Gospel Story Finder

When I was only four years old, I had pneumonia. Although I don’t remember much about that illness, two things are as vivid to me now as they were when they happened all those years ago.
I remember my mother holding me close, bundled up in a blanket, as we drove to the hospital on a very cold, snowy day. I remember the warmth and love that I felt from her.
And I remember my father giving me a priesthood blessing. I don’t remember the words, but I remember the feeling of strength and of assurance that all would be well. That’s where my testimony really started.
I had no idea how sick I was, but later my parents told me how very worried and concerned they had been, for I almost died. After spending two weeks under an oxygen tent in the hospital, however, I got better.
That illness helped me develop a strong faith in the gospel of Jesus Christ. I learned to have faith that there is a loving Father in Heaven Who cares about us, and faith that through the strength and belief of others, such as our parents, we can come through those kinds of scary times.

Miranda Feltdman is not a member of the Church; she had never heard of the Book of Mormon before she was invited to audition for the musical. A stake leader knew her and felt prompted to call her. It took courage for Miranda to try out for the play, but she did, and landed a lead role—the part of Abish.
“I was really worried initially—it was my first time playing a lead role in a musical. But everyone was really supportive and had faith in me, and eventually I learned to have that sort of faith in myself,” recalls Miranda.
That faith helped her understand the role she was playing, although at first she was worried she wouldn’t be able to. “I realized that Abish really was almost exactly like me and every other young man or woman out there at some point in their life. She has to learn fairly quickly to stick to her convictions no matter what, even if the entire world—or the court in this case—seems set against her.”
Besides inspiring others, Miranda says she was able to witness firsthand what Latter-day Saints are really about. “I would never have traded that time in my life for anything else in the world.”

One day while serving in the Chile Santiago East Mission, my companion, Elder Patricio Álvarez, and I received permission from our mission president to visit Elder Álvarez’s ailing grandfather in a local hospital.
When we located his grandfather’s room, we found two ancient men engulfed in extensive tubing and wiring. Two of Elder Álvarez’s aunts were there comforting his grandfather. Elder Álvarez quickly joined them.
I hung back, not wanting to intrude on this family moment. As I stood apart from the little group, I noticed the other patient in the room. He seemed unaware of anything around him. He stared through sunken eyes at the ceiling—his mouth gaping. His appearance startled me.
Suddenly a thought pierced my mind: Go comfort him!
No, I thought, he is too far gone for me to do any good. Besides, what would I say? He is a complete stranger.
But the thought came again: Go comfort him!
This time I thought of what Jesus Christ would do and realized I couldn’t do any harm by at least saying hello.
As I approached the man’s bed, it was difficult to walk; my feet didn’t want to move. I noticed a small yellow card that read “José.” I wondered, Where are this man’s friends and family? He is not just a name on a wall.
Then I realized he was looking at me. His eyes were full of pain. I tried to smile, but smiling didn’t seem right. I stood at the foot of his bed while I found enough courage to move to his bedside. Once there, I reached over, put my hand on his, and said, “Hi, José.” Giant tears rolled down his cheeks. Tears rolled down my cheeks as well. Our eyes locked; everything else faded away. Then he closed his eyes tightly and began to sob.
There we were—an old man and a young boy. I hummed Church hymns. He cried again several times, but each time he gave me a nod, letting me know he would be all right.
Thirty minutes passed quickly. My companion and I needed to leave. I didn’t know how to say good-bye to José. How could I possibly sum up what I had felt and thought? I bent over and whispered in his ear, “Jesucristo está contigo” (Jesus Christ is with you). He gave me one last nod, and we parted ways, never to see each other again in this world.
Someday I hope I have the chance to really get to know José.

And it was Lester who taught me the "What-If" Game.
"What if one day yer flying along and ya smell smoke?"
"What if one day yer puddling along up there, minding your own business, and all of a sudden. …"
He had hundreds of what-ifs.
One evening as we were flying back and forth across an Ohio summer sky, polishing up a few maneuvers I’d need for my private pilot’s flight test, Lester suddenly reached up without warning and cut the switch on the plane’s engine. My heart stopped along with the propeller. Then he sat back, pulled his cap down over his eyes, folded his arms, and feigned sleep.
I panicked.
I’d stood on the ground and watched Lester come in dead stick a hundred times. So I knew it could be done. But Lester was good—and he’d been flying for 500 years! I was just a kid!
My neck was starting to unscrew from my shoulders as I swiveled my head trying to pick the best cornfield, wheatfield, hayfield, highway, Lake Erie, any place to land! We’d drilled on this a hundred times! But it was always with the engine idling. This was different. The gentle kick of an idling propeller was gone and the altimeter was unwinding—fast!
I finally spotted a good field and started to align the nose with it. It would be a tricky approach. We’d have to cross some woods and then slip quickly into a field I knew would be much too tight. But if I did it perfectly and then kicked it into a groundloop just as we reached the far side fence …
Lester stirred. "Why don’t ya use Bunch’s strip?" he asked, pointing downward. "You didn’t look right under us. We’re right over top of Bunch Woods’s home strip!"
He was right! Straight below us was about 1,200 feet of beautiful Ohio grass with Bunch Woods’s house and plane sitting smack at the end.
When we stopped rolling after landing, Lester sat up, set his cap back on straight and said, "Mebbe ya better play the What-If Game more often." He turned to look at me and his face was serious. "Because, ya know, it’s not a matter of if you’ll ever have an emergency in flight, it’s a matter of when. And when it happens, you’ll be glad you stretched for excellence instead of just being good."

One day after school I was playing with my friends near a pond by our house. The boys started putting garbage in the pond. I knew that it was against the rules to play in the pond. I also knew that putting anything in the pond was against the rules. It is not good for the fish, and garbage doesn’t make the pond look nice. I reminded my friends of the rule. They didn’t care and kept putting garbage in the water. I knew it wasn’t right so I went home. Even though I wanted to play with my friends, I wanted to choose the right more. When I got home my mom said she was proud of me for following the rules and choosing the right.

Christine (8) and Spencer (6) Harris and their family saved their money for a long time so that they could be with their grandparents in Rarotonga at the end of their mission. One of the Cook Islands in the Pacific Ocean, Rarotonga is part of the New Zealand Auckland Mission. It was a long distance to travel from their home in Seattle, Washington. In fact, the family flew on three different airplanes to get there. First they flew to California, then to Tahiti, and then on to the beautiful island of Rarotonga. They had not seen Grandma and Grandpa Harris for nearly a year and a half, so it was wonderful to be together again.
On the island, they explored the sites, including the wonderful beaches and warm, blue lagoons. Christine and Spencer liked to snorkel within the coral reef and see the thousands of colorful fish. They had fun collecting seashells and coral. The children also enjoyed eating the unusual, but delicious fruits and fresh coconuts on the island.
Meeting the many nice people to whom their grandparents had taught the gospel was heartwarming for the children and their parents. On Sunday, they attended church. Christine and Spencer found it comforting to sing the familiar Primary songs in the unusual setting of an open-walled church with exotic birds and chickens around it.
When the children found out that their father and grandfather were planning a special hike that included them, they were thrilled. The hike would take them across the island, through the tropical jungle, over some old volcanoes, to a sharp mountain peak called Mount Te Manga (The Needle). Even though it was a difficult hike that was ordinarily just for adults, their father thought that the children were prepared.
It was a perfect morning for a hike—clear and sunny, but not too hot. The children were up early to help make lunches and pack their gear. The four hikers said good-bye to the other family members, who would spend the morning at the open market and then pick them up on the other side of the island in the afternoon.
The hikers walked along a scenic valley road, past a papaya plantation and a lush farm, to the trailhead (the place where a trail begins) at the base of a volcanic mountain. The trail led them through a large green forest of ferns, across several streams, and then up a steep stairway of tangled tree roots. Christine and Spencer took turns leading the hike and had a contest to see who could spot the most lizards along the trail.
Eventually the group entered the heavy overgrowth of the dense, tropical jungle. The gigantic leaves and vines that surrounded them were amazing. But they soon realized that they were no longer on the trail! Everyone looked all around for the path but could not find it. They tried to backtrack to where they had come from, but it seemed like the more they hunted for the path, the steeper and thicker and more difficult the jungle became. Father and Grandfather were very frustrated. Eventually they found a stream and started to follow it down the side of the mountain. But the vines and jungle growth were so dense that it soon became impossible to travel any farther.
Although they didn’t complain, Christine and Spencer were not having fun anymore. They knew that they were lost. To make things worse, Christine had stumbled on a root and hurt her leg, and Spencer was tormented by swarms of mosquitoes. The group searched for the missing trail for about two hours and were getting scared.
Grandfather said, “We need to pray. We need Father in Heaven’s help to guide us back to the path.”
Everyone humbly knelt in the steep, thick jungle by the stream with the mosquitoes buzzing around them. Grandfather prayed, asking Heavenly Father to help them find the trail. Everything became quiet and peaceful. Grandfather rose to his feet and started walking. Christine, Spencer, and their father followed. In less than five minutes, they were standing on the hiking trail! In astonishment, they all shouted for joy. Everyone knew that they had been guided by an answer to prayer.
It didn’t take long for them to hike up the ridge to a spectacular, breathtaking view of The Needle. At the base of the peak, they stopped to rest and have lunch. But first they prayed again to Heavenly Father to thank Him for guiding them to safety.
After lunch, they hiked down the trail and along the rugged mountainside and on to the other side of the island. They met the rest of their family by a beautiful waterfall. Christine and Spencer told how they had lost the trail in the dense jungle and how, through an answer to Grandfather’s prayer, they had found it.

When I was a young boy, my parents had a tradition of buying the children baby ducklings at Easter time. They became our pets. Near our home, in Minnesota, there was a small pond. As the ducklings grew, we would allow them to live in it. Each day I would feed them. All I had to do was whistle and they would come to me. They knew that my whistle meant easy food. As the spring turned to summer, the ducks grew bigger and fatter. They were bred not to fly. They were grateful for my free hand-outs.
From time to time, wild ducks would join them. These ducks were different. They were smaller in size. They could fly. And each winter, when it turned cold in Minnesota, the wild ducks would fly south to warmer weather. The wild ducks would never join the others when I fed them. They were afraid of me.
One day, though, a wild duck decided to join the tame ducks. He wanted an easy meal. At first, he did not trust me. But slowly he grew accustomed to my presence. He, too, began to enjoy the free meals. His life was different though. Initially, he could have it both ways. He would eat his tasty meal and then would fly off to be with the wild ducks.
After a while, I noticed a change. He stopped flying. And then I noticed why. All his free meals made him fat. He was no longer able to fly. Perhaps this story would have had a happy ending, but as mentioned earlier, winter in Minnesota brings cold, snow and frozen ponds. One day my mother told me that a man would be coming to take the ducks away for the winter. She said he had a farm and would take care of them. When the time came to say good-bye to my ducks, not only did the tame ducks go, but the wild duck was taken as well.
A few days later, I asked my mother about the ducks. She confessed to me that the man who took them was going to eat them. She just wanted to spare me the pain of telling me. I suspected that this was the case. This happened about 60 years ago, but the experience remains clear in my memory.
I remember the wild duck. This duck had freedom, but he gave it up for what he thought would be an easier life. What he thought was a free hand-out became his prison.

At my school there are two boys who are always bothering everybody else. Everyone is afraid of them. One time these boys were bothering some girls, and the girls were almost crying. I said a prayer within myself, and feeling very confident, I firmly told those two boys to stop bothering the girls. I didn’t feel alone or scared. They just looked at me, and although they were bigger than I was, they didn’t say a single word, and they left.
At that moment I tried to do what Jesus Christ would have done. I know that He lives and He loves me. I really like going to church, especially Primary, because I learn about the gospel.

One bright, fall afternoon when my BYU classes were over, I was rummaging through the freezer, searching for something microwavable, when I heard footsteps tromping up the iron staircase just outside the front door.
With three tremendous blows and before waiting for a reply, Paul swung open the door.
Paul lived in the apartment directly below mine. He was one of those professional study types who always had some interesting project going.
“I’ll be feeding the snake in about five minutes,” he reported.
Here I was at college where I thought everyone was supposed to be studious and intellectual, and this guy was asking me if I wanted to watch a python named Monty devour a live rat.
“I’m on my way,” I announced. I was only 18. I figured I was entitled.
I followed Paul down into his apartment. Five or six other guys were already huddled in a circle like a football team waiting to get the next play. The subject of their attention was a large aquarium about the size of a bathtub. There was some sand and a few sticks propped up against the glass walls, and a winding, multicolored figure piled in one corner. This was Monty.
“Are you sure he’s hungry?”
“Yeah, just wait,” Paul reassured us.
He armed himself with a thick ski glove and reached for a wooden box sitting on the desk. Gently opening the lid, Paul slipped his gloved hand in, grabbing the rat by the tail. Nobody said a word during this procedure.
As Paul let the rat dangle over the serpent, I felt almost disappointed in myself for being so anxious to witness such a gruesome thing. But I kept on watching.
“Here it goes,” he said. As the rat bolted to the opposite end of the cage from the snake, our huddle squeezed a little tighter in anticipation of a terrible struggle.
Nothing happened.
One of the spectators shook the cage a bit, another blew on the snake in hopes of arousing it. Still nothing.
I could feel the disappointment of everyone as Monty remained motionless. A small murmur of dissatisfaction grew into loud exclamations of “he’s not even hungry!” and “I knew he couldn’t eat that big rat!”
“Be patient!” Paul said. “It takes time.”
So we dug in, watching and waiting. The huddle broke up. Some sat down on the bed, others on the floor.
Finally, after about ten minutes the python showed signs of life. The rat remained in the opposite corner trying to jump out, but the walls were too high. Slowly, Monty raised his head and turned smoothly toward the rat. With his forked tongue working methodically, the serpent began inching his way to his victim.
The audience’s interest was again piqued.
When the python had come within a foot of its prey, the rat dashed to the other end. We again formed a circle, thinking that now the real chase would begin.
But Monty was patient. He slithered around so he would again be facing his goal, and with determination made his serpentine way at a slow, calculated pace toward the defenseless rat.
This continued for about the next 20 minutes—the snake would advance until the rat was sufficiently threatened to bolt to the other end. I noticed though that each time the python advanced, the rat would allow it to get a fraction closer. Because Monty did not appear violent or vicious, but gentle and soothing, the rat seemed almost hypnotized into believing that the snake wasn’t so bad.
Some of the guys began to leave, claiming to have studying to do or papers to write. But I was fascinated with the drama. It was no longer just the violence of watching a snake kill its prey. There seemed to be something personal about the whole encounter.
Forty-five minutes had passed from the time Paul dropped the rat into the aquarium. Monty was now getting within an inch of the rat’s pink nose before it scampered away. Each time, with unrelenting patience, the serpent turned and followed. His forked tongue still lashing, Monty went right up and touched the rat, nose to nose. It had made a new friend.
ZAP! In a split second, he seized the rat’s throat, twisted around its body, and squeezed out its life. We watched in awe as he swallowed it whole.
Not much was said when the group broke up. Some thanked Paul as they went out the door. I was the last one to leave, still watching the lump in the snake’s side.
As I made my way up the iron staircase, I didn’t feel like eating much any more. The whole thing had been so devious and crooked. I thought about it the rest of the day. In bed that night, I began to draw some parallels between the rat and some of my friends—and more frighteningly between the rat and myself.

In my own family there is a story of a young woman who had the courage to start to teach doctrine when she was only a new convert with little education. And the fact that the effects of her teaching haven’t ended gives me patience to wait for the fruits of my own efforts.

Mary Bommeli was my great-grandmother. I never met her. Her granddaughter heard her tell her story and wrote it down.

Mary was born in 1830. The missionaries taught her family in Switzerland when she was 24. She was still living at home, weaving and selling cloth to help support her family on their small farm. When the family heard the doctrine of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ, they knew it was true. They were baptized. Mary’s brothers were called on missions, going without purse or scrip. The rest of the family sold their possessions to go to America to gather with the Saints.

There was not enough money for all to go. Mary volunteered to stay behind because she felt she could earn enough from her weaving to support herself and save for her passage. She found her way to Berlin and to the home of a woman who hired her to weave cloth for the family’s clothing. She lived in a servant’s room and set up her loom in the living area of the home.

It was against the law then to teach the doctrine of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in Berlin. But Mary could not keep the good news to herself. The woman of the house and her friends would gather around the loom to hear the Swiss girl teach. She talked about the appearance of Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ to Joseph Smith, of the visitation of angels, and of the Book of Mormon. When she came to the accounts of Alma, she taught the doctrine of the Resurrection.

That caused some problems with her weaving. In those days, many children died very young. The women around the loom had lost children in death, some of them several children. When Mary taught the truth that little children were heirs of the celestial kingdom and that those women might again be with them and with the Savior and our Heavenly Father, tears rolled down the faces of the women. Mary cried too. All those tears falling got the cloth wet that Mary had woven.

Mary’s teaching created a more serious problem. Even though Mary begged the women not to talk about what she told them, they did. They shared the joyous doctrine with their friends. So one night there was a knock at the door. It was the police. They took Mary off to jail. On the way, she asked the policeman for the name of the judge she was to appear before the next morning. She asked if he had a family. She asked if he was a good father and a good husband. The policeman smiled as he described the judge as a man of the world.

At the jail, Mary asked for a pencil and some paper. She wrote a letter to the judge. She wrote about the Resurrection of Jesus Christ as described in the Book of Mormon, about the spirit world, and about how long the judge would have to think and to consider his life before facing the final judgment. She wrote that she knew he had much to repent of which would break his family’s heart and bring him great sorrow. She wrote through the night. In the morning she asked the policeman to take her letter to the judge. He did.

Later, the policeman was summoned by the judge to his office. The letter Mary had written was irrefutable evidence that she was teaching the gospel and so breaking the law. Nevertheless, it wasn’t long until the policeman came back to Mary’s cell. He told her that all charges were dismissed and that she was free to go, on the conditions she had stated in her letter. Her teaching the doctrine of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ had opened eyes and hearts enough to get her cast into jail. And her declaring the doctrine of repentance to the judge got her cast out of jail (see Theresa Snow Hill, Life and Times of Henry Eyring and Mary Bommeli [1997], 15–22).

It is important to remember that results like this were not confined to ancient times and are not limited to the children of prophets. As I visited with the father who sought me out, I told him of a boy I knew who had slipped into his own abyss and then found the way out through repentance.
This boy had been sent, at great sacrifice by his parents, to a university to acquire an education. He went with little aspiration or desire to succeed, seeking instead to “have a good time.” Shortly after he arrived, he became involved in a case of petty theft, “just for the excitement,” he said later. He was caught and put on probation. But when his search for good times exhausted the limited resources provided by his parents, he tried in desperation to steal a large sum of money—and was caught again. This time he went to the state penitentiary.
His bishop, knowing that I would be traveling in the vicinity of the prison, asked if I would visit the young man. I took a member of the stake high council with me. The large gate swung shut behind us, a guard searched us carefully, and then we were ushered into a small concrete building where those from the outside were allowed to spend time visiting with inmates.
I had in my mind a picture of a hardened criminal—mean, surly, dangerous, someone to be feared. Then the door opened, and one of the most handsome young men I had ever seen stepped into the room—neat, clean-shaven, hair nicely combed. He smiled at me in recognition and offered his hand in greeting. “President, what are you doing here? You have probably never seen me, but I heard you speak once at a stake conference,” he explained. Then he asked earnestly, “How is my family?”
After I reassured him about his parents, we talked about him: how soon he would be released and how he was being treated. He seemed in good spirits and cheerful despite the bleak surroundings. As we visited, I asked him if he had really done all the things he was accused of. His reply was prompt and direct: “Yes, and more. I deserve all of this.” The motion of his hand took in the confining room and its surroundings. “I have lost nearly everything—my self-respect, my friends, the confidence of my family—almost everything.” His chin quivered, and his face became anguished. He broke down crying. Sobs shook his body, and I held him in my arms just as I would have my own son.
When he regained his composure, we continued our visit. It proved to be a marvelous moment to teach him; he was humble and eager to learn. We talked about faith, repentance, and the divine mission of our Savior, Jesus Christ. I reminded the young man that Christ gave his own sweet life in holy sacrifice as payment for the sins of those who repent and obey. The Spirit touched each of us during those moments together. My young friend was contrite, filled with hope and a greater understanding of God’s love.
On the morning of his release from prison, a loving father and mother embraced their son and welcomed him to a new life. They visited at our home. The son was repentant and eager to start anew. He expressed his great love for the Savior and his gratitude for the opportunity to progress through blessings offered in the Church. I assured him of my respect, my confidence, and my love for him.
Over a period of several years, I received occasional telephone calls from him advising me of his progress. He was doing well; there were still difficulties and obstacles to overcome, but his progress was steady. The call that touched me most was the one in which he told me that he would be taking a young woman to the house of the Lord to be married. He had come full circle, from wickedness and despair to righteousness and joy. The Spirit of the Lord had led him to the Living Waters, and he had drunk deeply.

Ray Ivie is also the Scoutmaster of Troop 477 chartered to the 77th Ward of the Orem Utah South Stake. A couple of years ago he and his Scouts had built some pioneering projects, lashing poles together with rope to form furniture, camp equipment, even towers.

“We had poles and ropes,” he said. “And we’d been talking about a river trip, but we didn’t have any canoes. One of the projects mentioned in the pioneering merit badge book is to build a raft. I don’t think they had anything elaborate in mind, but it started me thinking, hey, we could do that; it wouldn’t cost much.”

That’s what happens when an engineer gets loose. Soon the boys in Brother Ivie’s troop were fashioning willow sticks into model rafts.

“We did some calculating of flotation needed for the weight we planned to carry, what we’d need to do in terms of water displacement,” Brother Ivie said. “We figured out that inner tubes would give adequate flotation, and we found some businesses where tubes with holes in them were just throw-aways. For the cost of patching materials and the time spent a couple of Saturdays fixing the tubes, we had the materials we would need.” The two-level rafts were designed with inner tubes lashed together underneath a log framework.

“The whole principle of pioneering is to use what’s available,” Brother Ivie added. “Teaching the boys about that is much more valuable than hiring some commercial company to ferry them down the river. And when you know you’re going to be floating on your own raft, you make sure it’s well built. It’s not like some tower you sit on for a minute. If a raft falls apart, you’re in the drink.”

After reviewing safety procedures and checking with Green River (Utah) State Park officials, Troop 477 set sail in the summer of 1983. The trip was so memorable that Brother Ivie and his boys automatically talked with friends and family about what they had done, inviting others to go with them the next year. Brother Ivie gave them copies of his assembly and instruction manual, “The PT-13 (Patrol Transport, 13-tube, 13-foot pole, Live-aboard Ship).” By the following summer, two more troops (from the Orem 15th and 27th Wards) manning a total of five rafts were scheduled for the second flotilla.

They would test a stretch of the Green originally explored by another river lover, John Wesley Powell, at identically the same time of year that the Powell expedition came through the area in July 1869.

“The Indians called it a river of no return. They told Powell that around a bend in the river there were mighty falls,” Michael Weatherred, 13, explained. “So every time his explorers went around a bend, they’d get nervous. I bet they took time to pray they’d be all right. They were glad when they got through that they’d never met up with the supposed falls.”

The Scouts and their leaders arrived in the town of Green River on a Monday morning and started building the rafts at a state park where a boat ramp provides easy access to the river. It took a little longer than expected to assemble everything. In fact, launching was delayed until the following morning. But once underway it didn’t take long for the fun to begin.

“It was like a moving summer camp,” said Brother Ivie’s 13-year-old son, Brian. “You didn’t have to worry about getting bored. The scenery was always changing.”

The Green River Canyon is a place where the earth gets down to basics. Rock and water, water and sand, sometimes some red rock to add brightness to the land. The Missouri-wide water twists through curve after wandering curve, past side canyons where Indian petroglyphs and explorer’s signatures are etched in the stone of thousand-foot cliffs reaching to a cloudless blue sky.

“It’s such a big place,” said Adam Pitcher, 13. “A massive river, massive canyons, huge rocks. How could there ever be so much rock in one place? It’s strange to imagine a place so big, but so empty.”

“It’s kind of nice to watch the world’s history book open up as you go down the different layers,” said Brother Ivie’s other son, 14-year-old Richard. “Those rocks must be some of the oldest rocks in the world. It makes you think back to the creation. You look from the beginning back up to the tops of the cliffs.”

And then there was always the water. If you got hot or bored you just jumped in the river.

“My dad, my brother Richard, and I would all go floating at the same time,” said Chris Higbee, 12. “At night, Dad and I would sleep next to each other on the deck and Richard would sleep up on the second level. We’d just lie there and talk to each other. It was neat. I’ll tell my kids about it some day.”

“I couldn’t believe it when I saw my Scoutmaster dive off the second deck,” said Andrew Owens, 12. “I didn’t know he could be crazy like that. But he got right in there and did the same things we did. He likes to have fun, too.”

Jim Oldroyd, 12, told of running across flat places on the bank where silt had accumulated.

“At first it was solid, but then we’d keep running on it and it turned into mud,” he said.

“The mud’s buoyant, so you can’t sink, and it’s a lot warmer than the water, because it’s been out in the sun. A warm mud bath was just the thing to get rid of mosquitoes,” Richard Ivie said. “Of course, when you got out you looked like a chocolate statue.”

Mosquitoes were a constant plague to the adventurers. “They were the worst where there were plants and bushes,” said Scott Hafen, 14. “When we tried to pull in to shore and tie up, they’d mob us. And they’d buzz and bite all night long while we were trying to sleep.”

But despite the whining attacks of buzzbombing mosquitoes, everyone who floated the Green would return home enchanted. They’d tell of visiting Geyser Springs and Anvil Bottom, of renaming Trinity Alcove “Cobra Swamp,” in honor of the shape of a nearby rock formation. They’d brag of their climb up the steep sides of Bowknot Bend, where fast winds snatched some of their hats and tossed them thousands of feet down the canyon. And they’d tell how the river makes a nine-mile elbow to come back within 600 yards of where it started.

Jason Von Zomeren, 16, would remember how he cooled off watermelons by floating them next to him in the river. Scott Hanson, assistant adviser to the teachers quorum in the 27th Ward, would remember demonstrating his black powder rifle, teaching the young men how to load and shoot it. Months later he would still be talking about how the river trip had taught everyone to reach out to others.

“It’s a lot easier to get your boat to shore if there’s someone there to throw a line to,” he said.

Even though the Green River seems to meander, the current at the center is an express lane. At the end of four days, the rafts had traveled 68 miles. It was time for the Friday night campfire, the closing ceremony of the trip.

Each boy’s parents had sent a letter for him to read.

“We read the letters and then just thought for a few minutes. Then we bore our testimonies to each other and said how much we’d grown closer by working together,” said Jeff Barrett, 14. “People don’t always tell you how they feel right at the time, but we all did. You told everybody how you felt.”

He remembered one special incident from the trip:

“When we were coming in the last night, there was a storm and it was blowing. We all tried to row against the current and the wind. Our two leaders, the Scoutmaster and my dad, were wearing themselves out trying to get the boat in. We had to take everything down that would prevent us from getting to shore. If we missed the landing, we’d be gone down river for 70 miles more. So we said a prayer for help. After that, the wind died down for a minute and the rain stopped. We made it in before it started up again.”

The next morning, as tubes were deflated and lashings untied, as rafts became mere piles of poles to be loaded onto trucks, Brother Ivie said the journey down the Green could not have been better.

“To do a Tom Sawyer float is something every man dreams about some time in his life,” he said. “The reason I put in the hours I did was because I decided years ago that when my sons were in Scouting we’d do things together. Next year we’re going bicycling. But I can see a few years from now that I might get my daughters to build some rafts. Maybe we can take them down to Lake Powell and float next to the big houseboats.”

Isn’t that just the way Tom and Huck would discuss it?

In spite of her time-consuming activities, Amelia still felt that she needed to make one more long-distance flight. She told her husband that it would be her last long flight.
On January 11, 1937, Amelia started her flight by flying west from Oakland, California, to Hawaii. Then she had an accident while trying to take off in Honolulu, and she was delayed several weeks until major repairs were completed on her Lockheed Electra airplane. During this time it was decided that Amelia should fly around the world going east instead of west.
It was May 1937 when she finally took off from Oakland again. Amelia said she was just making a test flight. On board with her were Fred Noonan, her navigator; Bo McKneeley, her mechanic; and her husband. Things went so well, however, that they continued on to Miami, where on June 1 Amelia and Fred Noonan took off to finish the eastward flight around the world. A month later, on July 2, 1937, Amelia Earhart’s plane was lost while she was trying to locate Howland Island in the South Pacific Ocean. She had completed more than two-thirds of her around-the-world flight. Neither she, Fred Noonan, nor the airplane were ever found.

One of my earliest memories is of waking up one morning when I was about four years old and seeing my mother lying on her bed in terrible pain. She couldn’t get up. She told me to get my Uncle Mike, who lived about three hundred yards (270 m) down our country lane.
I climbed up on a stool and cranked the telephone, trying to call my uncle. When that didn’t work, I hurried outside, calling his name.
Somehow Uncle Mike heard and came. As soon as he saw Mother, he knew something was wrong. He bundled her up, carried her out to his car, and drove her to Salt Lake City.
The doctors never did know exactly what was wrong with Mother, but she was very ill. While she spent months in Salt Lake City being treated, I lived with relatives. We were happy when she came home, even for brief periods, and my older brother and sister and I did what we could to help her until she left for another long period of treatment.
Our family prayed to Heavenly Father often. We always asked Him to help my mother feel better and be strong. Mother also received priesthood blessings. I saw Heavenly Father strengthen my mother and bring her peace. I know that He hears and answers our prayers.

Joey Reidhead, 17, from the Harris Second Ward, quickly became good friends with his partner, 4-year-old Mikey. “He was very quiet. He didn’t talk very much. But you could tell when he was excited,” Joey said. “He was so excited, he went around to every single game twice. When I was taking Mikey around, he was just like a little brother to me.”
But what Joey remembers most isn’t the excitement of the day but the lesson about gratitude he learned when it was time for Mikey to go home.
“When he left to get on the bus, he said to me, ‘Why do I have to go?’ I wish I could have traded everything that I had, because I had been so ungrateful. I wish I could have just given it to him, because I had taken it for granted so many times. I loved him so much, and it was strange that I had only known this boy for maybe three hours, and I had this overwhelming love for him. It was amazing.”

Seeing them seated behind me brings to mind a short story from Mt. Kisco, New York, reported in the Reader’s Digest.
“Once upon a time, there was a little red schoolhouse with one big room for 27 children. The teacher sat with an American flag on one side of her and a blackboard on the other. The children sat in rows facing her, the littlest ones in front. The youngest was seven, and she was very little. The biggest was 16, and he was six feet tall. The youngest was smart, and she could read with the other children. The biggest was dumb, but he was strong and could help the teacher carry in wood. In bad weather, he carried the littlest girl across the puddle in front of the schoolhouse. And sometimes she helped him with his reading.
“Then one day the state built a big highway, right past the schoolhouse door. And the State Education Department came by and said, ‘Great things are happening in education. There are special teachers for arithmetic, reading, art and music. If you combine with other schoolhouses, you could have a great big school where your children could have all the advantages. And big yellow buses could carry your children over the new highway right up to the school door.’ So the parents voted to consolidate, and the little red schoolhouse was abandoned.
“At first things went well in the big school. But after a while, the State Education Department said that it wasn’t providing the children with enough meaningful experiences. And some parents complained that the children were not learning to read and write and figure as well as they had in the little red schoolhouse. ‘We will try some new things,’ said the educators. So they tried the ungraded primer, where fast readers were not slowed down by slow readers, and where children who had trouble with numbers did not get moved on to the next grade before they could add 3 and 5. This helped, but not enough.
“‘We will try something more,’ the educators said. ‘We will tear down some walls at the new school, so the children will be working together in one big room. That way, there will be less peer-group competition.’
“Finally, an important educator came along, looked at the school and said, ‘This is good, but it is not good enough. It is too big, and the children are losing their identity. There are not enough interpersonal relationships in the infrastructure. What we really need is a one-room schoolhouse. And since red is a cheerful color, I think we ought to paint it red.’” (From Mt. Kisco, N.Y., Patent Trader, in Reader’s Digest, March 1973, p. 68. Used by permission.)

Emo’onahe (eh-moh-oh-nah) decided to share her talent of hoop dancing, which is part of her Native American culture. “One of my friends who went to FSY before me told me that they had this talent show and that I should perform,” she says.

“I was a little bit nervous, so I tried not to focus on the crowd.” But it was kind of hard not to! “I could hear everyone going crazy,” she says. “They were so loud I could barely hear the music, so I was barely able to keep on beat!”

Emo’onahe has worked hard to get good at hoop dancing. She says, “There was definitely a learning curve.” But the more she practiced, the more she learned about herself.

Hoop dancing is a form of personal storytelling. “You start off with one hoop representing your beginning, and then you continue adding hoops to show more things about your life. In my performance, you could see a butterfly, an eagle, and a cowboy,” Emo’onahe says. “When I’m telling my story, I feel like I’m telling the story of those I’ve learned from and experiences I’ve had.”

Emo’onahe is from the Cheyenne and Arapahoe tribes of Oklahoma, and is also Fort Peck Sioux and Assiniboine. She says, “I used to feel so different from everyone else,” and sometimes “that made me uncomfortable.” But hoop dancing embraces individuality. Each dancer creates their own choreography, and “that’s what makes it so unique and personal to you,” she says.

Emo’onahe feels closer to God as she prays, reads the scriptures, and strives to follow Jesus Christ. She also feels closer to God as she strives to improve in her talents. “When I pick up my hoops and dance, I can feel joy.” She recommends: “Find the things you love and find good people who will help you so you can use your talents to strengthen yourself and others. Serving others can help you strengthen your testimony of Jesus Christ as well.”

Shortly after I joined the Church, a Relief Society leader was joking about funny situations. Suddenly she started joking about me in front of everybody. I felt uncomfortable and let myself be offended.
My first thought was not to return to the ward. I opened my scriptures, trying to find comfort. As I read, I came across a verse where Jesus asked those offended by His teachings, “Will ye also go away?” (John 6:67).
Immediately, I answered in mind, “No, I will not go away!”
I called the Relief Society president, who recommended that I call the sister who had joked about me. I called her and expressed my feelings. We concluded that a sense of humor is great but that we shouldn’t joke about someone we don’t know in front of a group of people. We also talked about being sensitive to new ward members.
I continued attending that ward while I lived in that city. I had many wonderful experiences following my conversion to the gospel.

He told me that recently his wife had started feeling ill. “She knew what was happening,” he said, “but she didn’t tell me because she was scared to go to the hospital.”

Within several days, she was spending all of her time in bed. She became confused and didn’t make sense when she talked. My patient had serious health problems himself, and soon their conditions both deteriorated. They could no longer care for each other. When my patient’s sister-in-law visited them, she was alarmed. She called for two ambulances to take them to the hospital. Doctors soon discovered that his wife had advanced breast cancer.

“I never spoke with my wife again,” the man said.

His wife suffered a heart attack and was put on life support. My patient described being wheeled from his own hospital room to the intensive care unit to see his wife one last time. Then he told the doctors to withdraw life support.

The man stopped speaking. Apparently he had said all that he wanted to say. I told him how sorry I felt. He shook my hand and left. I’m glad I sat back down to listen. I’m glad I didn’t leave when I intended to! How would he have felt if I had rushed out of the room right when he was about to share his burden?

I don’t know why my patient shared his story with me that day, but I know why I listened. Alma taught that those who desire to be baptized and to follow Jesus Christ should be “willing to bear one another’s burdens, … mourn with those that mourn; yea, and comfort those that stand in need of comfort” (Mosiah 18:8–9).

My patient was bearing a burden, and in a small way, I could help him bear it. He was mourning, and I mourned with him. He stood in need of comfort, so I comforted him. In this simple way, I tried to honor my promise to be more like my Savior.

Something that happened during a Book of Mormon class years ago has had a great impact on my life. Our teacher, Brother Fernando Aguilar, told us an experience that had happened to his father, Santiago Aguilar II, who had been working hard to find genealogical information about his ancestors. He had been successful in submitting many family names for temple ordinances. Nevertheless, on one of his family lines, the information he could find stopped with his grandmother. Despite many trips and continual research, he had not been able to find the necessary information about her. But the Spirit gave him a sense of urgency to keep looking.
Brother Fernando Aguilar, currently a part-time coordinator for the Church Educational System in Chile, recalled: “One day my father had an impression that he should return to a small village 90 kilometers east of the city of Osorno—some 500 kilometers from his home in Talcahuano—even though he had recently visited our relatives there and had received genealogical information. He knew of no reason to return, but the impression would not leave. So with a prayer for guidance, he returned to the village. When our relatives saw him, they were surprised he had returned so soon, and they assured him they had given him all the genealogical information they had. He simply explained that he felt an urgency to return, even though he didn’t know why.
“My father spent the following day seeking—but not finding—additional information. After a tiring day, as he was walking to an uncle’s home, he felt impressed to change his route. My father followed the impression, even though he didn’t know where he was going or why. His new route led him to a large vacant lot filled with trash, and he felt a strong impulse to take the path through the lot.
“After entering the lot, he stopped suddenly and began to look around, seeking the reason for being in that spot so far from home. Looking down at his feet, he saw a yellowed, dirty piece of paper and picked it up. After shaking the dirt off, he recognized it as his grandparents’ marriage certificate, which included the names and other family information he was missing. This certificate was the key he needed to bring to pass the temple work for our ancestors.”
When Brother Aguilar finished his story, he took from his pocket the marriage certificate, which he had covered with plastic. He passed it around the room so each of us could read it. None of us could speak, for our emotions were great.
Then he bore his testimony and told us that the Spirit of Elijah had continued to encourage his family’s efforts. He said the Spirit of Elijah is given to those who pray for it and we should earnestly seek to obtain it.