.
“Is that a new dress, Leigh?” Linnie asked with a sneer.
“Yes,” Leigh answered. “I got it for my speech today. Are you all ready?”
“Of course,” Linnie answered. Then she took Leigh’s arm and jeered, “Didn’t I see that dress at my ward’s Christmas party?”
Stunned, Leigh pulled away and sat down as Linnie started snickering. Then Leigh remembered that the Ellers and the Lubettes belonged to the same ward. Cindy had probably worn the dress to their ward’s Christmas party. If Linnie had admired it, she would remember it. Leigh was embarrassed and wished that she had worn any of her other dresses.
Suddenly she heard her name called.
“Why don’t you go first, Leigh?” her teacher asked. “We’re anxious to hear about your career choice.”
Leigh slipped out of her seat and walked slowly to the front of the room. Before she even had a chance to gather her thoughts, her teacher spoke again. “My, don’t you look lovely today, Leigh. Is that a new dress?”
Before Leigh could respond, Linnie chirped, “It’s not new. It’s a hand-me-down from Cindy Eller.”
Leigh was mortified. Now everyone would know that she wore hand-me-downs! She hung her head to hide the tears that were welling up in her eyes.
The room fell silent.
Leigh felt her teacher’s arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. “We’re both fortunate, Leigh. See this dress that I’m wearing? It’s a hand-me-down too.”
Leigh looked up for the first time and stared through tear-filled eyes at her teacher’s pretty blue dress. “You see”—her teacher turned to explain to the class—“I can’t afford many nice dresses like this. But my sister, who is a doctor, has many beautiful clothes. She shares them with me because she loves me.”
Leigh slowly turned her gaze from her teacher to Linnie, who was shrinking into her seat.
“I’m glad, Leigh,” her teacher continued, “that you have a friend who is kind enough to share her nice things with you. Now,” she said, going back to her desk, “tell us what you want to be when you grow up.”
Leigh cleared her throat. “I want to be like your sister.”
“A doctor?”
“No,” Leigh replied, smiling. “Someone kind enough to share with others.”

Following an impression once saved my life. It was dark, I was alone, and I was high in the mountains several miles from the nearest road. Though I had never been on this particular mountainside, I was not lost. I knew the general location, and I knew that all I had to do was keep walking down and eventually this would lead me to a familiar road. The problem was the pitch darkness of the moonless night.
I chose a gully and started to feel my way down through the brush and deadfall. It was slow going, so I was relieved when the gully flattened out to a sandy bottom beneath my feet. I picked up my pace for about 10 steps and suddenly had a strong impression to stop. I did. Reaching down, I took a rock and tossed it out into the darkness ahead of me. I heard no sound for a few seconds, and then there was a clatter on the rocks a long distance away. I knew immediately that I was standing on the lip of a sheer drop-off.
I retraced my steps and eventually got down the mountain by another gully. I phoned my worried family close to midnight, just before they called for a search party. The next day I revisited that spot in daylight and saw my tracks, which stopped just two or three feet from a drop-off of at least 50 feet. I was glad I had heard and heeded a warning. Where did that lead? It saved my life.

How well I can recall a sweet, young patient whom I first saw years ago for a premarital examination. She had been born with one arm missing. Just a few small rudimentary fingers were apparent on the small stub of the missing arm. Noticing that she had identified herself as a stenographer on her medical history record, I asked, “You’re a secretary?”
“Are you surprised?” she chuckled in return. “I can type with one hand as fast as many girls can with two. As early as I could comprehend, my mother told me that I have been given a deformity so that it might strengthen me, and that I was to learn to do things as well with one hand as everyone else did with two. I have never found my limitation to be a real handicap.” I have watched this young patient. She has since had a heart operation and a child of her own for whom she cares with tender love. A beautiful response to affliction, and God is pleased, I am sure.

I had asked for things in prayers before and had not received the answers I wanted. When I was nine, I prayed to be able to walk on water like the Apostle Peter. I tried it in the bathtub. It hadn’t worked. When I was 10, I prayed that if God could move mountains, could He please move a perfume bottle on my dresser just to let me know He could. Didn’t happen. What if Heavenly Father really didn’t answer prayers? Maybe He just didn’t answer mine.
Yet somehow I couldn’t back away. The article said every person.
Pushing my fears aside, I finally started my prayer and explained the problem to Heavenly Father. I told Him about the article I’d read. I told Him I was pretty sure the Church was true anyway, but the article said every person should pray. Then I said, “Please help me know if the Church is true. I think it is, but would Thou help me know?” Then I ended my prayer.
I never made it to my feet before a warmth that was physical as well as spiritual filled my whole body, mind, and heart. There wasn’t a corner of me that wasn’t filled with confidence, the confidence of knowing—really knowing—the Church was true, Joseph Smith was a prophet, and the Book of Mormon was true.
“But, behold, I say unto you, that you must study it out in your mind; then you must ask me if it be right, and if it is right I will cause that your bosom shall burn within you; therefore, you shall feel that it is right” (D&C 9:8).
It’s been at least 30 years since I offered that prayer and received my witness that Joseph Smith is a prophet of God. I challenge every person in a new day, a new age, and in a brand new issue of the New Era to ask Heavenly Father for themselves if the Church is true.

My name is Koshi. I live near the Sapporo Japan Temple. I loved sitting by a window in my house and watching the temple be built.
During the open house, I invited my good friend to come with us. He thought everything was beautiful.
I like to think of the temple dedication as its birthday. That day was also my birthday. And President Monson’s too! My parents and I got to be in the temple when it was dedicated. I even got to meet President Nelson.
I am so grateful to live near the temple. When I have hard days at school, I can walk through the grounds on my way home. I feel Heavenly Father’s love for me when I am there. I look forward to when I can go inside to do baptisms and later get married there.