Gospel Story Finder

Remember when the Prophet Joseph Smith went to John E. Page and said to him, “Brother Page, you have been called on a mission to Canada.”
Brother Page, struggling for an excuse, said, “Brother Joseph, I can’t go to Canada. I don’t have a coat to wear.”
The Prophet took off his own coat, handed it to John Page, and said, “Wear this,and the Lord will bless you.”
John Page went on his mission to Canada. In two years he walked something like 8,000 kilometers and baptized 600 converts.2 He was successful because he responded to an opportunity to serve his God.

The following Tuesday, a week before Christmas, I was in my room getting ready for a Young Adult Christmas party. We were going caroling and then to Tracie Heath’s for food and fun. As I pulled on my heaviest socks and stomped my feet into my moon boots, a car horn began beeping out on the street. I ignored it until Mom called down the hall, “Daniel, were you going home teaching tonight?”
“Tonight? No, I’ve got a Young Adult caroling party.”
“Looks like Bill’s out front waiting for you.”
“Bill?” I gasped, coming down the hall. “We’ve already done our home teaching this month. You sure it’s him?”
“That’s his black Ford truck, isn’t it?”
I rubbed the steam from the kitchen window and peered out. It was Bill’s truck all right. I thought his ’63 green Plymouth was ancient. His black Ford was an antique, something from the early 50s. “If anybody thinks I’m going with him tonight—” I glared out the window again. “What does he think I do, just sit around waiting for him to pick me up to …”
“Daniel,” Mom cut me short, “you don’t even know what he wants.”
“Mom, I’m almost late.”
“Just tell him. Surely he’ll understand that you had other plans.”
Grumbling to myself, I stepped out into the icy evening in my shirt sleeves and trotted out to the black Ford. Bill opened the door and leaned across the seat to talk to me.
“Did we have an appointment tonight?” I asked before he could speak. Flapping my arms and shuffling my feet against the biting cold.
“Christmas is next week,” was Bill’s simple explanation as he rubbed the bristle on his chin. “I had a couple of things for the ladies,” he added. “Would you like to come?”
“I have a Young Adult party. I didn’t know we’d planned anything.”
“It should take only a minute,” Bill said. “You’d a better grab a coat, though.” He chuckled. “This old truck ain’t got much of a heater. But I had to bring it instead of the Plymouth.” He nodded his head toward the back. “Got a little something extra for Vivian Rencher.”
I glanced in the back of the truck. A bulky object lay under a ragged canvas tarp.
“I’ll get you back for your party,” Bill went on when he saw my hesitation.
“Did you have an appointment?” Mom asked as I banged the front door and went for my coat.
“No,” I sighed, “but that doesn’t make much difference to Bill. And I’m going to freeze in that black heap of his. No heater and the door on my side doesn’t close. Dang! Of all nights!”
Bill and I didn’t speak as we drove to Sister Ballard’s place. And as I expected, I almost froze.
When we stopped in front of Sister Ballard’s place, Bill grabbed a brown paper sack from under the seat and the two of us started up the walk to the front door. I knocked once and, almost immediately, Sister Ballard pulled the door open and peered out at us. It was a moment before she focused, and then a huge smile burst upon her face and she pushed the storm door open and greeted us cheerfully, “I wondered if you’d come tonight. Well, come in.”
We took our usual places on the worn couch with the afghan draped over it. Before Sister Ballard could drop into her chair in front of us, Bill held out the brown paper sack and announced gruffly, “Some walnuts. Off my tree.”
“Why, thank you, Bill. I used your last ones at Thanksgiving. I guard them all year. I keep them in the freezer to keep them fresh.”
“They’re shelled and cleaned and everything,” Bill added, looking down at his rough, cracked hands. He rubbed them together and I could hear the dry chaffing sound. I studied them for a moment, remembering the message I’d given last month on the Word of Wisdom. Though the Word of Wisdom had been only a small part of the First Presidency’s message that month, I’d hammered pretty heavy on it. I really hadn’t needed to, not for the sisters. I suppose it had been a cruel attempt on my part to dig at Bill’s bad habit.
“Why, Bill,” Sister Ballard exclaimed, bringing me back to the present, “there must be five pounds of shelled nuts here.”
Bill shrugged self-consciously and pulled on his nose.
“It must have taken hours to do all this work. Thank you so very much.”
Bill wasn’t one to accept praise or compliments very well. Any fuss over him seemed to make him nervous, self-conscious, and tight-lipped. His only escape was to turn the focus to someone else. He jerked out his red handkerchief, blew his nose, and then to my surprise announced, “The boy’s got a Christmas message for you.”
Startled, I glanced over at Bill, who began rubbing his hands on his pants and tapping his right foot. I wanted to protest, but any protest at this stage would have been futile. With no further notice or preparation, the only thing that seemed appropriate was the Christmas story.
When I finished my choppy Christmas account, having forgotten some parts and mixed up others, I ducked my head, my ears and neck bright with embarrassed confusion. Bill pushed himself to his feet and said, “That was a mighty fine Christmas message, boy.” He coughed and added, “The boy can say a prayer before we go.”
Sister Ballard nodded her consent and I prayed. As we were leaving, Bill stopped by Sister Ballard’s woodburning stove as though remembering something. Turning back to Sister Ballard, he asked, “Them deacons did bring you your load of wood, didn’t they?” She smiled and nodded. “And it’s split, ain’t it?”
Sister Ballard hesitated. “Oh, I can take care of that fine.”
“You mean they didn’t split it?” Bill burst out, almost angry.
“Don’t worry about it, Bill. I can manage fine. I don’t use the stove that much any way. Bishop Clark keeps telling me I shouldn’t fuss with my stove, that I should just turn on the furnace. I do most of the time, but on cold nights I surely do enjoy putting my feet up next to that warmth …”
“But they didn’t split the wood?” Bill broke in.
“Oh, the neighbor boy comes over sometimes and …”
“Me and the boy will split the wood,” Bill cut in. “I got my ax in the truck if the boy can borrow yours.”
I couldn’t believe that Bill was really offering to split wood. Tonight! I had my good clothes on. And if we split wood, I’d never make it over to Tracie’s place before everyone left to go caroling. But Bill was already halfway to the truck.
A few minutes later the two of us were in Sister Ballard’s backyard splitting wood in the dim yellow light from a weak bulb on the back porch.
“What good’s a bag of nuts?” Bill muttered as he swung his ax furiously. “She can’t get warm with a bag of nuts, can she? I shouldn’t ought to’ve forgotten. I usually don’t forget, boy. I usually check up better. I knew something wasn’t right, but I didn’t know what. Then I saw that cold stove. She usually has a little fire going in it. That ain’t much to ask for. These widows need taking care of. A sack of nuts and all the talk about angels and shepherds and mangers is fine, but on cold nights Martha Ballard likes wood to burn.”
I stopped chopping and stared over at Bill. I forgot my good clothes, my cold hands, my wet feet. I studied Bill for a moment, this time looking past his chapped, cracked, stained hands. When I resumed chopping, the caroling party seemed so insignificant.
Thirty minutes later all the wood was split and piled next to the back door. As we were leaving, Bill warned Sister Ballard, “Now don’t you go splitting no more wood. There’s them that can do it for you, that should do it for you.”
Sister Hatch seemed to be waiting for us. She opened the door after the first ring, her face lighted up with a smile. She grabbed my arm and pulled me inside. “I just knew this was the night,” she laughed, pumping Bill’s hand and leading us both into her living room. “I even have hot chocolate and fruit cake.”
“These’re for you,” Bill said, holding out another sack of walnuts.
“Oh, Bill,” she gasped as she took the sack, opened it tenderly and peered inside. “You never forget, do you, Bill?”
Bill’s nervous agitation started again and he jabbed a thumb in my direction and said hoarsely, “The boy’s got a Christmas message, and then we’ve got to be on our way. The boy’s got a party.”
Our last stop was Sister Rencher’s. The door opened before I even had a chance to knock and Sister Rencher, grinning and hobbling along with her metal walker in front of her, welcomed us inside. Once more Bill went through his ritual with the walnuts. He and Sister Rencher chatted about the weather, her new great-grandson and the horrible condition of the city’s streets. I was rapidly reviewing the Christmas story in my mind, getting ready for the moment when Bill would turn the time to me. Suddenly Bill stood and said, looking at the floor, “I’ve got a little something else for you.” Turning to me he asked, “Want to help, boy? You can hold the door for me.”
Bill went to the truck, tore the canvas tarp off some kind of chair, dragged the chair from the truck bed, and brought it up the walk. He staggered into the house, lugging a huge oak rocking chair, crafted and polished to near perfection. He set it down gently in the middle of the room, stepped back and smiled proudly. Sister Rencher just stared, unable to speak. She looked first at the chair, then at Bill, and finally back at the chair.
“When your other one broke last spring,” Bill explained shyly, “I figured I’d make you another one. I used to make them all the time, you know, my daddy being a carpenter and all. I don’t figure this one will break on you. It’s not like them store-bought things.”
Bill was finished. The smile disappeared, his words dried up, and he dropped down on the couch beside me.
Slowly Sister Rencher pulled herself to her feet and crept over to the rocking chair. She touched its smooth, hard glossy finish with the tips of her fingers. She pushed on its high back, and it began to rock rhythmically. Slowly she eased her frail body into its comforting, curved-wood grasp and leaned her gray head against its solid back. For a moment she sat very still; then she began to rock, ever so slowly, and as she rocked a smile came to her lips and huge crystal tears welled up in her eyes. “Thank you, Bill,” she whispered. “Oh, how I’ve missed my other one. But this,” she added, touching the curved arms, “would put my old one to shame.”
Bill coughed and announced suddenly, “The boy’s got a bit of a Christmas message for you.”
“Let’s have a prayer first,” Sister Rencher suggested.
“The boy can pray, too.”
“I’ll pray tonight, Bill,” Sister Rencher said softly.
The three of us bowed our heads and as Sister Rencher prayed, I understood so well why Bill Hayward had never been released as a home teacher.
“And, Father in Heaven,” sister Rencher prayed, “I thank thee so very, very much for Bill and his kindness. I thank thee for the many times he’s pushed the snow, raked the leaves, tilled and weeded the garden, and cared for my every need. He has truly been an instrument in thine hands. Oh, Father in Heaven, please bless and keep this great man.”
As soon as the amens were said, Bill nervously turned and stammered, “The boy’s got a mighty fine message for you.”
For a moment I couldn’t speak. I had a lump as big as my fist in my throat, but it wasn’t the lump that stopped me. My mind went blank. I, who had thought I knew the scriptures so well, especially compared to someone like Bill Hayward, couldn’t seem to remember anything, not even the Christmas story, at least not well enough to give it right then. The thing that did come to mind was a strange, strange parable. And it wasn’t even one that had anything to do with Christmas—or so I thought.
I wet my lips and rubbed my hands on my pant legs. “I guess I’d like to explain what Christmas means to me,” I stammered hesitantly. “At least what it means tonight.” I looked down at my hands. They were clean. The nails were clipped, the palms devoid of callouses. “There were two men that went to the temple to pray, one a Pharisee and the other a publican,” I began. “The Pharisee was clean and educated and thought himself so very wise. The publican was a laborer, with dirty, calloused hands. Both men went to the temple to pray and the Pharisee …”
When we reached my home, Bill clasped the steering wheel and stared down into the blackness beyond the piercing glare of the headlights. “It was a mighty fine message, boy,” he said. “But I don’t ever recall hearing the part of the Christmas story you gave at Vivian Rencher’s, you know about the two fellows going to the temple.” He paused. “I’m not even sure I figured out the meaning. I guess that’s what happens when a fellow studies diesel engines more than the scriptures.”
“Oh, but I think you do know the scriptures, Bill,” I answered quietly. I turned to Bill and held out my hand. I had shaken hands with Bill before but never unless he had offered his first. “Thanks, Bill,” I said huskily. “Thanks for your message,” I continued, shaking his rough hand. “It was a mighty fine message.”

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

And that brings me to my wife, Elisa. I remember the first time I met her. As a favor to a friend, I had gone to her home to pick up her sister, Frances. Elisa opened the door, and at least for me, it was love at first sight.
I think she must have felt something too, for the first words I ever remember her saying were, “I knew who you was.”
Elisa was an English major.
To this day I still cherish those five words as some of the most beautiful in human language.
She loved to play tennis and had a lightning serve. I tried to play tennis with her, but I finally quit after coming to the realization that I couldn’t hit what I couldn’t see.
She was my strength and my joy. Because of her, I am a better man, husband, and father. We married, had eight children, and walked together through 65 years of life.
I owe more to my wife than I can possibly express. I don’t know if there ever was a perfect marriage, but, from my perspective, I think ours was.

In the 1960s, a man named Joseph William Billy Johnson learned about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and gained a testimony of the restored gospel. He could not join the Church, however, because he lived in Ghana, which had no congregations and no missions. At the time, the priesthood and temple restriction didn’t allow men of African descent to be ordained to the priesthood, which made Church organization in Ghana impossible. Church leaders in Salt Lake City encouraged Billy in his testimony of the gospel and sent him Church literature to help him grow in his faith. For more than a decade, he led a congregation of believers while waiting for the Church to come to West Africa.
One evening in June 1978, Billy Johnson returned to his home in Cape Coast, Ghana. He and other members of his congregation had been fasting, as they often did, but the fast had done nothing to lift his spirits. He was tired and discouraged because more believers had stopped worshipping with him and returned to their old churches.
Billy longed to feel spiritually and emotionally strong again. A couple of months earlier, a member of his congregation had told him about a revelation she had had. “Very soon the missionaries will come,” she had said. “I have seen white men coming to our church. They embraced us and joined us in worship.” Another woman announced that she had received a similar revelation. Billy himself had dreamed of some white men entering his chapel and saying, “We are your brothers, and we have come to baptize you.” Afterward, he had dreamed of Black people coming from far and wide to join the Church.
Still, Billy could not shake his discouragement.
It was getting late, but he couldn’t sleep. A strong impression overtook him to listen to the British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC) on the radio—something he hadn’t done in years.
He found the radio, a brown model with four silver knobs near the base. The radio crackled to life as he turned it on. He fiddled with the knobs, and the red pointer glided back and forth across the dial. But he couldn’t find the broadcast.
Then, after an hour of searching, Billy finally made out a newscast from the BBC. The reporter announced that the President of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints had received a revelation. All worthy men in the Church, regardless of race, could now hold the priesthood.
Billy collapsed, bursting into tears of joy. Priesthood authority would finally come to Ghana, bringing all the blessings of the gospel to his people.
Missionaries arrived in Cape Coast later that year, baptizing Billy Johnson and hundreds of other believers. Since that time, the Church has spread rapidly throughout Ghana and neighboring countries in West Africa. The Cape Coast Ghana Temple was announced in October 2023; it will be the third temple in the country.
To read more stories from modern Church history, see volume 4 of Saints, available in the Gospel Library and in print.

When the bottle quilt was completed, Lynda began working on a quilt featuring family stories. Other quilts have followed, including a memory quilt for each of her children. The tradition began when Lynda’s oldest child, Janelle, was seven years old. Lynda and Janelle collected Janelle’s best childhood drawings, special notes, and even a math problem and transferred them to blocks of white fabric. Lynda then assembled the blocks and quilted them on her kitchen table. By the time Janelle was baptized, her childhood was preserved in a quilt. Six other quilts, each unique and reflective of the child who helped create it, have followed. Lynda and her youngest daughter, Jesse, are now assembling the artwork for the eighth quilt.

A true story from the USA.
Rowan watched as Miss Brody invited a new student to stand at the front of the classroom.
“This is Ernest,” Miss Brody said. “He just arrived in Hawaii from a country called Ukraine. He doesn’t speak any English. Will you all be kind and make friends with him?”
Rowan and his classmates nodded.
Ernest was looking down and frowning. He was the only person wearing long pants and a long-sleeved shirt.
Rowan wondered what it would be like to move to a new country and not speak the language. It sounded scary!
At recess, Rowan saw Ernest walk to a spot by himself while the other kids ran off to play together. He was still frowning.
Rowan wanted to be friends with him, but he didn’t know what to say. How could they be friends if they didn’t speak the same language?
After school, Rowan went home and asked Dad for help. “Can you help me look up how to say things in Ukrainian?” Rowan asked. “There’s a new boy in our class who doesn’t speak English.”
Dad nodded. “Of course.”
First, they looked up how to say, “It’s lunchtime.” Rowan listened to the answer. “Nastav obidniy chas.” Rowan tried saying it a few times. It was hard! So he looked up how to say “hello.”
“Pryvit,” the voice on the computer told him. That was easier. Rowan replayed the word over and over and practiced saying it.
The next day during recess, Rowan found Ernest sitting alone on the grass again. Rowan stood next to him and smiled. “Pryvit!” he said in a loud voice. He hoped he said it right.
Ernest smiled and handed Rowan a gummy bear.
Rowan sat next to Ernest and said pryvit again. Then he said, “Hello.”
“Hello,” Ernest said slowly. He gave Rowan another gummy bear. It smelled like oranges, and it was delicious and chewy.
Rowan drew four lines in the dirt next to them to make a tic-tac-toe grid. He taught Ernest how to play. It was hard to explain since they didn’t speak the same language. Sometimes Ernest drew X’s when it wasn’t his turn. But Rowan didn’t mind. He just wanted to make a new friend.
Every day that week, Rowan played with Ernest at recess. They shared gummy bears and played games together.
One day at home, Dad asked, “How’s the new boy in your class? Did you practice the words you learned?”
“Yes! His name is Ernest,” Rowan said. “We play games at recess, and he gives me gummy bears.”
Dad smiled. “That’s awesome.” He sat next to Rowan on the couch. “Ernest and his family are refugees. They come from a country far away. Elder Kearon said that Jesus Christ was a refugee as a boy and asked us to be friends when we meet people from other countries. What do you think it takes to be a good friend?”
Rowan thought for a second. “It takes some love and finding a game to play together,” he said. “Then, others can join in and play the game too and get to know each other.”
Dad pulled Rowan in for a hug. “You are following Jesus and doing what the prophets ask us to do,” he said. “And now you have a new friend.”
“The Savior knows how it feels to be a refugee—He was one. … He repeatedly taught us to love one another, to love as He loves, to love our neighbor as ourselves.”
Elder Patrick Kearon, “Refuge from the Storm,” Liahona, May 2016, 111–12.
Illustrations by Josh Talbot

Earlier this year I was on assignment visiting a stake in the western United States. It was a normal Sunday, a normal meeting, with normal members of the Church. I watched as people entered the chapel and reverently moved to available seats. Last-second, whispered conversations echoed throughout the hall. Mothers and fathers tried—sometimes in vain—to quiet energetic children. Normal.

But then, before the meeting began, words inspired of the Spirit came into my mind.

These members had not come just to fulfill a duty or listen to speakers.

They had come for a deeper and far more significant reason.

They had come to worship.

As the meeting progressed, I observed various members in the congregation. They had an almost heavenly expression, an attitude of reverence and peace. Something about them warmed my heart. The experience they were having that Sunday was something quite extraordinary.

They were worshipping.

They were experiencing heaven.

I could see it in their countenances.

And I rejoiced and worshipped with them. And as I did so, the Spirit spoke to my heart. And on that day, I learned something about myself, about God, and about the role of true worship in our lives.

When I reflect back on what began as a normal Sunday morning, in that normal meetinghouse, in that normal stake, even today I am moved by that extraordinary spiritual experience that will forever bless my life.

A story about a newly married couple in South America has touched my heart. They lived thousands of miles from a temple. Their income was meager, but their faith was great.

They promised the Lord and each other to first pay a full tithe out of their income. Then they would spend modestly for a small apartment without any furniture, not even a chair or table. What was left over, after their food expenses, went into a temple travel fund.

Over a year went by. They kept their tithing promise to the Lord and their objective to go to the temple. The young man’s brother, a nonmember, watched their humble faithfulness. One day, like a ministering angel, he came with two airplane tickets so they could fulfill their dreams and go to their beloved temple.

They went to the temple and were sealed. And another great blessing came to them when their brother was baptized. He gained a testimony from their example and his own sacrifice. His sacrifice for others opened the door of salvation to his soul.

I watched Ma’s eyes moving up and down the rough board walls partly covered with pasted-up newspapers. Five times now I had watched her read our lean-to walls, and it brought an ache to my heart.
If Ma had a book to read, I thought, maybe it wouldn’t seem so bad to be down in bed day after day. I tried to think of likely places to find her a book. “I heard once that Mr. Piney keeps books, Ma. I think I’ll go borrow one tomorrow.”
Ma looked at me, and I caught a flicker of interest in her tired eyes. “You’d ride ten miles just to get me a book, Jase?”
I grinned at her, glad that I’d thought of it.
Ma gave a deep sigh. “It would be nice to read a book,” she said.
When Ma had hurt her back, Old Doc Thomas had told her that staying down flat was the only choice that she had for a while. I fixed the meals, did the chores, and kept the garden plot weeded so that Pa could work in the mines long enough to get money to pay Doc for his visits. And I tried to keep Ma happy while Pa was gone.
The next morning, after fixing Ma a bowl of mush and putting some lunch on the chair by her bed, I climbed onto Hoofer and rode bareback toward the Pineys’ ranch. Their house was over the hills and across a sizable creek from our place. I figured that I could reach the Pineys’ place by noon and be back by chore time. But I hadn’t counted on a storm coming up, and it made me uneasy when it started to rain before I even got over the first hill.
I knew that the creek swelled sometimes when it rained in the hills, and I hoped that it wouldn’t happen now. When I reached the creek, it was shallow and running clear. I splashed Hoofer across with a joyful shout, and we went pounding on to the Pineys’ ranch.
I hadn’t figured on wasting any time at the Pineys’ place, but Mr. Piney insisted that I stay long enough to dry myself out. Then Mrs. Piney set a platter of warm biscuits and honey in front of me. After I had stuffed the third biscuit into my mouth, I told them about Ma and about me thinking that she needed a book to read.
Mr. Piney went to his bookshelf, and I watched his fingers sliding over the smooth covers of each book. He loved those books, I could tell. My heart sank. Maybe he loved them so much that he wouldn’t want to loan me one.
“Do you know about Shakespeare, Jase?” he asked me.
I swallowed the last of the biscuit that I was eating. “No, sir, but I reckon Ma does.”
His fingers stopped on a book with a dark red cover. He took it down from the shelf and opened it. He smoothed the pages just like I sometimes smoothed Hoofer’s velvety neck. “I wouldn’t want it to get soiled or damaged,” he said softly.
I held my breath.
“I’m going to trust you, Jase.” He wrapped the book in a cloth and handed it to me. I felt as if I was being handed a treasure of jewels or gold. And my heart sang just knowing that I would be carrying such a treasure to Ma.
It had stopped raining, and the sun was coming out, so I started home. I rode along, envisioning how Ma’s eyes would sparkle when I gave her the book.
When I reached the creek, it was overflowing its banks! The only way to cross it would be to swim Hoofer. But how can I protect the book? I wondered.
I held Hoofer back and watched the swirling water. Maybe I could hold the book high above my head with one hand and hang onto Hoofer’s mane with the other. Or maybe I could tuck it up high under my galluses and against my chest. …
I closed my eyes against the sight of the water and prayed to know what to do. I wanted to get the book safely home to Ma, I told the Lord. I wasn’t worried about Hoofer. He was a strong horse, and he had swum the creek before. It was the book that worried me, I told Him.
Then it was like my own voice inside me, reminding me of Mr. Piney’s trust in me. It was telling me that I didn’t have any right to take a chance of getting his treasured book wet. Tears began stinging my eyes when I knew what I had to do. I turned Hoofer back toward the Pineys’ ranch.
Mr. Piney didn’t ask any questions when I handed him the cloth-wrapped package. I was glad, because my throat was too tight to do any explaining.
“It will be here whenever you come back for it,” was all that he said.
With my throat aching something terrible, I loped Hoofer back to the creek. I only slowed up at the creek bank for a moment; then we plunged into the swollen water. I clung to his mane and tried to lift my legs away from the water. It reached his belly quickly, and I felt its tug against my legs.
Hoofer was splashing up onto the far bank when one big splash caught me full on, drenching me. The water hit my face, and I gasped and sputtered. Then a wave of pure thankfulness spread over me. I was surely glad that I had seen fit to return the treasured book.
It was near dark when I rode into our yard. I saw that Ma hadn’t even lit the oil lamp beside her bed. I went in, feeling choked with what I had to tell her. I saw the movement of her arms in the corner where she lay on her bed, and I wet my lips. “I didn’t bring you a book, Ma,” I said.
“To have you home safe, Jase, is worth more than any book,” she told me.
I touched a match to the lampwick, and shadows fled the lean-to room. Lamplight flickered on the newspapered walls. “Did you ever read Shakespeare, Ma?” I asked.
She gave a sigh of remembering. “A long time ago.”
In a few days the creek would again run shallow, and when it did, I’d ride back to Mr. Piney’s ranch for that treasured book.

This story happened in the USA.
Daniel lifted the lid off Grandpa’s old toybox and peeked inside. His cousins gathered around to see. They loved to play together at Grandpa’s house!
Inside were lots of old toys that Daniel’s mom and aunt had played with when they were kids.
“What are those?” Daniel’s cousin Noah pointed to six shiny, old-fashioned lawn darts. They had pointy ends and colored flags—some red and some yellow.
Daniel picked one up. “My mom told me about these,” he said. “You put a hoop on the lawn outside. Then you take turns throwing these up in the air and try to get them to land in the hoop.”
“Cool!” said Noah. He was already running to the yard to set up the game.
Soon Daniel and his cousins were launching the metal lawn darts in the air all around Grandpa’s yard. Daniel liked it when the darts landed hard and stuck in the grass.
“I bet I can throw mine higher than yours,” said Daniel’s cousin Lily.
The kids laughed and threw the darts higher and higher.
Then Daniel had an idea. “I bet I can throw mine all the way across the driveway and into the hoop!” he said. He ran to the other side of the driveway and threw the dart hard.
The dart flew high into the air, but it didn’t land in the grass. Instead it fell onto Aunt Robilyn’s brand-new car with a loud THUD.
“Oh no!” yelled Noah.
Daniel picked up the dart. There was a giant dent on the car where it had landed.
The kids looked at each other with dread. Then, without saying anything, they left the darts on the lawn and ran inside.
Later that afternoon, everyone went to their cars to go home. Daniel’s aunt noticed the dent on her car. “What happened?” she asked.
Daniel’s stomach felt heavy. But he didn’t say anything. He just climbed into the car and waved goodbye to his cousins.
On the drive home, Daniel sat quietly in the backseat. He tried to read his book. But he couldn’t focus. He felt sick inside about what happened. He knew being honest was the right thing to do. But telling the truth would be awful! His parents would be so mad at him. So would his aunt.
Then Daniel thought about his favorite scripture hero. Daniel in the Old Testament was thrown into the lions’ den for choosing the right. He was brave. Maybe Daniel could be brave too.
“Hey, Mom?” Daniel said. “I threw a lawn dart, and it hit Aunt Robilyn’s car and made the dent. It was my fault.”
Mom glanced at him in the rearview mirror. She wasn’t as mad as Daniel thought she would be. “Thanks for telling me the truth,” she said.
Daniel took a deep breath. “Can I call Aunt Robilyn when we get home?” he asked. “I want to say sorry. And I’ll work hard to earn the money to pay to fix her car.”
Mom smiled. “That’s a great idea.”
The heavy feeling in his stomach was gone, and Daniel felt peaceful. He had been brave enough to tell the truth. Because of Jesus Christ, he could repent and make things right.
How did Daniel feel when he told the truth and repented?
Illustrations by Josh Talbot

In the lives of the Wirthlin family, it all began over a hundred years ago with my great-grandfather, Leopold Wirthlin. He was born in Switzerland. As a young man, he embraced the gospel and was promptly disowned by his parents. This motivated him to make the long, hard trek to the Salt Lake Valley. Some years thereafter he received a call from President Brigham Young to serve a mission in Switzerland. He readily accepted. So that he could go, he sold all of his possessions. My great-grandmother sewed salt sacks at a penny apiece to support her family in his absence.

I should like to conclude with a declaration of my great-grandfather as my deepest conviction and join his words and mine together as an everlasting witness. Leopold Wirthlin said in sincerest humility, “I know that when I discharge my duty properly I feel blessed, and that when I am negligent, I am not happy. Therefore, as members of the Church, we should watch ourselves closely and see to it that we are discharging our duties faithfully.”

May I add to his words these of my own: I know that God lives, that Jesus is the Christ and that the Father and Son appeared to the Prophet Joseph Smith. Through him the true and everlasting gospel was restored among us, that we might attain the heights of a glorious exaltation as the beloved children of our Heavenly Father. To this I testify in the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.

I hope each deacon is given a spiritual awareness of the sacredness of his ordained calling, as I was. This occurred when the bishopric asked that I take the sacrament to a shut-in who lived about a mile from our chapel. That special Sunday morning, as I knocked on the door of Brother Wright and heard his feeble reply, “Come in,” I entered not only his humble cottage but also a room filled with the Spirit of the Lord. I approached his bedside and carefully placed a piece of bread to his lips. I then held the cup of water, that he might drink. As I departed, I saw him smile as he said, “God bless you, my boy.” And God did bless me with an appreciation for the sacred emblems, which continues even today.

With his confidence in himself established on a spiritual basis, Peter was ready to work toward going on a mission. After submitting his papers and undergoing a special interview with Elder Thomas S. Monson, Peter received his call to the Northern California Mission.
Up until then Peter had always worn dark glasses in an attempt to cover the slits that had been sewn closed over his eyes to compensate for his lack of eyelids. He had been so self-conscious of his appearance that he never went anywhere without his glasses. On the way to his mission interview, he took his dark glasses off and never wore them again. Surgery later corrected the problem with his eyelids.
His new attitude about himself helped him serve a successful mission. He was able to influence people and encourage them to become members of the Church.

During the weekend of the April 2011 general conference, we had a major snowstorm in the Salt Lake City area on Saturday night. When my wife and I got up Sunday morning, we had 10 to 12 inches of snow in our yard, and the power was out. I thought I’d turn on a generator we had for emergencies.
When I tried to start the generator, the battery was dead. Later I found that there was a circuit that had drained energy from the battery. Although the generator had a charger to help keep the battery fully charged, someone had bumped the cord, so we ended up getting ready for general conference without any electricity.
Thinking back on that experience, I see that the generator and the battery are like our spirituality. Our spiritual batteries need to be charged all the time.
A battery can’t charge itself. For the battery on my generator, I had to buy a charger, connect it, and keep checking it. Keeping a battery charged isn’t something you can do just once and forget about it.
Since that experience I had at April general conference, I’ve been consistent in making sure the charger is plugged in and that the battery is staying charged. That’s the kind of discipline we all need for our testimonies—we need to work on them consistently. And in the doing comes the blessing of having your batteries charged.

Some years ago in our meetinghouse in Darmstadt, Germany, a group of brethren was asked to move a grand piano from the chapel to the adjoining cultural hall, where it was needed for a musical event. None were professional movers, and the task of getting that gravity-friendly instrument through the chapel and into the cultural hall seemed nearly impossible. Everybody knew that this task required not only physical strength but also careful coordination. There were plenty of ideas, but not one could keep the piano balanced correctly. They repositioned the brethren by strength, height, and age over and over again—nothing worked.
As they stood around the piano, uncertain of what to do next, a good friend of mine, Brother Hanno Luschin, spoke up. He said, “Brethren, stand close together and lift where you stand.”
It seemed too simple. Nevertheless, each lifted where he stood, and the piano rose from the ground and moved into the cultural hall as if on its own power. That was the answer to the challenge. They merely needed to stand close together and lift where they stood.
I have often thought of Brother Luschin’s simple idea and have been impressed by its profound truth. Tonight I would like to expand on that simple concept, “lift where you stand.”

Tickets for the October 2000 general conference were in high demand as it marked the dedication of the newly constructed Conference Center in Salt Lake City. Living in Germany at the time, we felt blessed to reserve a few tickets through our local ward and excitedly embarked on our journey as part of a business trip. Upon picking up our tickets at the Conference Center, because of a glitch in the system, I received three tickets to the priesthood session instead of the one I had ordered. Subsequently, I had offered the two extra tickets to friends, but an hour before the start of the priesthood session they informed me that they could not attend. Meanwhile, seemingly endless lines of brethren with standby tickets began forming around Temple Square, each ticket holder hoping to receive one of the rare empty seats left vacant by those with an official ticket. I prayed diligently before leaving my hotel room for the Lord to guide me to someone who might benefit from receiving the two precious tickets. With this prayer in my heart, I stepped outside and began walking around Temple Square. I passed hundreds of brethren who were looking for tickets, but I had not felt a particular prompting to give them away to anyone.
Sometime later, I found myself just outside the Tabernacle on Temple Square. There I noticed a father and son standing dejectedly on the outside steps and felt impressed to speak with them. I learned that they had just realized that they only had standby tickets and that due to the long lines they would not be able to attend the session. Sensing that the Lord had guided me to them I quickly I asked, “How would you like to get two real tickets for the priesthood session?” After first thinking that I was joking, their reaction was priceless as they wouldn’t stop thanking me. After exchanging business cards, I walked off satisfied that the Lord had answered my prayer and thought no more of the encounter.
After returning to Germany, I received a long e-mail from that father. He explained that his youngest son was approaching missionary age, but his testimony and his resolve to serve a mission were waning. The parents were concerned about him and spent many hours in prayer and fasting. A few weeks before general conference, an announcement was made in their ward that a small number of priesthood session tickets would be available for the brethren of their ward. The son unexpectedly turned to the father and said, “Why don’t we go?” The parents were thrilled about their son’s sudden enthusiasm, and after church they picked up two tickets from their bishop. In the weeks leading up to general conference, the parents of the young man spent much time in fasting, prayer, and temple worship, pleading with the Lord that the priesthood session experience would change their son’s heart and set him on the path of missionary service.
After arriving early to Temple Square, they had tried to enter the Conference Center, but were told that all they had were standby tickets and were asked to check for seats in the Tabernacle or to join the long lines of brethren in the standby line. Finding that there were also no more seats available in the Tabernacle, the father wrote that while standing on its outside steps, he prayed silently hoping for a miracle that would validate all the fasting and praying on their son’s behalf. The Lord heard his prayer and moments later he was holding in his hands two real tickets for the priesthood session. He reported that he and his son had a marvelous, spirit-filled experience, and that his son had made the decision to serve a full-time mission.

Tasmania, the “Treasure Island” of Australia, lies 150 miles south of the southeastern tip of the mainland. Although it is Australia’s smallest state, its 425,000 inhabitants live in an area slightly larger than West Virginia. Regarded as a vacation land for people from the mainland, the scenic and bountiful land is a source of pride for Tasmanians. Their rich history goes back 300 years to Abel Tasman’s discovery in 1642. The first settlement was established in 1803, only 15 years after the original fleet arrived in Sydney.
Maria Island, the site of this year’s camp, rests a few miles off the east coast of Tasmania. This island harbors a fascinating history as an early penal colony and is now a national park and wildlife sanctuary. Both its historical setting and the abundance of wildlife make it a wonderful place to camp and explore.
Stake President John D. Jury explained that the camp was established, “because of the need for the young men of our widespread stake to come together for a major camping and hiking experience—to feel the strength of numbers greater than the usual minority status they have in so many of their other associations. I also wanted to allow them to appreciate the beautiful creations that Heavenly Father has blessed us with here in Tasmania. I wanted them to gain an appreciation of the hardships encountered by our forefathers who settled this area and also to practice the skills learnt in Scouting.”
“Our preliminary work involved sending two of the brethren to the island to examine the campsite, the facilities, sea and land transport, and to make recommendations. Then leaders in the stake met at a central location and worked out the details of the basic plan.”
Sixty-eight excited Tasmanians climbed off of the ferry for their adventure on Maria Island. Many had never seen or met the people from the other wards. They also brought many of their nonmember and non-Scout friends. And they had many good leaders, including their stake president and several bishops and fathers, in addition to their Scoutmasters and other priesthood leaders.
The wind was whistling in from Darlington Bay as the boys tried to put up their tents. They struggled alone and in pairs until they quickly learned that it required more help and cooperation than pairs could muster. With many hands and backs bent to the task the tents came up, one by one, and now they stayed up. Pegged tight against the Tasmanian soil, they withstood the stiff sea breezes that are not all that far from Antarctica.
As they were laying out camp and putting up their tents, the boys noticed their wild animal hosts, who quickly established themselves as wonderful combinations of curiosity and nuisance. The emus, wallabies, and kangaroos were everywhere.
Emu watching became one of the full-time chores because they were big and hungry and were not very fussy about what they ate. They quickly earned the moniker, “walking vacuum cleaners.” And then the reason for all of the extra gear became clear: if it wasn’t sealed in a box, tin, billy, or barrel it would be eaten by an emu.
Cries like “There’s an emu in your drum (barrel) eating all your tucker,” “Hey boys, an emu has his head in your grub box,” or “An emu has someone’s bread,” (a whole loaf), or “Watch that wallaby” were a constant part of camp life, especially at mealtime.
From the beginning brushes with emus, the boys were ecstatic about the wildlife on Maria Island. Most of them had never seen kangaroos in the bush, and the emus, wallabies, and all the bird life made every outing and every meal an adventure. One hundred and twenty-nine species of birds live on the island, including some rare birds endemic to Tasmania. Emus, Cape Baron geese, native hens, flame and scarlet robins, white-backed magpies, sea eagles, parrots, and the raucous-sounding kookaburra, which delighted everyone with unbelievable vocal techniques, were pure pleasure to observe and classify.
Listening to the birds was even more fun than watching them. Every morning the camp awoke to a special symphony provided by the local aviary company. Native hens began the first movement by setting up a racket of calls, clucks, and cries. Song birds of all sorts warbled and trilled their beautiful melodies from antiphonal perches in the trees around the camp. Cape Baron geese squawking and chuckling in their cello-like voices added a baritone harmonic presence to the symphony. Arias were freely added with the crescendoing, hyena-like cries of Tasmania’s laughing jackass, the kookaburra. This almost perfect, but loud, symphony suddenly became complete as the deep bass tom tom tom drumming tones of the emu joined in. The emus seemed to sense when the symphony needed their strong rhythmic accompaniment. The same orchestra seemed to go all out to give a wonderful hour-long concert every morning just after daybreak.
Besides the wallabies and kangaroos, other marsupials living near the Scout camp included the potoroo, ring-tailed possums, echidnas, and wombats. The famous Tasmanian devils have never been sighted on Maria Island.
This information alone allowed the boys to sleep easier at night, although many still felt sleeping was the biggest problem at the camp.
“The nights were really bad. The possums were out in force raiding tents and rubbish bins all night. In the whole camp the worst thing was trying to get to sleep. There was one rock that seemed to follow me all night, and between that and the wind and the cold I didn’t sleep much,” said Stephen Szekely, of Launceston.
“The possums through the night gave me the willies because we had to keep bashing them out of our food box and a possum got in our tent and climbed up our tent pole. We broke our torch (flashlight) trying to get him out of there. Then the emus got in our tent and dunged all over Heath’s, Andrew’s, and my sleeping gear. But the kangaroos were great; they weren’t pests like the emus,” said Geoffrey Jones, a nonmember from Glen Huon.
Skinks, frogs, and snakes were also part of the environment. Blue-tongued lizards and white-lipped whip snakes seemed to be created just for the Scouts to observe.
After camp was organized many of the boys walked the few yards to the woodlot for firewood. Captain Scott, the island ranger and caretaker, hauled in large trailer loads of wood, which the boys attacked with zeal and a wide assortment of hatchets and axes. It sounded as if they were chopping stone. The axes actually rang as they glanced off the tough wood. There was never the dull “thunk” sound one hears when chopping a pine log. Australian gum trees make a wonderful fire, but they are very tough and stringy. The wood is hard and dense and easily wears out axes and choppers alike. Most of the trees on the island are varieties of the eucalyptus and include blue gums, stringy bark gums, and white gums.
The boys helped plan and cook their own meals and spent the most amount of time and creative energy on “tea,” the evening meal. Peas, carrots, parsnips, onions, potatoes fried, bully (corned beef), skim milk, and pudding started the week’s teas, and the same kind of robust fare continued every night.
The meals were cooked over open fires in blackened pots and long-handled frying pans. After tea was over and the dishes were cleaned up and put away, the various patrol fires were ringed with boys and leaders. They sat on logs with their arms clasped around their knees, “yarning” about the gospel, cricket, the bad drought in Tasmania, and whether or not any of the political parties would accept Dick Smith’s offer of a one-million-dollar donation to stop the building of the Franklin Dam. American sports also interested them. “What about you, Brother Kelly? Do you like to play gridiron?” they would ask.
Of course this much talk made for more hunger, and so before it was bedtime a spot of cocoa or a cup of hot Milo was welcome. A few went in for more exotic treats.
“We’re having chocolate banners. They’re beautiful. You take a Cadbury’s block and put it in a split banana and then put it in foil and set it in the fire,” said Matthew Sayers.
The young men also enjoyed singing songs around the campfires at night. They sang many folksongs familiar to other English-speaking Scouts, but their favorites seemed to be those with a particular Australian flavor, like “Advance Australia Fair,” “Botany Bay,” and “Gundagai”:
There’s a track winding back
To an old-fashioned shack,
Along the road to Gundagai;
Where the blue gums are growing
The Murrumbidgee’s flowing,
Beneath that sunny sky;
Where my daddy and mother
Are waiting for me,
And the pals of my childhood
Once more I will see,
Then no more will I roam
When I’m heading right for home,
Along the road to Gundagai.
Two taxing bush walks or hikes climaxed the boys’ stay on the island. The first was a long hike east from camp on a track that runs across a narrow part of the island, around the old convict cement works, and up along Fossil Cliffs above Fossil Bay. Here the trail climbs inland through forests of gum trees and across rocky scree slopes. Most of the boys reached the summit, the twin peaks of Bishop and Clerk. Perched on the rocky summit 630 meters above the sea they ate their boiled eggs, sandwiches, biscuits (cookies), and oranges while they drank in the magnificent vistas of Freycinet Peninsula to the north and Cape Bernier to the south.
Wednesday’s 26-kilometer walk to Chinaman’s Bay and back was tougher than the hike up Bishop and Clerk. Everyone brought their bathers (swimming trunks) and a towel, plus lunch. It took several hours slogging along the soft sandy road that followed the shoreline to reach the white beaches of Chinaman’s Bay. The boys showed amazing stamina as they not only kept up but often overtook their leaders.
As four young Scouts passed him, Brother Pash described the feelings of many of the adults when he said, “It’s disgusting, it is, to see little blokes catching us up that way.”
After some very icy swimming (the Tasman Sea carries too much of the Antarctic chill for the less hardy souls), everyone began the long walk back to camp in time to hike down to the ferry dock, meet the afternoon boat, and buy a fizzy (soda pop).
Thursday’s activities included a treasure hunt that lasted several hours and figured as the high point of the trip for many of the boys. Patrols used clues provided by leaders to guide them from point to point around the island. Because the clues were written very subtly the boys’ powers of observation were sharpened, and whether they had to identify the bleached bones of a beached whale or an old cabin used by one of the early penal officers, they gained a new appreciation for the island and its inhabitants.
Wide games (for getting acquainted), softball, cricket, chess, and fishing took up their share of time as did some service projects for the ranger. Most agreed that it was a wonderful camp, but by Friday men and boys alike were ready to go home.
Geoffrey Swanton, 13, summed up the feelings for many when he said, “The camp was a good experience for me. I think the hikes to Bishop and Clerk and Chinaman’s Bay did me good. I’m glad came. The food was good, but there was not enough of it. I reckon the wildlife here is some of the best in Australia. You could pat the wallabies and observe other animals quite close up. The historic value of the island is good and there was always something to do. I wouldn’t mind staying a little longer, but I need a good shower, a good feed-up, and some sleep at home.”
Though everyone had his favorite activities, most agreed that the most successful part of the whole camp was the wonderful associations that were forged in the warm glow of campfire conversations, in the hot dust of the island’s trails, and in the friendly warmth of patrol and tent group prayers.
“At first the camp appeared boring, but by the second day things became all right. I hardly knew anybody from the other patrols at first, but by the end of the camp I had made many new friends,” said David Scott, from Launceston.
“The camp drew us all a lot closer to our leaders, and it made us all work as a group in order to eat or have activities. The camp succeeded. It brought the young men and leaders together and helped to unify the stake Scout force,” said Matthew Parsons, from Glenorchy.
Every leader enjoyed his associations with the young men of the camp. They seemed pleased when the boys wanted to tell them about their troubles and hopes for life.
“I’ve enjoyed getting to really know the boys I’ve been called to watch over. It has helped me to know their strengths, and this camp really opened up the lines of communication between us,” said Bishop Triffith, Devonport.
The young men left the camp with new friends, better associations with their priesthood leaders, and in many cases stronger interests in the gospel of Jesus Christ and the Scouting program. The first all-Tasmanian LDS Scout camp on Maria Island was over, and everyone agreed that it had been a smashing success.

While my dear wife and I were serving as mission leaders in Thailand, Laos, and Myanmar, we witnessed firsthand the power of God that comes to those who make and keep sacred covenants in the temple. The Temple Patron Assistance Fund made it possible for many Saints in these three countries to attend the temple after doing all they could through personal sacrifice and preparation. I recall meeting a group of 20 faithful Saints from Laos at an airport in Bangkok, Thailand, to help them transfer to another airport in Bangkok to catch their flight to Hong Kong. These members were brimming with excitement to finally be traveling to the house of the Lord.

When we met these good Saints upon their return, the added gospel maturity and associated power resulting from receiving their temple endowment and entering into covenants with God were evident. These Saints clearly went forth from the temple “armed with [His] power.” This power to do more than they could do themselves gave them strength to endure the challenges of Church membership in their home country and to go forth bearing “exceedingly great and glorious tidings, in truth,” as they continue building the Lord’s kingdom in Laos.

When I was young, I too wanted to prove myself through some heroic gesture. My great-grandfather David Patten Kimball was one of the young men who rescued and helped carry members of the Martin handcart company across the Sweetwater River. That sounded like the kind of consecration for which I was looking. Later, as I visited with my grandfather Crozier Kimball, he explained that when President Brigham Young (1801–77) sent the men on their rescue mission, he instructed them to do everything they possibly could to save the handcart company. Their consecration was specifically to “follow the prophet.” My grandfather told me that consistent, faithful, righteous dedication to one’s duty or to a principle is to be much admired.

As heroic as it was for David Patten Kimball to help rescue the pioneers, it would be equally heroic today to follow the prophet by adhering to his counsel in reducing social media use, studying the Book of Mormon, and particularly helping to gather scattered Israel on both sides of the veil. If we help gather scattered Israel, we will be rescuing the souls of mankind—just as my great-grandfather helped to rescue the lives of the handcart company.