Gospel Story Finder

The year 1998 was a turning point in my life. During that year, though concerned about my studies, I decided to work part time after school to avoid my father. Our relationship had been tense for a long time, but it was now turning into hostility. The anger we both felt was ready to erupt.
Then a miracle changed our relationship. One night at work, two missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints paid a visit to one of my coworkers. They shared a brief message with him, and I listened casually to what they said. Curious to hear more, I accepted their invitation to listen to the discussions.
In the first lesson, I learned I could live with my family even after death. A sense of remorse concerning my relationship with my father filled my heart. I knew it was time to repair the damage. My desire for a happy and a forever family gave me the courage to speak to my father. At first he didn’t respond, but my fervent and constant prayers and my faith in God gave me the strength to keep approaching him. I knew as long as I did my part, Heavenly Father would do His.
Day by day, God answered my prayers. The misunderstanding between my father and me dissolved, and our hearts softened. God’s love overwhelmed me, and in three months I was baptized into the Church, becoming a member of the Hsin Ying Branch, Tainan Taiwan Stake. I still show my love to my father, just as my Heavenly Father did to me.

One of the great families to join the Church in Canada was that of Archibald Gardner. From his journal, we learn of the family’s experience in Canada during the year 1843.

Robert Gardner describes the day of their baptism: “We went about a mile and a half into the woods to find a suitable stream. We cut a hole through ice eighteen inches thick. My brother William baptized me. … I was confirmed while sitting on a log beside the stream. …

“I cannot describe my feelings at the time and for a long time afterwards. I felt like a little child and was very careful of what I thought or said or did lest I might offend my Father in Heaven. Reading the Scriptures and secret prayer occupied my leisure time. I kept a pocket Testament constantly with me. When something on a page impressed me supporting Mormonism, I turned down a corner. Soon I could hardly find a desired passage. I had nearly all the pages turned down. I had no trouble believing the Book of Mormon. Everytime I took the book to read I had a burning testimony in my bosom of its truthfulness.”

Archibald Gardner added: “[My] mother … [accepted] the Gospel at once and whole heartedly, after hearing it. … Not long after contacting the new faith she became desperately ill, so ill that her life was despaired of. She insisted on being baptized. The neighbors said that if we put her in the water they would have us tried for murder as she would surely die. Nevertheless, well bundled up, and tucked into a sleigh, we drove her two miles to the place appointed. Here a hole was cut in the ice and she was baptized in the presence of a crowd of doubters who had come to witness her demise. She was taken home. Her bed was prepared but she said, ‘No, I do not need to go to bed. I am quite well.’ And she was” (in Delilah G. Hughes, The Life of Archibald Gardner: Utah Pioneer of 1847 [Draper, Utah: Review and Preview Publishers, 1970], pp. 25–27).

One of the first converts in Hawaii, Jonathan Napela helped translate the Book of Mormon into Hawaiian.
Portrait of Jonathan Napela courtesy of Church History Library and Archives
Jonathan H. Napela was a well-respected judge on the island of Maui before he and his wife, Kiti, were baptized in 1851. After Jonathan was forced to resign his judgeship for joining the Church, he devoted his energy to building up the Church among Hawaiian speakers. Jonathan tutored missionary George Q. Cannon in the language, helped translate the Book of Mormon, and developed the first program for training missionaries in any foreign language.
As a result, more than 3,000 native Hawaiians joined the Church within three years. “It is very plain to us that this is the church of God,” Jonathan wrote. “There are many upon these islands who have obtained strong faith by the grace of God, through Jesus Christ the Lord, that we might receive the Holy Ghost.”5
In 1872, Kiti Napela contracted leprosy and was required to move to the leper colony on Moloka’i. Rather than staying among the Saints, Jonathan petitioned the colony to admit him as well. “During the brief time remaining,” he wrote to the board of health, “I want to be with my wife.”6 The petition was granted, and Jonathan became the branch president in Moloka’i. Jonathan worked closely with the local Catholic priest, Father Damien, to minister to all those afflicted with the disease. Jonathan eventually died of leprosy he contracted in the colony.

Where I grew up, just outside Buenos Aires, Argentina, soccer is very popular. When I was 10 or 11 years old, the boys in my neighborhood would get together to play in an empty lot on a corner where the truck and bus traffic was heavy.
One day as I sat on my bike at the curb watching some older boys play, I heard a voice say, “Jorge, scoot over.” I looked around, but there wasn’t anyone there with me. I was alone.
But I paid attention. I moved my bike just around the corner of the lot and went on watching the game from the curb of the other street. No more than a minute later, two trucks collided in the intersection and slid into the curb where I had been standing.
If I had stayed there, they would have smashed me. But someone told me—and I know who it was—that I should move just around the corner.

In 2004 Sheri Dew published a book titled No One Can Take Your Place. She was signing books at Deseret Book in Rexburg. I went down to the store, purchased the book, and stood in line for her to sign the book. As I was waiting in line, I became more and more nervous and almost left the line. As I approached her table, I remember being really nervous. I didn’t say a whole lot, because, you know, this is Sheri Dew, my all-time hero, and what could I say to her that she hasn’t heard a million times from other women? I remember my face turning red as I handed her the book. She signed the book with a little message. I said “thank you” and went to my car. Once out to my car, I read the message:

To Renee, with love and complete confidence in you!
Sheri Dew

How did she know that was what I needed to hear? That brief message helped me to start to focus on who I was, not who I thought I was. I started focusing on who I really am. I started praying to know what I was supposed to be doing with my life, and who Heavenly Father needed me to become. I started reading my scriptures with intent, praying for understanding, and studying conference talks. I started to put real energy into those things I had been doing all along, but now with more purpose. I will let you in on a little secret: if you ask Heavenly Father how to become a better person, He will help you.

My freshman year in high school, my family and I moved to Vancouver, Washington. I was trying to adjust to a new school, and I ached for my friends in Saratoga Springs, New York. I missed the nice big house we’d lived in there and its peaceful country setting. We were now living in a cramped apartment on a noisy street while my parents house-hunted. I wanted so badly to live in a house again. I wanted my own room, not one that I had to share with my little sister. I wanted the feeling of permanence that comes with living in your own house.

Just when Mom and Dad were narrowing down their choices and I was daydreaming about the wallpaper and frilly curtains I’d put in my new room, Dad was laid off. The small company he was working for was not doing well, and Dad was one of several employees to be let go. Buying a house was now out of the question. Finding a job became Dad’s urgent priority.

Christmas was quickly approaching, and I had never felt so depressed. It was at this time that the Young Women in my ward organized a service project. We would visit the battered-women’s shelter for 12 consecutive nights before Christmas.

On the first night, we drove to the shelter with Sister Harris, our Young Women president. I think we were all a little nervous. As the van pulled up in front of the old two-story house in a dilapidated neighborhood, I suddenly felt sorrow that women and children would be forced to flee to such a dismal place.

Once inside the bleak, chilly house, I didn’t feel any better. The faces we saw looked sad and dejected. All except the face of little Aisha. This beautiful baby girl never stopped smiling as she looked at each of us. We took turns cradling her in our arms, and her mother confided that the small scar on Aisha’s face was due to an injury inflicted by her father.

Another woman asked who we were. Sister Harris told her we were members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and then bore her testimony of the Lord’s love and concern for each of his children.

We left a Christmas tree and decorations that night and took with us the good feelings that come when we show others we care.

On the nights that followed, we brought gifts donated by members of our ward—baskets with combs and brushes and toiletries for the women, toys and blankets for the children.

The drab living room looked a little less drab each night. We hung homemade stockings on the bare wall above an old television set and taped Christmas cards above the fireplace. The tiny lights on the tree reflected in the silver ornaments. It was actually beginning to look and feel like Christmas in that humble shelter.

On the 12th night we arrived with a turkey dinner and all the trimmings. My heart was touched when a ten-year-old boy cried out, “This is the best Christmas I ever had!”

Something else happened to me during those 12 nights of Christmas. I returned home to our apartment each night feeling so blessed. As I walked into our living room, I saw for the first time how warm and pretty it was. I felt the love that was there and the strong sense of security even during this difficult time. I was grateful that my home was a place of safety and refuge instead of one of violence and fear. I felt a new appreciation for my mom and dad. I no longer resented having to share a room with my little sister.

And I had to agree with the little boy at the shelter—it was the best Christmas I ever had.

President Kasue immediately obtained a copy of the registration document and took it to the assistant chief of Chyulu Village to assure the rights of the Church to operate legally. The Saints could now meet without fear, and their membership soon increased to about 40. They needed a place to meet, but a mission had not yet been established and no meetinghouse was provided. The members built a small bower on President Kasue’s land.
In July 1991 the Kenya Nairobi Mission was organized with Larry Brown as president. Soon he and Sister Brown made a visit to Chyulu. “Although the trip was grueling, it was worth it!” says President Brown. “I remember that the sacrament meeting was held in the bower, but it was raining and the ground inside was wet. Before the priesthood holders knelt down to bless the sacrament, they threw an old sack on the mud. The next time we went, I happened to look in the sacrament trays, and there were only two small pieces of crackers. … They broke those crackers up. There were 63 people there, and I didn’t think those crackers would ever go around, but they did. It was like feeding the 5,000.”7

When I was eight, my parents divorced. My dad and I had always been close. At the time, I didn’t realize how hard it would be to not have my father involved in my everyday life. And it was difficult to come to terms with the fact that my dad would not be there to baptize me or participate in many other important events.
Seven years later, there were still times when I would sit to write something about him in my journal, but the feelings of love and sorrow were so strong I couldn’t. It was awful being that completely miserable.
During the 1999 April general conference, Elder Jeffrey Holland’s talk about the importance of a father really struck me. As I listened intently to Elder Holland, my eyes filled with tears. I felt the Spirit surround and comfort me. I realized I did have a father who is always here for me, my Heavenly Father. I was embarrassed that my stubborn thoughts about living a fatherless life were blinding me to the fact that Heavenly Father was waiting to be my support and friend.
Often when we are faced with one of life’s many trials, we focus on the negative effects it has on our life, I was using my parents’ divorce as a reason to be unhappy.
I realized I was drowning in a sea of self-pity, hoping for some miraculous change to come. But I eventually realized that the only way things would change was if I changed. Hardships are what you make them become: a never-ending problem or a chance to learn and grow. As I prayed and grew closer to my Father in Heaven, I realized that I was learning and growing. What a comforting feeling it is to know that when I kneel down to say my prayers, there is always someone who is willing to listen to me and help me. Both my mortal father and my Heavenly Father live far away, but One can hear my silent pleas for guidance.

Emilie pumps her legs back and forth. Swoosh! Her swing flies up into the sky. Emilie’s arms carry her across the bars. Whoosh! She makes it all the way across. Emilie’s feet hop through hopscotch. Hop, hop, hop! Emilie sees a girl sitting by herself. “Come play with me!” says Emilie. Sofia wheels over. Emilie and Sofia use their arms to play with a ball. They use their feet and arms to have a race across the playground. They smile and laugh with their mouths. Emilie is happy she made a new friend at the playground!

White puffs of frozen breath tickled my nose as I twisted the key in the lock on hangar 20, row four. It opened with a click, and John and I worked together to pull the dilapidated doors wide apart to reveal our pride and joy—a shiny blue-and-white, single-engine Piper Dakota airplane, number 80838. We had come to the airport for flying practice for John, who was working on getting an instrument rating. I was to be the safety or copilot, and John’s son Duane had come along just for the ride.
The asphalt pavement was damp with moisture from a low layer of fog which had enveloped the valley. Visibility was down to less than a mile on the ground, but if you looked straight up at the sky you could see the round lustrous disk of the sun trying to shine through. I let John preflight the airplane while I closed the hangar doors. Then with anticipation of an enjoyable morning the three of us climbed aboard.
“Salt Lake Clearance, this is Dakota 80838. IFR clearance on request to Brigham City for a practice ADF approach,” John’s voice crackled in my headphones. As we waited for clearance to go, I explained some of the instruments and procedures to Duane, who was sitting in the back seat. Each instrument has an important purpose and each must be checked for accuracy to ensure a safe flight through the fog. The compass, the directional gyro, altitude indicator, and especially the VOR were all important for this flight because we would be taking off in very marginal conditions and could possibly be coming back to land in even more reduced visibility.
The fog seemed to be getting more dense the longer we waited to go. The cold temperature inside the cockpit caused our breath to condense on the windows, making it even more difficult to see. I could sense that Duane was just a little nervous about the whole experience, but he didn’t say a word. John did the pretakeoff run-up, called the tower, and then we were on our way, straight down the runway.
The soft muted glow of the runway lights slipped by faster and faster as the little plane gained speed. Then suddenly we were airborne. The runway disappeared below us, and within what seemed like only a few seconds, we were enveloped in a soft gray nothingness. The roar of the engine filled our ears, and I had the feeling that we were beginning to turn to the left. As safety pilot I had been watching the instruments carefully and noted that we were holding our correct heading, our pitch was okay, and altitude proper. My feelings were all in my mind. We were on instruments and had to trust them now no matter what our other senses might try to tell us.
I remembered hearing stories when I was first learning to fly about pilots who got into clouds and tried to follow their senses instead of the instruments. They would go into what was called a “graveyard spiral.” The pilot begins to turn slightly and loses a little of the normal lift of the wing. To correct this the pilot pulls back a little on the yoke, which tightens the turn and makes him lose more lift, a cycle which keeps getting worse as he pulls back harder and harder, eventually spiraling him right into the ground.
We had only been airborne a few minutes, but it seemed longer, when the gray mist around us began to get brighter and brighter. Then, like flipping on a brilliant radiant light, we broke out on top and sunlight bathed our faces. Above, the sky was blue and bright. Below, the entire valley looked like a gigantic ocean filled with white frothy water. The mountains raised their snow-covered peaks in majestic grandeur. Duane smiled, I smiled, and John smiled. It is a challenge to fly for the first time under real instrument conditions while in training, and John had done well.
The rest of the flight went smoothly. We flew along the charted course and made an instrument approach into Brigham City, then headed back. The sea of clouds was still there, and as we got closer to home, I could once again feel the tension rising just a little from the back seat. I knew Duane trusted his dad, but he was still wondering just how we would get back down through this when we couldn’t see.
We were descending now, and the clouds were getting closer. Soon they closed in around us, and once again there was nothing to see but dull gray mist. The sound of the engine seemed to get louder, and our eyes strained to see something—anything that would give us a clue of our position. Nothing came. A minute went by, then two. The cross needles were centered on the instruments, speed was okay, we should be all right. Suddenly there was a flash, a brilliant, yet fog-shrouded light, then another and another and then a whole line of bright white lights leading our little plane right out of the murk and in perfect position to land on the broad expanse of runway that we could now make out before us. The landing was smooth, and although two of us had been through this before, there were three silent sighs of relief when we felt the wheels touch the ground. It had been a great day.
As we taxied back toward the hangar, I turned in the seat and said to Duane, “Well, how did you like flying through the clouds?”
“Oh, it was okay,” he answered. “I sure felt like Enos though.”
“Enos?” I asked, “What do you mean?”
“I just prayed a lot,” said Duane, and we all laughed together.

Old Jerusalem.
Narrow streets—barely wider than alleys—are crowded with people from all over the world: tourists in shorts and sunglasses, priests wearing vestments of various religious orders, young soldiers carrying machine guns, Jewish men and boys wearing skullcaps, and Arabs in flowing robes and shepherd headwear. Some women are dressed in shawls and veils; others are wearing business suits. Little children are darting through the crowd.
As we make our way through the souk (marketplace), the sound of bargaining is everywhere. And the choices are overwhelming. Shopkeepers advertise their goods by lining them out in the street in front of their stores. Wicker baskets are filled with nuts, fruits, and vegetables. Long embroidered dresses hang from overhead. Shelves are filled with religious statues carved from olive wood. There are rows and rows of brass cookware, copper and silver trays, glazed Armenian ceramics, and Persian jugs. And there is an endless array of gold and silver jewelry, sheepskin and leather coats, and exotic oriental rugs.
Someone is making falafel (a fried mixture of spicy ground vegetables); someone else is roasting shish kebab; the smell of fresh bread mingles with the aroma of strange spices. Merchants stand at their doors and invite us inside. Music from various cultures blares from radios.
My wife, Mary, and I stop in a small shop that sells religious items significant to Christians, Jews, and Muslims. As we browse, the shopkeeper—a short, thin Arab man—explains the meaning and use of several items. And he tells us about the Koran.
We decide on our purchase and begin the expected ritual of bargaining on the price. Hoping we’ve settled on a fair amount, we hand the man several crisp, new bills.
He counts them out and surprises us by handing one back.
“You gave me too much,” he explains. The new bills had stuck together. We had overpaid him.
“Thank you,” Mary says. “We appreciate your honesty.”
“Oh, I’m not being honest for you,” the man replies. “I’m being honest for me and my household. I will not buy food for my family with dishonest money!”
As we return to the noisy, crowded street, we realize that we got more than we bargained for—the memory of an Arab friend who wouldn’t sell himself for a crisp, new dollar bill.

The presidencies and planning committees met several times during the winter. The young people read histories and studied pioneer journals. They learned how their ancestors had answered a mission call by President John Taylor to come to this wild corner of the world and establish a peace mission among the Indians, how in addition to this challenge they were to provide a civilized buffer in this part of Zion because to that time the San Juan country was controlled by thieves, outlaws, and murderers who used this corner of southern Utah as a place to hide out from the law.
Two hundred and fifty people, including women and children, answered the call. They brought 85 wagons and hundreds of cattle and horses with them on the journey, traveling southeast from the settlement of Escalante to what is now San Juan County. The company was made up of Saints from Cedar City, Parowan, and Paragonah. They traveled across more than 200 miles of unexplored wilderness. The pinnacle of their pioneering effort was in carving a road bed down the side of Glen Canyon to the Colorado River below. They started their descent in a notch or hole in the rim of the 1,800 foot-high canyon wall. This notch then became known as Hole-in-the-Rock. The incredibly steep grade down the upper portion of the road dropped one foot for every two feet forward.
Many of the descendants of the early pioneers still feel under obligation of that original call from President Taylor. In his campfire remarks to the youth, Stan Bronson explained, “We are here to help bring about the fulfillment of the prophecies relative to the restoration of Israel. We have never been released from that first call. I believe the end result of this ‘peace’ mission will be to have the fulness of the gospel operating among the Lamanites here. The ‘peace’ will come here from the ultimate giver of peace and be evident in the hearts and lives of this people.”
“I was excited about going on the Hole-in-the-Rock trip with our stake so I could see for myself the places that have been talked about,” said Cheyenne Johnson. “Walter Joshua and Elizabeth Kinney Stevens, my great-great-grandparents on my father’s side, were newlyweds. That trip was their honeymoon, and I think it must have been more honeymoon than they wanted since it was supposed to last six weeks and it lasted six months.
“Grandpa Stevens drove the first wagon down through the Hole. Also on my mother’s side of the family, great-great-grandparents Benjamin and Sarah Perkins were on that trip. Grandpa Perkins and his brother Hyrum had been miners in Wales and they were responsible for blasting out some of the places where they needed to build roadways down through the Hole. One place known as ‘Uncle Ben’s Dugway,’ was named after Grandpa Perkins. Platte D. Lyman, another great-great-grandfather on my mother’s side, was also on the trip. His wife Adelia stayed in Fillmore to have a baby who was born while the group was at the top of the Hole. He was carried through the Hole-in-the-Rock a few months later. That baby was my great-grandfather, Albert R. Lyman, who later married Mary Ellen Perkins, and they were the first settlers in what is now Blanding. They had 15 children, my grandmother being the 15th. Grandpa always kept a journal and wrote many stories and books. I was anxious to see the country where he had been a cowpuncher and to see his name carved in the rock at Lake Canyon. I felt a special closeness to him there.”
The day had arrived. After much worry, prayer, and planning, these young people from Blanding were going to try to retrace the incredible journey their pioneer ancestors had made 107 years earlier. Brother Glen Shumway, the stake Young Men president, had spent a good deal of his life as a uranium miner and had worked outdoors in this wild country.
“I knew how inhospitable this country could become. The weather, the gnats, the sun, and of course the condition of the trails were all concerns because any one of these factors could wreck the experience for us,” Glen said.
At the stake center, 30 4-wheel drive vehicles were loaded with 135 people and all of their provisions for the three-day outing. Young people from Blanding, Kayenta, Bluff, and Mexican Hat were also represented. It was appropriate that several Native Americans participated because their Paiute, Ute and Navajo ancestors had lived and hunted in this same desert. The caravan traveled the first 75 miles on Highway 95 because at this point the modern road was much the same as the route taken by the early pioneers.
Along this part of the journey they saw Clayhill Pass, where the existing road crosses the old trail. They also were able to see Comb Ridge and Salvation Knoll in the morning light. Because they were traveling from Blanding back to the Hole-in-the-Rock, they were seeing the pioneers’ journey in reverse order. The caravan turned off the paved highway and headed into the desert. Early morning light amplified the color and richness of the red sands and the desert spring wildflowers. The yucca plants were in bloom with many of the pale yellow flowering spikes rising six feet and taller into the air. Purple sage and prickly pear cactus blooms added to the beauty of the desert with its many other flowers. After driving for a few miles they stopped at a tank trailer that seemed to be parked alone in the middle of the desert. Of course Brother and Sister Boyles had towed the trailer here earlier so every vehicle’s fuel tank could be topped off before they got into the more rugged part of the journey.
Even at this point, however, there was some uncertainty from a few of the young people about continuing on.
Peggy Sue Pincock said, “I surely wish I was home doing something else.”
For the rest of the day they traveled. Walking and riding they crawled up slick rock slopes and over sandy dunes and finally inched their way down into Lake Canyon.
They drove through the sandy bottom of Lake Canyon, and then bumped up and down ridge tops for an exhausting final leg of their journey into the camp near Marble Canyon at the base of Grey Mesa.
By this time, even though the group had only been out one day, many felt as Elizabeth Morris Decker felt 100 years earlier when she said, “It’s the roughest country you or anybody else ever seen; it’s nothing in the world but rocks and holes, hills and hollows.”
As the afternoon sun leaned farther to the horizon, tents sprang up around the campground. The clang of dutch ovens could be heard as the aromas of the evening meal spread throughout the campsite. Dutch oven potatoes cooked with onions and bacon, barbecued chicken, corn, fruit punch (seven gallons for each 50 people), and s’mores (a graham cracker, chocolate bar, and marshmallow sandwich dessert) seemed to fill stomachs and rejuvenate the spirits of the camp. Then, like their pioneer ancestors, they held a meeting with musicians and speakers who told about the original journey, and they sang songs of the present and the past.
After a good night’s sleep and a campfire breakfast of scrambled eggs, pancakes, and orange juice, the group felt strong enough to tackle the slick rock slopes of Grey Mesa. Once they got to the top they had relatively smooth going for 15 miles. From the top of the mesa they could look down and see Lake Powell and the Big Bend of the San Juan River. The drivers let themselves and their vehicles slowly down the other side of Grey Mesa while many from the company enjoyed the walk.
As the day wore on they traveled to the top of Cottonwood Canyon, where they were able to look down the canyon and across Lake Powell to the Hole-in-the-Rock.
Though the youth activity took three days instead of six months, there were many parallels in the two journeys. Many of the names were the same, the country was still the same, this modern trip was organized much like the original one. And, like the first trip, this one accomplished the purposes originally intended for it.
“What an eye opener! I couldn’t believe the places those people went over. I love the stories of all the hardships and trials and especially the motivating stories of super faith and hard working pioneers. They were great and very faithful people to do what their leaders asked them to do. I hope I can take this wonderful example and apply these hard working and faithful qualities to my life,” said Annette Carroll.
John Hunt, one of the leader specialists, added “I am 47 years old and have lived in Blanding all of my life. This is my first time to go on this trail. I learned that pictures and stories are not adequate. I have flown over this trail many times, but nothing equals being here. I took my jeep places I never would have believed it would have gone.”
Brother Shumway seemed to sum up most of the feelings of the group when he said, “We all came home with a greater appreciation for the original Hole-in-the-Rock pioneers, who showed their love for the gospel by leaving comfortable homes, disrupting their lives to heed the call of the prophet to extend the boundaries of Zion into this beautiful but inhospitable land of San Juan. We found greater love and appreciation for one another as we camped, ate, jeeped, played, and worshiped in that pleasant setting. We were touched by the Spirit of the Lord in our fireside programs as we listened to the special speakers and music. Most of all, we felt the hand of our Maker, who was with us on this journey and who will be with us on all of our journeys through this life and the eternities.”
Charles Redd later wrote about the climb up Comb Ridge: “Aside from the Hole-in-the-Rock, itself, this was the steepest crossing on the journey. Here again seven span of horses were used, so that when some of the horses were on their knees, fighting to get up to find a foothold, the still-erect horses could plunge upward against the sharp grade. On the worst slopes the men were forced to beat their jaded animals into giving all they had. After several pulls, rests, and pulls, many of the horses took to spasms and near-convulsions, so exhausted were they.”
“By the time most of the outfits were across, the worst stretches could easily be identified by the dried blood and matted hair from the forelegs of the struggling teams. My father [L. H. Redd, Jr.] was a strong man, and reluctant to display emotion; but whenever in later years the full pathos of San Juan Hill was recalled either by himself or by someone else, the memory of such bitter struggles was too much for him and he wept” (in David E. Miller, Hole-in-the-Rock, Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, 1966, pp. 138–139).
Salvation Knoll, another early landmark, was so named by George B. Hobbs when he and three others were on an advance scouting party. They were lost Christmas day in 1879. They were out of provisions and they were traveling in snow and extreme cold. Thinking they might die, Brother Hobbs decided to climb a small knoll which he named Salvation Knoll.
His journal records, “This was surely Salvation Knoll, for on looking to the northeast across a spur of the Elk Mountain I discovered the Blue Mountains, about 10 miles away” (in Hole-in-the-Rock, p. 88).
When the main body of the pioneers got passed Comb Ridge and went on a few more miles they were too tired to travel any farther.
“As they rested in exhaustion from the last intensive strain, for the first time they began to see themselves for what they were: weary, worn out, galled, both teams and men. For so long they had walked and slept and eaten and lived on sloping uneven ground that the thought of level bottom-land was extremely sweet. Yet one woman spoke for the whole group when, recalling this last phase of the journey she said later, ‘I was so tired and sore that I had no desire to be any place except where I was.’ Someone pointed out to her that Montezuma wasn’t even twenty miles away, and that some of the head wagons were already over Butler Wash and onto dirt road—even then it made no difference. When they began to sing “The Latter-day Work Roll On,’ she had to sing to keep from crying” (Charles Redd, in Hole-in-the-Rock, p. 140).

3. The temple is a place of revelation. Many years ago I was walking into the temple and in my mind I heard the words, Learn public speaking. I thought to myself, When will I ever have need for public speaking? Over several months’ period of time I tried very inadequately to conjure up some enthusiasm to obey the prompting I had received. I even checked out a tape from the local library by a public speaker who admitted that his goal was to someday speak in the Mormon Tabernacle. I thought at the time, I’ll never be speaking in the Tabernacle!
Elder John A. Widtsoe has said, “At the most unexpected moments, in or out of the temple will come to [us], as a revelation, the solution of the problems that vex [our lives]. … It is a place where revelations may be expected” (“Temple Worship,” Utah Genealogical and Historical Magazine, Apr. 1921, 63–64).

Before leaving his hometown of Mystowice to serve as a missionary, Elder Tomaszewski left a challenge for his younger brother Patryk, who was also deeply involved in jujitsu. “If you want to find out why I’m doing this, why I’m giving up my sport, read the Book of Mormon and pray about it.”
And what has been his best day as a missionary?
The day he learned that his younger brother had taken his challenge to read and pray about the Book of Mormon. Patryk Tomaszewski also received a testimony. He was baptized in August 2004.
Now there are two Tomaszewskis to share the joy of the gospel.

“Nearly 40 years ago as I contemplated the challenge of a mission, I felt very inadequate and unprepared. I remember praying, ‘Heavenly Father, how can I serve a mission when I know so little?’ I believed in the Church, but I felt my spiritual knowledge was very limited. As I prayed, the feeling came: ‘You don’t know everything, but you know enough!’ That reassurance gave me the courage to take the next step into the mission field.”
Elder Neil L. Andersen of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, Oct. 2008 general conference (Ensign or Liahona, Nov. 2008, 13).

Later, while I was serving in the military, I was sent to a regiment (a military unit) near the Andes Mountains. When I received my assignment, I felt that the Lord had something special for me to do there. I prayed a lot, asking, “What is my purpose here?”
After I had been there three months, our officer said, “I want to organize a club for the soldiers.” He wanted a place for us to read, listen to music, play games, write letters, and rest. The Holy Ghost helped me know that this was what the Lord wanted me to do. I was asked to be the club president. Getting the club ready was a lot of work. We painted and furnished a building to meet in.
At the club’s opening ceremony, I was asked to talk in front of the officers and soldiers. I had the opportunity to share my testimony of the gospel and my feelings about the Church with many of the soldiers who did not live the standards of the gospel. They all knew I was a “Mormon boy” who lived my standards. I didn’t do the things they did, but they respected me. The officers respected me too. One of them said to me, “I admire you for your standards.”
Never be afraid to tell people what you believe in and what your standards are. You don’t need to hide who you are. I know the Lord will bless you when you are courageous enough to follow Him.

Let me tell you about the saints of the Punta Arenas Chile Stake. Punta Arenas is located on the Straits of Magellan near the very southern tip of South America. It is 2,200 km from the Santiago Chile Temple. That's like living in Los Angeles and traveling to the temple in Kansas City, Missouri. In spite of the distance, every summer the stake sends at least one, and sometimes two, buses to the temple. It takes them three days to get to Santiago. They cross the Argentina/Chile border twice. They spend three days in the temple and make the three day trip back. They are grateful the temple is not further away.

Seventh, don’t complain. Life isn’t always fair. That’s a fact. But it’s always charged with marvelous opportunities if you know how to find them. I remember once when I was working as hard as I knew how. I happened to be working for a man who took all of the ideas and suggestions and work that I did and passed them on to his superior as though they were his own suggestions. For a while I was really upset about that. As I pondered it, a thought came to me, and I decided from then on I would write reports to him of everything that I was doing or trying to do, and I sent a copy to his boss. He didn’t like that, but it worked beautifully.

As a young man just nineteen years old, Joseph F. Smith was traveling from California to Utah with a small group of Latter-day Saints. As they set up camp one evening, a group of drunken men rode into their camp on horseback. The men had guns, and they threatened to kill any Mormons who came across their path. Some of the Saints hid in the bushes by the creek. Joseph F. Smith, who had been gathering wood, boldly approached the fire. One of the drunken men, pointing his pistol at Joseph, said that it was his duty to kill every Mormon he met. He then demanded, “Are you a ‘Mormon’?”

Without a pause, Joseph F. Smith looked the ruffian in the eye and answered, “Yes, siree; dyed in the wool; true blue, through and through.” The angry man was so surprised by Joseph’s honest answer that he grabbed Joseph’s hand and said, “Well, you are the … pleasantest man I ever met! Shake, young fellow. I am glad to see a man that stands up for his convictions.” The drunken men then rode off and did not bother the Saints again. (Life of Joseph F. Smith, Joseph Fielding Smith, pages 188–189.)

When Brother Newry returned to the Bahamas, he found a very small branch that had been formed while he was gone. The little branch met in homes and rented buildings until they built their own chapel. He remained faithful through the years and eventually received his endowment in the temple. Along the way his friend, Antoinette Russell, asked to attend church with him. She was impressed by the members’ warmth, and without telling Clarence, she began meeting with the missionaries. She says: “I knew we were each someone special. When the missionaries told me where we had come from, I knew it was true. I felt peace.”
Antoinette and Clarence Newry were married in March 1997 in the Orlando Florida Temple. Several other Bahamian couples have had their marriages sealed in the temple, but the Newrys were the first to be married in the temple.