Gospel Story Finder

Corey had a plan. Not just an ordinary plan, but a terrific plan. His dad had put a platform on the biggest branches of their old sycamore tree, and now Corey was going to build a clubhouse on the platform. For weeks he’d gathered old boards and leftover wood scraps given to him from the construction site at the end of his street.
“It’s going to be a big job,” Mom told him after inspecting his woodpile. “How do you plan on making it?”
Corey just shrugged and smiled. “You’ll see,” he said.
That afternoon Corey got out the little red toolbox that was given to him for Christmas the year before. He frowned as he hefted the hammer. It was smaller than he remembered. He sighed, put the hammer back, and closed the toolbox lid. It would have to do.
Mom gave him a handful of nails from the large can on Dad’s workbench, and Corey went to work, being extra careful not to hammer his thumb. It was much harder than he had expected it to be. But while he arranged the boards and hammered the nails, he thought about what a great clubhouse it was going to be.
By the time Dad arrived home that evening, Corey had two walls finished. The boards teetered precariously, but Corey was sure that the branches would help keep them up. He imagined his friends and himself having very important meetings in the clubhouse.
Dad came out to inspect Corey’s work. “Hey, pal,” he commented, “that’s quite a project. What’s it going to be?”
Corey’s eyes sparkled. “A clubhouse! I’m going to start a club, and I’m only going to invite my very best buddies. No one can come into my clubhouse without an invitation.”
Dad nodded thoughtfully. He left for a few minutes, then came back with his big toolbox. “Need a hand?” he asked.
Corey grinned. “All right!”
Corey and Dad worked together, straightening the crooked spots and securing loose nails. They built the other two walls, a fine roof, and a sturdy, pull-up ladder. When they were finished, Corey looked proudly at their work. It was even better than he’d hoped—it was perfect!
“Now I’m going to make the invitations to my club,” he told Dad as they sat down for dinner.
“I want to be in your club,” Sara pleaded as she picked at the casserole on her plate.
Corey looked at his little sister. “This is a club for my closest friends,” he told her. “You can’t come without an invitation.”
As Corey lay in his warm bed that night, he thought about his clubhouse. All at once, he knew who he would give the first invitation to. He couldn’t have built such a terrific clubhouse without Dad. There probably wasn’t a better buddy in the whole world. He would be a super club member. Corey fell asleep wondering whom else to invite to join his club.
After school the next day Corey colored bright invitations and tucked them into envelopes. Mother set a plate of warm chocolate chip cookies on the counter where he was working, and she kissed him on the cheek.
In his very best handwriting, Corey spelled Dad on the first envelope. He picked up a cookie and took a big bite. He frowned a little, trying to decide which of his friends to invite. After all, the club was only for his best buddies.
Corey watched Mom folding clothes at the table. He looked at the delicious cookies she’d baked for him. It was pretty certain that nobody did more for him than Mom. He smiled as he thought, I’ll invite Mom to my club too. And as he left the invitations on their pillows, Corey imagined how happy Mom and Dad would feel to be invited to his club. He felt happy himself, just thinking about it.
While Corey was doing his chores that night, he was still trying to decide whom else to invite to his club. As he rinsed the dinner dishes and placed them in the dishwasher, Sara came in the kitchen. “Can I help?” she asked.
Corey pulled a stool to the counter so that Sara could hand the dishes to him. They laughed together when warm water splashed across a plate and sprayed both their faces. Sara was a pretty good pal. Later that night, after she had gone to bed, he wrote Sara’s name on the third envelope and left it in her shoe.
Little Benny, Corey’s baby brother, was doing a funny dance when Corey realized that his club just wouldn’t be complete without Benny. He left Benny’s invitation next to his stuffed lamb.
The next evening the family began arriving at the clubhouse. First Dad, then Sara, then Mom and Benny. They brought their invitations with them and showed them to Corey at the bottom of the ladder.
Sitting in a circle on the floor, they laughed and sang and munched on popcorn that Mom had brought from the house. It was probably the best family night ever. And Corey was certain that his club was the greatest club in the universe because he had the best buddies a guy could ask for.

Last winter my daughter had a white-knuckle experience driving in a severe snowstorm. She reminded me of a similar situation I had with my two sons many years ago. My youngest son, Joe, was three years old, and my son Larry was six. We were traveling by car from San Francisco to Utah in June. The weather had been very good.
As we started our ascent to the Donner Pass summit in the Sierra Nevada Mountains, suddenly and without warning an enormous snowstorm hit us. None of the drivers was prepared. A semitruck in front of us had jackknifed and was spread across two lanes. Other trucks and cars had slid off the freeway. One lane was open, and many vehicles, including ours, were desperately trying to gain traction to avoid the other vehicles. All traffic then came to a halt.
We were not prepared for this blizzard in June. We had no warm clothing, and our fuel was relatively low. I huddled with the two boys in an effort to keep us warm. After many hours, safety vehicles, snowplows, and tow trucks began to clear up the massive logjam of vehicles.
Eventually, a tow truck hauled us to a service station on the other side of the pass. I called my wife, knowing she would be worried because she had expected a call the prior evening. She asked if she could speak to the two boys. When it was the three-year-old’s turn, with a quivering voice, he said, “Hope ya know, we had a hard time!”
I could tell, as our three-year-old talked to his mother and told her of the hard time, he gained comfort and then reassurance. Our prayers are that way when we go to our Father in Heaven. We know He cares for us in our time of need.

Thirty-three years ago, I received my call to serve as a missionary in the Utah Ogden Mission. Of course, because I was coming from Europe, some local Utah traditions like “green Jell-O with carrots” and “funeral potatoes” were a bit peculiar to me!
However, I was deeply impressed by the devotion and discipleship of many of the Saints, the sheer number of people attending Church meetings, and the scale of fully functioning Church programs. When my mission came to an end, I wanted to make sure that the joy I felt and the spiritual strength and maturity I observed would also be available for my future family. I was determined to return quickly to live my life in the “shadows of the everlasting hills.”
However, the Lord had different plans. On my first Sunday at home, my wise bishop called me to serve as the Young Men president in our ward. Serving this wonderful group of young men, I quickly learned that the joy that comes from being a disciple of Christ has very little to do with the size of Church meetings or the scale of programs.
So when I married my beautiful wife, Margret, we joyfully decided to stay in Europe and raise our family in our home country of Germany. Together we witnessed what President Russell M. Nelson taught many years ago: “The joy we feel has little to do with the circumstances of our lives and everything to do with the focus of our lives.” When the focus of our life is on Christ and His gospel message, we can experience the full blessings of discipleship wherever we live.

A group of Piet’s most interested investigators asked if they could hold LDS services. They found an empty barracks in a far-off corner of the prison, put a blanket in front of the window for privacy, and set up an old soapbox for a pulpit. They had to do all this in secret because the guards didn’t allow extra meetings.

These services were filled with the Spirit, but they were a little unorthodox. The opening and closing songs were read, since the congregation didn’t dare sing out loud for fear of alerting their guards, and the worshipers had to sneak away afterwards one at a time.
Gospel principles were strictly observed inside the barbed-wire compound. The men observed fast Sunday by giving their meager cup of beans to someone else even though they were already hungry themselves. Many men received a testimony of the gospel while praying through the long nights made sleepless by hunger. One of the most skeptical investigators received a testimony during such a night of fasting. He stood weeping the following day and told of an indescribable feeling of peace that had come over him. He humbly asked that he too might have some small task to help prepare for the Sunday meetings. When Piet asked him to sweep the floor each week, he replied that it would be an honor. “You enter this room,” he said, “and with you the holy priesthood.”
When the men heard about the Mutual Improvement Association, they wanted to hold one of their own, so Piet organized one, calling prisoners to serve as the presidency, secretary, and teacher. They studied the Doctrine and Covenants in their meetings, and Piet later reported that he had never heard that book taught better than it was by these nonmembers.
As the months wore on, the long walks around the camp continued, and men grew strong in the gospel. Their faith helped them to endure. The men developed a deep love for Piet, and one Easter morning they surprised him with an original song entitled “Faith.” It was later included in the official songbook of the Netherlands Mission.
Near the end of the war, the prisoners were moved to Neubrandenburg, Germany, where the Church activities continued. On April 28, 1945, a Russian tank ran down the barbed wire fence, and the camp was liberated. A few weeks later Piet was home with his wife and children. Those of his fellow prisoners who had been willing to receive it took home with them a gift that made the hunger and cold and bedbugs well worth it to them.
Seven of them were later baptized into the Church, and with them many family members. One of Piet’s prison converts later became the first president of the Netherlands Stake.
Piet Vlam was a hard man to distract from his duty. When he was taken away from his mission field, he simply took his mission with him, and many people will be eternally grateful that he did.

I know that you have a great feeling if you live the law of tithing. I remember a time just after my wife and I married; I was working my way through school, and I was working at the post office eight hours a day and carrying a full course of law. We had lost a baby, and we had a large hospital bill. I decided to quit the post office and start the practice of law. I quit in September and failed to pay tithing that month because I had built up a retirement benefit with the government that was to be paid to me in November; I felt I could pay my tithing with that. But it didn’t come in November, and it didn’t come in December. I had to report that year to my bishop that I had not paid a full tithe. But I did not feel good about it, so I kept a record and paid it in installments at eight percent interest until I had paid the deficit in full. I had a good feeling after I got it paid. I knew the Lord had understood and accepted my performance.

By way of illustration, one young man who was anxious to serve a mission came to my home late one evening and poured out his heart to me in confession. He had been up in the hills praying for forgiveness. During the mental and spiritual turmoil caused by his sins, his mind had been drawn back to the story of Enos. At length he convinced himself that he would seek forgiveness directly from the Lord in personal, fervent prayer, even if he—like Enos—had to pray all night.

The young man prayed long, hard, fervently, and tearfully with much energy, anguish, and humility. Yet he did not receive a witness that his sins had been forgiven; rather, he received an overwhelming impression that he should go confess his sins to his bishop. Soon the young man had properly confessed all the transgressions from his past to an authorized representative of the Lord, and together they had established a plan to help him put his spiritual life in order.

In the fully organized, restored Church of Jesus Christ—which has a complete line of authorized priesthood leaders in every ward, branch, stake, district, or mission—complete repentance of serious sins always involves confession to the proper ecclesiastical leader in addition to humble prayer to our Heavenly Father.

“A group of men were talking with the Prophet Joseph Smith one day when news arrived that the house of a poor brother … was burned down. Everyone expressed sorrow for what had happened. The Prophet listened for a moment, then ‘put his hand in his pocket, took out five dollars and said, “I feel sorry for this brother to the amount of five dollars; how much do you all feel sorry?”’ … Last year millions of you responded to the sorrow of others with your means, tender hearts, and helping hands. Thank you for your wonderful measure of generosity.”Bishop H. David Burton, Presiding Bishop, “Tender Hearts and Helping Hands,” Liahona and Ensign, May 2006, 8.

“Let me tell you about a man named Emmanuel Ninger. The year is 1887, and the scene is a small neighborhood grocery store. A distinguished looking gentleman in his late 50’s or early 60’s is buying some turnip greens. He hands the clerk a $20 bill and waits for his change. As she starts to make change, she notices that the ink is coming off on her fingers which are still wet from handling the turnip greens. She is shocked and pauses to consider what to do. She thinks, ‘This is Emmanuel Ninger, a long-time friend, a neighbor, and a customer. Surely he would not give me a bill that was anything less than genuine.’ So, she gives him the change and he leaves.
“Later she had some second thoughts because $20 was a large amount of money in 1887. She sent for the police. One policeman was confident that the $20 bill was genuine. The other was puzzled about the ink that rubbed off. Finally they obtained a warrant to search Mr. Ninger’s home.
“In the attic they found the facilities for reproducing $20. As a matter of fact, they found a $20 bill in the process of being printed. They also found three portraits which Emmanuel Ninger had painted. Ninger was an artist, and he was a good one. He was so good, he had hand painted those $20 bills. Meticulously, stroke by stroke, he had applied the master’s touch so skillfully that he was able to fool everyone until a quirk of fate in the form of wet hands of a grocery clerk exposed him.
“After the arrest, his portraits were sold at public auction for $16,000—over $5,000 each. The irony of the story is it took Emmanuel Ninger almost exactly the same length of time to paint a $20 bill as it took him to paint a $5,000 portrait.
“This brilliant and talented man was a thief in every sense of the word. Tragically, the person he stole the most from was himself, Emmanuel Ninger. Not only could he have been a wealthy man if he had legitimately marketed his ability, but he could have brought joy and benefit to his fellowman. He had a choice, and he compromised his integrity” (Vital Speeches of the Day, pp. 40–41).

“Carson is here today,” James’s mom said, pointing to a boy in the hallway by the Primary room.
James groaned. Carson was wearing jeans and an old shirt. James knew his mom and dad would never let him wear anything like that to church, but they would never let him get away with a lot of the other things Carson did either.
Last week at school, Carson had been kicked out of class for talking back to the teacher. He always made fun of the way James dressed and gave him a hard time for being the shortest boy at school.
“What if he yells at Sister Win or starts a fight?” James asked.
“I’m sure everything will be fine,” Mom said. “Carson has never been to church, and he’s probably nervous.”
When class started, Sister Win asked who had brought their scriptures. James raised his hand along with the rest of the class, but Carson shook his head. He looked embarrassed, which surprised James. Carson usually made a joke when he didn’t do his homework. But the more James thought about it, the more he wondered what it would be like to go to a new church for the first time.
Sister Win handed Carson her scriptures to use. When it was Carson’s turn to read a scripture, James began to worry. What if Carson tossed the scriptures on the floor or refused to read?
But Carson didn’t do any of those things. He stared at the words on the page and scowled. After a moment, James realized that Carson couldn’t read very well. James had never noticed this before at school.
What do you think James will do? Will James laugh at Carson? Will he ignore him? What would you do if you were James? Turn the page to find out what happened.
James leaned over to Carson and whispered, “Verily.”
Carson looked surprised, but he said the word and continued reading the verse. When he struggled with a word, James helped him with it. At the end of his turn, Carson looked over at James and gave a small nod.
James wasn’t sure if things were going to be different at school after this. The funny thing was that he didn’t care. He felt good knowing he had helped a boy who always gave him a hard time, and nobody could take that feeling away.

By the time the motor coach passed Big Ben, Jamison knew what he was going to do. “Peter,” he whispered to his friend, “I’m not staying with the class. I want to explore the Tower of London alone.”
“Are you daft? Miss Wellington will really be upset.”
Before Jamison could reply, the teacher announced: “Get your lunches, and when we get off the coach, we’ll queue up (form a line) by the ticket booth.”
Later Jamison clutched his lunch bag nervously as he waited his turn to be searched by the Tower guard.
“Scotch eggs and biscuits (cookies) today, is it?” joked the guard as he quickly glanced into each sack. “You don’t have a bomb in there, do you?”
“N-No, sir,” stammered Jamison. Everyone was checked before entering the Tower because a bomb had recently been planted there.
Miss Wellington led the class down the stone causeway into the Tower of London. Jamison marched beside Peter.
“I’ve got to drop back, or someone will tell on me when I slip away,” said Jamison.
“I’m going with you,” replied Peter.
“You might get in trouble.”
“When Miss Wellington asks for partners to hold up arms and I don’t have a partner, she’ll know you’re gone. If both of us leave, nobody will miss us.” Peter looked to see if anyone was listening. “How do you plan to get away?”
“Simple—when we stop at the scaffold site on the Tower Green, we’ll slip away.”
Jamison had been on field trips to the Tower before and knew that at each important site a guide was stationed to explain its history.
When they reached the place where many famous people had been beheaded, a large crowd stood listening to the guide. Different school groups could be recognized by their uniforms. Miss Wellington stopped her class on the edge of the crowd.
Jamison jerked at his friend’s sleeve. Carefully the two boys inched from one group of tourists to the next. “Where are we going?” asked Peter as he dashed after his friend.
“To the White Tower. I want to see the armor. We never stop long enough there for me to really examine everything.”
The boys entered the White Tower and climbed the narrow, winding stone steps to the Chapel of St. John. Behind the Chapel they reached the room where swords from the early Middle Ages were displayed on the walls and in cabinets.
“Oh, look at this sword!” cried Peter, pointing to a long-bladed weapon with a jeweled handle.
“Now isn’t this better than trailing along with the class and looking at all those crown jewels and silver goblets?” asked Jamison with a grin.
The boys walked from display to display, exclaiming in whispers. Finally Jamison said, “I’m hungry. Let’s go up to the top floor and eat our lunch.”
“They won’t let us eat up there,” said Peter.
“I’ll show you a place where we can eat and they won’t see us.” Jamison wiggled his way through the people standing beside a counter of Middle Ages armor and headed for some stairs. He motioned for Peter to follow.
The top floor opened into a large hall where suits of armor stood like silent guards. A few tourists were moving slowly from display to display.
Jamison marched with confidence past a horse carrying a rider. Both man and beast were completely outfitted in mail and armor, ready for battle.
One cabinet housed fourteenth-century breastplates and gauntlets. Others displayed shields of various sizes and with different designs.
Quickly Jamison glanced around the room. Satisfied that no one had noticed them, he dropped to his hands and knees and crawled behind a display of crossbows. Peter followed.
It was dark in the corner, but the boys were completely secluded from view. When Jamison was satisfied that they were safe in their hiding place, he sat on the floor and crossed his legs. “Let’s eat. But don’t drop any crumbs,” he warned. He pulled his scotch egg from the sack and took a bite. (A scotch egg is made by taking a hard-cooked egg, rolling it in sausage, and frying it in deep fat.) Each boy ate his egg with delight.
“What kind of biscuits do you have?” asked Peter. “I’ve a chocolate chip and two shortbread. Have you anything to swap?”
“I’ve two oatmeal and a ginger with white icing. I wish the school had packed those marshmallow biscuits with chocolate on top,” whispered Jamison.
When the boys finished eating, they carefully folded their paper sacks and stuffed them into their pockets. Jamison peeked out of their hiding place to see if all was clear.
Everyone had gone while they ate. “We have the place to ourselves. Isn’t it great?” whooped Jamison as he dashed around the room.
“Jamison, don’t you think it’s a bit odd that nobody’s up here besides us?”
“Someone will be along in a minute.” Jamison walked over to a display and lifted a knight’s faceplate. “Hello in there,” he called.
Soon Jamison also began to feel uneasy. No one had entered the room, and he knew they had been alone for at least fifteen minutes. “Maybe we’d better go find the class,” he said. “I’ve seen enough, haven’t you, Peter?”
As they dashed down the narrow stone steps, their footsteps echoed against the walls. Jamison grew more nervous. No one had come up as they descended. At the foot of the stairs Jamison reached for the heavy iron latch on the door and tugged. Nothing happened.
“Peter, the door is locked! We’re trapped in here.”
“What? Let me try. We can’t be. Miss Wellington will have the headmaster punish us if we aren’t back when the class boards the coach.” Peter yanked at the door, but it didn’t budge.
“Let’s go to a window and call for help,” said Jamison. “Someone will hear us.”
They hurried into the nearest room.
“There’s a window!” shouted Jamison. He ran to it and looked out. “Peter!” he gasped. “They’ve roped off this area. Look!”
“What does it mean?”
“The guards must have received a bomb threat or something. They’ve closed this building and evacuated the area,” replied Jamison, unable to keep the tremble from his voice.
“What if the building blows up?” Peter asked, swallowing hard. “We could get hurt or maybe even die.”
“If we’d stayed with the class, we wouldn’t be here now. I know I’m supposed to follow rules. Mum and Dad taught me that. And now you’re trapped too! I’m sorry, Peter. It’s all my fault!”
“It’s my fault, too—I chose to come with you. I thought it would be a lark … We could have come back another time. Our parents would have brought us.”
Just then a police siren wailed and an armored demolition lorry (truck) wheeled around the corner. The tower guards rushed over to the bobbies (policemen) jumping from the lorry and began explaining the situation.
Jamison stuck his head out the window and waved his arms. “Hello! We’re up here! We’re locked in!”
The guards and the bobbies looked relieved to see the boys. One shouted, “We’ll have you down in a few minutes!”
Jamison and Peter were at the door when they heard the key turn.
“You’d better dash over to your coach,” one bobby growled. “Your teacher’s been giving the guards fits because they’ve had other people to look out for—some blind students and a group of foreign tourists—before they could make an all-out search for you. I’m glad you’re found, though. Go along now—leg it!”
Jamison and Peter did not stop running until they reached the motor coach. “When we get back to the school, we’ll decide what to do about your leaving the group,” Miss Wellington told them. She sounded more scared than angry. But the two boys were quick to sit where she pointed. “Take those seats where I can keep an eye on you. I don’t want you straying again!”
Jamison looked at Peter. “She doesn’t have to worry about us ever straying again, does she?”

The third is to be different. Let me tell you a story that happened this July on Panama City Beach in Florida.5 Late in the afternoon, Roberta Ursrey saw her two young sons screaming for help from 100 yards (90 m) out into the ocean. They had become caught in a strong current and were being carried out to sea. A nearby couple tried to rescue the boys, but they also got caught in the current. So members of the Ursrey family dove in to rescue the struggling swimmers, and quickly nine people were caught in the rip current.
There were no ropes. There was no lifeguard. The police sent for a rescue boat, but the people had been out in the ocean struggling for 20 minutes, and they were exhausted and their heads were slipping under the water. Among the onlookers on the beach was Jessica Mae Simmons. Her husband had the idea to form a human chain. They shouted at people on the beach to help them, and dozens of people linked arms and marched into the ocean. Jessica wrote, “To see people from different races and genders come into action to help TOTAL strangers [was] absolutely amazing to see!!”6 An 80-person chain stretched toward the swimmers. Look at this picture of that incredible moment.
Everyone on the beach could think only of traditional solutions, and they were paralyzed. But one couple, in a split second, thought of a different solution. Innovation and creation are spiritual gifts. When we keep our covenants, it may make us different from others in our culture and society, but it gives us access to inspiration so we can think of different solutions, different approaches, different applications. We aren’t always going to fit in with the world, but being different in positive ways can be a lifeline to others who are struggling.
The fourth is to be distinct. Distinct means to be recognizably well defined. Let me go back to the story about Jessica Mae Simmons on the beach. Once that human chain was stretching toward the swimmers, she knew she could help. Jessica Mae said, “I can hold my breath … and go around an Olympic pool with ease! [I knew how to get out of a rip current.] I knew I could get [each swimmer] to the human chain.”7 She and her husband grabbed boogie boards and swam down the chain until they and another rescuer reached the swimmers, and then they ferried them one by one back to the chain, who passed them to the safety of the beach. Jessica had a distinct skill: she knew how to swim against a rip current.

One important source of friendship and togetherness is family home evening activities. After their family has a spiritual lesson, they often engage in fun—and rather lively—activities. Seth explains, “We often find things to do in the house, like carpet tag.”
“Once we played a game sort of like soccer-hockey inside,” says Janessa.
And Aubrey, remembering another activity, simply says, “Jumping on a watermelon.” As everyone laughs, she adds, “We sort of exploded the watermelon.”
Lest you get the wrong impression, Seth explains that there was a purpose to what was going on, but something went awry. “That just happened once,” he says, “but my foot did get stuck in the watermelon.”
“And then we tried vacuuming it to clean it up,” says Aubrey, to more laughter.

This was a second witness to the testimony of my grandfather, who had learned to love the Book of Mormon the first time he got his hands on one in the 1920s. His father was a salesman and trader who traveled widely in Mexico. My great-grandfather had told his children stories of ruined cities and highways in the jungle, and my grandfather had always wanted to know who the people were who built them.

Since my mission, I have had the opportunity to visit many of those ruined cities in Mexico and Central America. I have read what experts say about those places and about the history and greatness of their people. I am very grateful for the added knowledge I have received.

But I have never been more sure of the Book of Mormon than I was that day when I asked the Lord if it was true and He answered me just as Moroni promised. I only wish I had asked sooner. My Heavenly Father wanted me to know the truth for myself all along, and I might have been able to share it with my friend.

When my sister, Nancy, and I were teenagers, we regularly attended our local church. But we began to feel that something was missing, so we decided to investigate other churches.
That summer my sister and brother visited a booth at the Canadian National Exhibition, where missionaries were showing a movie called Ancient America Speaks. After watching the movie, my sister and brother signed up to receive a free copy of the Book of Mormon. I can still remember the excitement in my sister’s voice as she announced to my mother and me that Christ had visited the American continent.
The missionaries brought a Book of Mormon to my sister and asked her if she would like to learn more about the Church. That was how we were both taught the gospel.
More than a year after Nancy and I were baptized, she began dating a young man named Luke. He had a bubbly personality and seemed to radiate love and excitement. At the time Nancy met him, he was looking for direction in his life. When Nancy told him about the gospel, he was eager to take the missionary discussions. His sister, Leonarda, also was interested in being taught.
Although Luke and Leonarda agreed with most of what the missionaries taught them, they had trouble accepting that Joseph Smith was a prophet. The missionaries told them that once they gained a testimony of Joseph Smith, then everything else—the Book of Mormon, the restoration of the gospel, and the gospel principles taught by the prophets—would fall into place.
When Luke and Leonarda met with the elders again, the discussion centered on Joseph Smith. One of the elders suggested that we should each take a turn asking Heavenly Father if Joseph Smith was a prophet and then listen silently for a minute for the answer.
I won’t forget the feeling of peace that came into that room and touched each of our hearts as the Spirit bore witness to each of us that Joseph Smith was a prophet of the Lord. Luke accepted baptism, and Leonarda was baptized a few years later with her parents’ approval.
Since that night, the Spirit has borne witness to me many times of the truthfulness of other gospel principles. But this experience stands out in my mind because it was one of my first experiences with personal revelation from a Heavenly Father who loves me. Truly, for us that night, everything did fall into place.

My daughter-in-law’s mother, Susan, was a wonderful seamstress. President Kimball lived in their ward. One Sunday, Susan noticed that he had a new suit. Her father had recently returned from a trip to New York and had brought her some exquisite silk fabric. Susan thought that fabric would make a handsome tie to go with President Kimball’s new suit. So on Monday she made the tie. She wrapped it in tissue paper and walked up the block to President Kimball’s home.
On her way to the front door, she suddenly stopped and thought, “Who am I to make a tie for the prophet? He probably has plenty of them.” Deciding she had made a mistake, she turned to leave.
Just then Sister Kimball opened the front door and said, “Oh, Susan!”
Stumbling all over herself, Susan said, “I saw President Kimball in his new suit on Sunday. Dad just brought me some silk from New York . . . and so I made him a tie.”
Before Susan could continue, Sister Kimball stopped her, took hold of her shoulders, and said: “Susan, never suppress a generous thought.”
Susan didn’t have an assignment to make that tie. She wasn’t hired to do so. Despite feeling a bit hesitant, she did it because it felt right. Susan had a quiet sense of mission to serve others. I was also the beneficiary of such service. Her service went beyond any calling because it lasted throughout her life. Never suppressing a generous thought became a part of her personal ministry.

The first books Doreen Huena wanted to read after she and her husband, Winceslas Huena, joined the Church in 1990 were the Book of Mormon and the Bible. With her baptism, she says, came a spiritual peace and a strong desire to study the scriptures for herself.

“I prayed and fasted that I would be able to read the Book of Mormon and Bible,” recalls Sister Huena, a counselor in the Popondetta Primary presidency. But because she had received only one year of formal schooling, “it was hard for me to read and understand the Lord’s words.” Through prayer, persistence, and help from the missionaries, she was soon reading and understanding the scriptures.

I was sitting in the corner of the celestial room by the organ during the dedication of the Memphis Tennessee Temple. President James E. Faust (1920–2007), a member of the First Presidency from 1995 to 2007, had come to dedicate the temple. He and several other leaders were seated behind the microphone. A local Church choir filed in and stood behind them.
A young woman I visit taught was a member of the choir. Throughout the meeting, I prayed that she would receive what she had come for. She had confided in me that she came to the temple dedication that day to find out her standing with the Lord. She had committed serious sins in the past, and though she had repented, she still struggled to feel good about herself and even to feel good about singing in the choir.
I stared at President Faust, feeling that he, as a representative of the Lord in the First Presidency, ought to be able to do something. But how could I tell him, and how could he do anything? After the meeting, he would file out of the room just as he had come in, and there would be no introductions, no handshakes, and no words exchanged. I understood that he was busy and had travel arrangements, but still I prayed.
President Faust, deep in thought, looked at me for a while—the muscles in his eyebrows were knit together. When the meeting ended, a happy expression flooded his countenance with light.
He looked at me again and then suddenly stood up, turned around, and stretched his arm forward as far as it would go. He pointed directly at my friend. Then he said firmly and loudly, “The Lord loves you!”
President Faust’s gesture was small and simple yet so powerful that it could have come only from the Holy Ghost communicating to him what I could not. Those few words blessed my friend and continue to sustain my faith that the Lord is mindful of the details of our lives and “that by small and simple things are great things brought to pass” (Alma 37:6).

During the summer of 2015, three of us Young Men leaders, including our bishop, took six young men from the deserts of southern New Mexico to the Rocky Mountains of central Colorado for a high-adventure backpacking trip. At the time, I was serving as ward Young Men president. For four days, we hiked, fished, explored, and gathered in the evenings for spiritual fireside chats. We made lasting memories—including one we will always remember.
Before making our way off the mountain at the end of our trip, the only thing that had marred our adventure was a cut foot and a little rain and hail. After we broke camp the morning of our return hike, none of us worried about the slippery, muddy trail until we leaders approached the bottom of the first steep descent.
That’s where I slipped, fell, and hit the ground. I felt a sudden, sharp pain in my right leg. I had no idea what I had done to my leg, but I couldn’t move it.
As I sat on the ground, dazed and in pain, our bishop, Bryce Heiner, rushed to my side. A surgeon, Bishop Heiner examined my leg but couldn’t tell how badly I was hurt. What we didn’t know is that when I fell, I hit a rock so hard that it severed my right quadriceps tendon, the large tendon just above the kneecap. I could neither stand nor walk.
One of our young men, Nathan Donaldson, said later, “There was a lot of panic on the mountain. Everyone was praying for guidance.” Another young man, Brighton Heiner, said, “We didn’t know if Brother Ewing’s leg was going to be all right or if he was going to die!”
I knew I couldn’t get off the mountain without a lot of help, including heavenly help. So I asked for a priesthood blessing. Bishop Heiner anointed and Mark Handly, a counselor in the bishopric, sealed the anointing. As Brother Handly spoke, a stillness settled over our group.
Nathan still remembers what he and the other young men felt as he listened to the powerful words of the blessing: “I was at peace, my heart slowed down, my mind became calm. I was in awe of the Savior’s power manifested by the Holy Ghost, which touched my heart. I thought to myself, ‘I want to be able to do that someday. I want to be able to bring peace and healing to my loved ones.’”
Despite that calming reassurance, the words of the blessing that struck me the hardest were these: “You’ll be fine, but it’s going to take a while.”
That “while” included the time it would take to get me off the mountain. I’m six feet, four inches tall (193 cm), and at the time I weighed 230 pounds (104 kg). The young men wondered, “How are we going to get him down?” I wondered the same thing.
Because I had taken wilderness first-aid training the summer before, I directed our group in fashioning a splint for my leg out of rope, tape, tree branches, and a foam sleeping pad. We still had four miles to hike and a rushing mountain stream to cross before we could reach our vehicles and seek medical attention.
The two tallest members of our group supported me by holding on to my upper arms as they walked beside me. Slowly, we began making our way downhill. Sometimes my good knee would buckle, and I would fold over like a lawn chair. I had to fight nausea with every painful step. Bishop Heiner grew increasingly concerned with each passing hour of our descent.
While some of our crew cleared the trail ahead of rocks and debris to make the journey easier for me, others hiked back up the trail to bring me water, food, and encouragement. A hike that would normally have taken about two hours lasted eight hours.
Bishop Heiner and some of the young men hiked ahead to the stream. There, with what Daniel Palmer described as “a prayer in our hearts,” they lashed together logs from fallen trees and built a bridge over an abandoned beaver dam. They also made a makeshift handrail.
“When I reached the stream four hours into the hike,” Steven says, “I slowly and carefully crossed the log bridge supported by several helping hands.”
When I reached the stream four hours into the hike, I slowly and carefully crossed the log bridge supported by several helping hands. We stopped to rest and say another of several more prayers. At that point, we were halfway off the mountain.
A few hours later, the first young men emerged from the wilderness near the trailhead. They explained our predicament to some campers riding all-terrain vehicles. Several of those good Samaritans drove up the trail, picked up several of us, and drove us to our cars.
Soon we were headed for Trinidad, Colorado, where I received treatment at a hospital emergency room. A doctor fitted me with a knee brace and crutches, and we headed home.
Steven Ewing (second from left) and Bishop Bryce Heiner (far right) with the “ministering angels” who helped Steven off the mountain (left to right): Eric Palmer, Brighton Heiner, Daniel Palmer, Jacob Donaldson, and Zane Heiner (not pictured: Nathan Donaldson, who was serving a full-time missionary; and Mark Handly, who had moved).
No, I wasn’t healed instantly. Healing did “take a while” after surgery and physical therapy. But I’m thankful for the priesthood blessing I received, the faith shown by those who prayed for me and helped me (see James 2:26), and the unity of purpose we achieved as we worked together to get me off the mountain.
We learned some important things that day, lessons that strengthened our testimonies and resolve, helped the young men commit to serving missions, and prepared them for difficult mountains they would climb in the future.
“Among my amazing leaders and peers was the power of God,” Nathan remembers. “I believe He sent down angels that day to help us. This experience helped me understand the importance of being worthy to bless the sacrament and fulfill my other priesthood duties.”
I don’t know how big a part that experience played in helping the young men on that hike commit to lives of prayer, service, and worthiness. Many experiences in their young lives likely played a key role in their commitment to Jesus Christ and His Church. But every one of those young men went on to serve the Savior as full-time missionaries.
With the passage of time, I am increasingly grateful for those good servants of the Lord—what they did for me then and what they continue to do for others today. For me, they were, and remain, ministering angels (see Doctrine and Covenants 13:1).
For their “outstanding service in implementing Scouting skills and ideals,” young men from the Rio Grande Ward in Las Cruces, New Mexico, received the Medal of Merit award from the Boy Scouts of America.

Sister Beck: When I was a young girl, my father served as president of the only mission in Brazil. There were fewer than 4,000 members—most of whom were full of potential yet not prepared to lead. Only a handful of branches had a Relief Society.

My mother was called to be the district Relief Society president. She spoke no Portuguese and had no manuals. What she did have was a testimony of the gospel and of Relief Society. She and her counselors began by helping sisters learn how to be visiting teachers.

They started their training in a small branch in São Paulo. Seven humble women attended the meeting. My mother’s counselor, a Brazilian, greeted the sisters. After the prayer, she stood with trembling hands and read a message explaining visiting teaching. Then my mother stood. She knew four sentences in Portuguese: “I know that God lives. I know that Jesus is the Christ. I know that we have a living prophet. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.” The meeting ended. She hugged the women and bade them good-bye.

What a humble beginning to such a great work! Eventually, a Relief Society was established in every branch in Brazil. The sisters worked to prepare for a stake and the first temple in South America. They learned about ordinances and covenants and how to save souls.

In part, because the Relief Society sisters helped further the Lord’s work, the Church in Brazil now numbers over one million members. Like these sisters in Brazil, we must do our part. No one can do it for us. We cannot delegate our responsibility for building the kingdom to anyone else. It is our work. Let us embrace it and excel in building faith, strengthening families, and giving relief.

Edward Howard had gone down the plank for one more piece of equipment. When Ellen saw him returning with a strange, heavy load, she asked, “Papa, why are you bringing that big iron screw clamp onto the ship?”
“I’m not sure,” he replied, “but something tells me we’re going to need it.” Papa had worked at the docks for the twelve years they’d been in Holland; he understood about ships.
One day a gale came shrieking out of the north. It tugged at the rigging, and the ship strained and groaned. Below deck, the passengers huddled together and comforted each other.
Clinging to her father, Ellen cried, “Papa, is the ship going to sink?”
“No,” he replied. “The Lord wants us to arrive in America.”
Just then a wall of water lashed across the deck of the Mayflower. Wood cracked and splintered, and the main beam buckled, pulling deck boards with it. Water seeped through to the lower deck.
Cries of terror went up. “The ship is sinking!” a seaman cried.
“Brewster,” a stranger sneered, “I’ve heard about the miracle on the North Sea. See if your prayers can save us now.”
Elder Brewster looked the man in the eye and said, “We know for a certainty the Lord can save. But right now we need to combine work with faith. Come, let’s be up on deck.”
Strong and lusty seamen were struggling against the winds and the waves. The passengers ran to help them push boards against the fractured beam, trying vainly to press it up and together again.
“This iron muscle will help!” Edward Howard shouted. He came forward carrying the great iron screw clamp he had brought from Holland, and the mast was soon repaired. In gratitude the Pilgrims knelt while Elder Brewster committed them once more to the Lord.