Gospel Story Finder

A few years ago, when Elder M. Russell Ballard and I were the General Authority advisers to the Church Public Affairs Department, we realized that media outlets often contacted people who weren’t members of the Church to find out about the Church. Desiring a change, Elder Ballard and I, under the direction of the First Presidency, began visiting the editorial boards of major newspapers, sharing the message that, as Latter-day Saints, we are politically neutral. We don’t take a position in terms of candidates or parties. We do, however, want to be the ones who define our own faith. “We want you,” we told them, “to come and talk to us if you’re going to discuss what we believe.”
Those visits were well received, and we found that our request resonated. And we’re now finding a much better understanding of Latter-day Saints among the media. Some old stereotypes have been broken down, and we see other people recognizing us as people of character who try to approach life from an educated and informed point of view. We’ve also noticed a realization outside the Church that Latter-day Saints aren’t all the same; our people are very different from one another in good and interesting ways.

“Sixteen-inch walls.” Ephraim Hanks whispered the words and the sound was lost in an icy wind. It had been summer when he built the walls, and now it was winter. Now there was a deep, penetrating, cold wind that reached through his clothes with frozen, burning fingers, and even his bones ached from its touch. Now he wanted to get out of the wind, to find shelter from it; but the thought of the walls kept him going.
The low winter sky was darkening. The wind grew strong into a steady, unbroken gust and raised up a fine mist of crystal spray across a vast rolling ocean of moon-white hills. A dark curtain of tattered storm clouds blew along the horizon. Hidden behind the clouds the sun was setting, and night, a cold liquid blackness, was coming fast.
At night, with the wind, Ephraim knew it would get cold enough to kill a man without shelter. His instincts told him to stop, to bury himself wrapped in buffalo robes under the snow. He had been caught in cold before, many times, and it was his instinct, his will for survival, that had kept him alive. But now there was something else, something deeper, something he trusted more; and the walls, memory of the walls, stood a fortress between that and the powerful wind instinct.
His horse, a big-boned black, slipped, suddenly plunging forward and down into the snow. Catching its balance it stood breathing heavily, then staggered on through the knee-deep snow. It was a powerful animal with great endurance, but it had been going since morning and was wearing down. Ephraim knew it wouldn’t last much longer.
It would be better to stop, he thought, better for the horse.
He lifted his head into the wind, searching the horizon. Somewhere ahead, somewhere along the Sweetwater River (Wyoming), he had heard a large band of Sioux were camped for the winter.
If I can reach the village, he thought. But why now? Why tonight? Even if I found the village and they would help, it would be impossible to get back until late tomorrow. It would be better to stop now and look for the village in the morning. A couple of hours, even a half a day, won’t matter to the men.
He thought of them, behind him 20 miles, 30, 40—it seemed an endless distance back through the snow, waiting for him, counting on his help. If he didn’t make it back …
Ephraim stopped his horse. It was dark. He had to stop. He clasped his gloved hands together and whispered a prayer. His frozen breath steamed up white in the cold air.
He finished. Inside, deep, distant and close, the voice, if it could be called a voice (it was more like fire) whispered for him to keep going.
The horse started again.
Ephraim remembered seeing a man die in the snow. The man just gave up, lay down, and stopped living. The man had been strong and healthy. Ephraim had seen that in another way in other men, good men who laid down what they believed in.
The wind blew wraiths of snow around and against Ephraim. It made a soft, flutelike sound. His mind seemed to dull with the sound, and his thoughts moved like the mists the wind blew across the hills.
He was bent over in the saddle with his head down. His fingers and cheeks were numb, and the numbness spread gently around, covering his neck and arms, burning flesh yielding to anesthesia. It slowly moved inward. A drowsy warmth spread over his body. He had seen this happen to other men in the cold. Soon it would be too late. Soon he would slip into a warm, comfortable sleep. There was a drifting, falling sensation.
“Sixteen-inch walls,” Ephraim formed the words in his mouth. The cold burned his face around his lips. It was winter again, but there was still the orange light.
Light from inner fires made the tepees glow in the night and washed across the hollow, the small village spread across with a pale orange. Somewhere below Ephraim, in the village, the sharp yelp of a dog broke the night silence. More dogs followed the first, and this chorus was mixed with the soft sound of human voices.
Ephraim stopped his horse in a circle of tepees. The air smelled of burning pine. He waited on his horse, as was Sioux custom, to be invited to step down. Several dogs, growling and crouching low, moved close, smelling and threatening.
An old woman came from a large tepee and motioned Ephraim to follow her. The dogs cowered back.
Inside the tepee the woman pointed to a pile of buffalo robes and disappeared through the entrance. Ephraim sank onto the robes. A fire near the center of the tent threw waves of heat against him. The warmth brought feeling back to his skin. It throbbed with pain and blood. There was smell of wet leather and smoke. Smoke hung low in the tepee and curled up slowly through a hole in the top. Ephraim’s clothes thawed and steamed.
After awhile an old man with bowed legs and a seamed, leather face came in and sat cross-legged opposite from Ephraim. A large, lanky dog followed and sprawled next to him on the floor.
The fire slanted shadows of the old Indian’s form against the tepee wall. He rested his right hand on his left and silently studied Ephraim with strong, unyielding eyes. His eyes were large and brown with small flecks of yellow around the edges, and the large, dark irises reflected the flames from the fire. Below the eyes a scar ran jagged down his face to his neck. The old Indian’s face was as expressionless as stone.
More Indians came until there was a circle of them around the fire.
The old Indian lifted his shoulders back. His hair shone silver in the firelight. He looked around the circle and back to Ephraim.
“Who are you? What do you want with us?” He spoke English.
Ephraim looked directly into the old Indian’s eyes. Only the crackling of the fire was heard.
“I am Ephraim Hanks, and I have come as a friend. My people are the people who pulled the carts across the prairie.” Ephraim waved his hands up to emphasize his words.
“Our leader is Brigham Young, who speaks with the Great Spirit.”
The old Indian suddenly stood. The eyes of all the Indians in the circle followed him up and then went quickly back to Ephraim, glaring. Their eyes looked fierce in the firelight.
Ephraim felt a weight in the pit of his stomach, and the muscles on the back of his neck stiffened. His heart pounded in his chest. The old dog lifted his head, sniffing the tension in the air. The fire popped loudly and made gooseflesh on Ephraim’s arm. He felt for his knife handle under his shirt.
Ephraim calmed himself. He wouldn’t fight unless he had to.
The old Indian narrowed his eyes and took a deep breath.
“Do you also speak with the Great Spirit?”
Ephraim nodded and relaxed.
“Do you have the power of the Great Spirit?” the old Indian asked.
“Yes.”
The old Indian leaned down and said something Ephraim couldn’t hear. Two Indians left the tepee, and the rest talked excitedly among themselves. The old Indian’s eyes studied Ephraim even more intently. Outside the tepee the eternal night wind blew. The fire flared up and died to glowing coals. An Indian carefully placed more wood on it.
The two Indians came back through the entrance carrying a litter and laid it in front of Ephraim. On it lay an unconscious boy. His closed eyes were sunk deep in his skull. Skin was stretched pale and loose over his skeleton frame. The boy’s chest rose and fell with desperate breathing. He smelled of death.
“My grandson was injured several moons ago when his horse fell during a buffalo hunt. He has not moved or spoken since. You have the power of the Great Spirit.” The old Indian was looking into the fire.
Ephraim nodded his head.
“I do.”
“Will you ask the Great Spirit to make my boy well?”
Ephraim nodded again.
He took a steer horn flask he carried hung from his waist and uncorked it. Ephraim knew if he failed, there would be no help. If the boy dies tonight … He thought again of the walls. I’ve come this far. I won’t stop now.
The olive oil poured liquid gold in the fire’s light. Ephraim anointed the boy the way the boy’s own people had done in another time and place with the same power. The prayer came suddenly. Ephraim knew a few Sioux words, and now they flowed in a gushing stream. The fire flared bright and glowed on faces. The old Indian’s eyes swam brilliant in tears. A fire burned in Ephraim and cooled. The prayer was finished. The boy opened his eyes. He sat up weakly, looked at Ephraim, and then threw his arms around the old Indian.
It was morning. There was an autumnlike mist on the ground. The sky had cleared during the night. Pools of sunlight slanted between the tepees. The air smelled of sunshine and melting snow. The old Indian’s eyes were bright.
“Stay with us awhile,” he said.
“I can’t,” Ephraim answered. “My people need help. They need food. They were caught with wagons in the heavy snow 30 days ago. Can you help?”
The old Indian turned from Ephraim.
“Buffalo are scarce this year, and the snows are deep. My people are on the edge of starvation. Our children cry at night. If we give any of our food we will die. No, we cannot help. I am sorry.” He turned toward Ephraim but didn’t look directly into his eyes. “Ask the Great Spirit to bring us buffalo, and then we will both feast.”
The fire burned again in Ephraim. “The Great Spirit led me to you for help. If you will help us now and trust the Great Spirit, there will be many buffalo come through your lands in three days.”
The old Indian shook his head. “I am sorry,” he said softly. “Our children cry in the night for food. My people would starve if the buffalo did not come. There will be some who will die as it is.” He shook his head again. “You ask too much of me.”
He turned and walked slowly away.
Ephraim swung up onto his horse. The old Indian turned and watched him disappear over the white hills. Ephraim reached the wagon train before dark that night.
The sun settled the snow the next day, and the going was easier for the wagons. Ephraim was driving the lead wagon. The day was quiet. The only sound was the noise of the mules’ hooves in the snow and the rattle of the wagons. The men were silent. Ephraim had been their last hope for food.
As they came over the crest of a small swale, the Indians came down suddenly and formed a double line along the trail. The men raised their guns ready to fight. Ephraim leaned over and waved his hand back at them. He drove forward.
As he passed through the line, the braves each handed him a large bundle of dried buffalo meat. The old Indian was last in the line. He handed Ephraim his bundle, smiled, turned his horse and rode away. The others followed.
Months later, in the spring, Ephraim Hanks and Feramorz Little were making a return trip from Independence, Missouri, to Salt Lake City when they met an old trader on the trail.
“Hey, Ephraim, what did you do to get them Sioux all stirred up?” he asked. “They been ridin’ all over the country lookin’ for you. They said something about some buffalo. Didn’t make any sense. They said the buffalo came in three days.”
Historical note: During the Utah War, Federal troops were ordered to Utah. In an effort to keep news of the order from reaching Utah, mail service to Salt Lake City was stopped. When mail failed to arrive in Salt Lake, the U.S. Postmaster gave Ephraim Hanks and Feramorz Little a special commission to carry mail east to Independence, Missouri. After receiving a special blessing from the First Presidency of the Church, Ephraim and Feramorz left on December 11, 1856.
When they crossed over the continental divide and came to Ash Hollow, they found the Majors and Russel freight teams stranded in the snow. They had been there for over 30 days, and their food supplies were dangerously low. Ephraim and Feramorz offered to help the men. Ephraim set out alone looking for food while Little stayed to help with the wagons.
Hanks and Little reached Independence on February 27, 1857.

My mind immediately flashed back to our family’s experience 14 years ago. We had 6 children, ages 3 months to 10 years old. It was early August of 2010, and we were moving to Hong Kong. This move required months of planning for our family of eight. We even dressed our family in red shirts so if we lost a child we could point to the others to show people who to look for. Gratefully, we didn’t lose anyone, and our flight arrived in Hong Kong earlier than expected.

Because we were early, we had to wait for our landlord to bring our apartment key. After 28 hours of travel, we were exhausted and sprawled out in the apartment lobby with our 14 pieces of luggage, 10 carry-on bags, 3 strollers, and 6 children. Unfortunately, I was too tired to think of taking a photo, but you can imagine the concerned look on our new neighbors’ faces as they made their way out of the building to work and school that morning!

Despite jet lag, we stayed awake for as long as possible before collapsing early that evening. At 2 a.m. we were awakened by a T-8 level typhoon literally rattling our 16th floor apartment windows so violently that we truly thought they might shatter. When my husband entered the kitchen to get water and flipped on the light switch, cockroaches crawling on cabinets and countertops scattered. He confessed to me weeks later that the only coherent thought he had was, “What have I gotten my family into?!”

Though challenges were expected, there seemed to be a chasm between knowing it would be hard and living the hard. After a few weeks of adjusting to a new school and activities, public transportation with multiple strollers, a few homesick children, frequently translating directions into Cantonese, and even figuring out where to buy diapers, I was exhausted in every conceivable way. I told my husband that I needed to be in the temple. My spirit needed oxygen, and I knew being with the Savior in the temple would strengthen me.

With our three-month-old baby, we headed out for what became an almost two-hour journey to the temple, via taxi, trains, and a bit of walk, on a hot, humid Friday night, in August, in rush-hour traffic, in a city of seven million people.

It was loud and noisy outside, but as soon as we walked through those doors, I wanted to cry. I was home. Even though we were on the other side of the world, we were truly home.

My husband stayed with our baby in the temple foyer while I took the elevator up to participate in initiatory ordinances. Never in my life had I listened so intently to the words of the ordinance and promised blessings. Those words came to life. The Lord truly manifested Himself to me that night in the Hong Kong temple. Similar to what my young sister missionary friend already knows, here is what He taught me: Through my endowment, the Lord had already blessed me with literal power to do everything He needed me to do, and He would be with me on the journey. I felt tangible renewed strength.

In 2018, Latter-day Saint Robert Opiyo joined the only ice hockey club in East-Central Africa, the Kenya Ice Lions. At the time, there were fewer than 30 ice hockey players in all of Kenya, and 17 of them (15 men and 2 women) were members of the Ice Lions team.
Today, there are over 40 adult players and 40 youth players who practice at least twice a week. Robert used the skills he learned on his mission in Melbourne, Australia, as one of the team’s executive members.
The Ice Lions trained at a hotel ice rink that was two-thirds the size of a regulation ice hockey rink. In October 2018, the team was sponsored to travel to Toronto, Canada, to play against two amateur Canadian teams.
Prior to their first match in Toronto, they trained without a goalkeeper. In a news interview in Toronto, the Ice Lions’ captain explained: “We didn’t have goalie equipment, and nobody can take that risk to be a goalie without the proper gear. So, what we used to do was set up a rubber toy penguin and we used to put it at the center of the goal and to score you had to hit the penguin above the belly.”
Due to challenges during the COVID-19 period, the team slowed down on activities and are now getting back on their feet. They often get support from individuals and groups who donate funds for their ice time and equipment that are used in the community.
Brother Opiyo dreams of the Olympics someday but is also content to be part of this pioneering endeavor. “Slowly more people hear about our desire and want to help us get there,” he said. “I’m grateful to have been a part that set the foundation for future generations.”

When I was young, falling and getting up seemed to be one and the same motion. Over the years, however, I have come to the unsettling conclusion that the laws of physics have changed—and not to my advantage.
Not long ago I was skiing with my 12-year-old grandson. We were enjoying our time together when I hit an icy spot and ended up making a glorious crash landing on a steep slope.
I tried every trick to stand up, but I couldn’t—I had fallen, and I couldn’t get up.
I felt fine physically, but my ego was a bit bruised. So I made sure that my helmet and goggles were in place, since I much preferred that other skiers not recognize me. I could imagine myself sitting there helplessly as they skied by elegantly, shouting a cheery, “Hello, Brother Uchtdorf!”
I began to wonder what it would take to rescue me. That was when my grandson came to my side. I told him what had happened, but he didn’t seem very interested in my explanations of why I couldn’t get up. He looked me in the eyes, reached out, took my hand, and in a firm tone said, “Opa, you can do it now!”
Instantly, I stood.
I am still shaking my head over this. What had seemed impossible only a moment before immediately became a reality because a 12-year-old boy reached out to me and said, “You can do it now!” To me, it was an infusion of confidence, enthusiasm, and strength.
Brethren, there may be times in our lives when rising up and continuing on may seem beyond our own ability. That day on a snow-covered slope, I learned something. Even when we think we cannot rise up, there is still hope. And sometimes we just need someone to look us in the eyes, take our hand, and say, “You can do it now!”

Elder and Sister Kearon acquired that sacred knowledge after the birth of their first child, Sean.
During Sister Kearon’s first pregnancy, the couple learned early on from ultrasound scans that their baby boy had “a difficult heart anomaly, a life-threatening condition,” says Elder Kearon. “We spent the rest of the pregnancy tracking down the best doctors, cardiologists, and cardiac surgeons equipped to address his particular problem. We found a world-class team in London, and they were confident they could fix the problem.”
Surgeons operated on Sean when he was 19 days old. The surgery was long and painstaking. Afterward, says Elder Kearon, “Sean’s little heart could not restart. So, we lost him. His death was exquisitely painful. This was not the result we had fasted for, prayed for, and pled for, but we knew that heaven’s hand was in that experience.”
Sister Kearon says, “God led us through those months of pregnancy and the beautiful, brief life of our son in a way that, at the end of it, we knew we had done everything we could for him. That was a tremendous comfort.”
Healing came from an increased understanding of the Savior’s Atonement and Resurrection that Sister Kearon gained from an in-depth study of 1 Nephi and 2 Nephi. “In the grief of our loss, I felt like I was spinning in a black hole,” she says. “And yet, time after time, that free fall was arrested by the rock of the Atonement of Jesus Christ—because it is true. His grace, His living reality, make even the most painful losses bearable and hopeful.”
Healing came from the birth of the couple’s three daughters. “They brought healing with them,” Elder Kearon says. “They are the most beautiful light in our lives, our greatest treasures.”
Healing came from the words of inspired Church leaders, including a general conference talk by Elder Lance B. Wickman, in which Elder Wickman shared the pain of pacing deserted hospital corridors as his own little boy lay dying of a childhood disease. “Elder Wickman teaches that ‘believing is seeing’ and that faith is trust in the Lord,” says Elder Kearon. “His talk was enormously valuable to me because of his clear understanding of such an experience. This was magnified by the number of times I read it and listened to it.”

“You have flour on your nose, Jeffrey,” Mother teased.
Jeffrey looked down to see the white flour powdering his nose. They both began to laugh.
“I think I have flour on more than just my nose,” said Jeffrey as his eyes traveled farther down to his shirt and trousers. He dumped another cup of flour into the big batch of bread dough and mixed it thoroughly. His sister Barbara began wiping off the kitchen table so the dough could be kneaded and divided into loaves.
“You’re both doing such a good job helping to make the bread that there’s nothing left for me to do!” exclaimed Mother.
Jeffrey and Barbara beamed at each other, and Barbara said, “Look. Even Jason wants to help.”
Three-year-old Jason was sitting on the kitchen floor struggling to pull bread pans out of the cupboard.
“Welcoming our new neighbors across the street has really become a family affair,” Mother said. “Your dad’s out in the garden right now,” she added, “picking tomatoes and zucchini to take over to them.”
“Where’s Jenny?” asked Barbara.
Just then Jenny came bursting into the kitchen.
“Mother!” she wailed. “You simply have to help me decide what I’m going to do for the school variety show. I’m supposed to tell my teacher this week.”
“Maybe you could play that new piece you’ve been learning on the piano,” Mother calmly suggested.
“Oh, Mother!” Jenny replied impatiently. “I played the piano last year. I want to do something new and different.”
“Mmm,” said Mother, “I’ll have to think about it. Why don’t you help us finish making this bread for our new neighbors, and we’ll talk about what you might do.”
Jenny glanced scornfully at the powdery white trail across the kitchen floor and at the gooey globs of dough on Jeffrey’s hands. She retreated to her bedroom, mumbling something about having more important things to do than make bread.
“Jenny certainly isn’t much help today,” Barbara declared.
“She just doesn’t realize how much fun she’s missing,” Mother said, sighing with disappointment.
That afternoon, when the Anderson family was ready to take their gifts to welcome the new neighbors, Dad found Jenny watching television.
“Aren’t you coming with us?” asked Dad. “We’re all anxious to meet the new people across the street.”
“Doesn’t sound like much fun to me,” replied Jenny, not taking her eyes off the show she was watching.
“Jenny,” said Dad firmly, “we really feel that the whole family should go over to welcome our new neighbors. Please come with us.”
“Oh, all right,” said Jenny, “but I’d much rather stay here and watch television.”
Dad rang their new neighbor’s doorbell, and a man with black hair and dark eyes opened the door and looked curiously at the family. Dad introduced himself and the rest of the family and explained that they were a welcoming committee. The man’s face broke into a big grin. Calling his wife and two daughters, he enthusiastically invited Dad, Mother, Jeffrey, Jenny, Barbara, and Jason into his home.
When Dad presented them with warm bread and freshly-picked vegetables, the new family exclaimed in unison, “Mahalo! Mahalo!”
The Andersons soon learned that Mr. and Mrs. Kanahele and their daughters, Leimomi and Lani, had moved to California from a small town in Hawaii and that mahalo means thanks in Hawaiian.
Looking around at the stacks of boxes, the Anderson family offered to help the Kanaheles unpack. Soon everyone was talking and laughing.
Leimomi was delighted to find that she would be in Jenny’s class at school. Lani was Barbara’s age.
As the four girls chattered away, Mother smiled because Jenny seemed to be enjoying herself most of all. She and Leimomi were busily rummaging through a box of Leimomi’s Hawaiian treasures, and Jenny was telling Leimomi that she would be glad to show her around school.
Jenny and Leimomi were gaily dancing around with the grass skirt Leimomi had dug out of the box when they heard Mrs. Kanahele exclaim to Lani, “Now you will be able to have a hauoli la hanau!”
“Hauoli la hanau means happy birthday in Hawaiian,” Lani explained to the Andersons. “My birthday is next week, and I was afraid I wouldn’t have any friends to invite to the party, but now Barbara and Jenny are here. Will you come?”
“That would be a lot of fun!” exclaimed Barbara. “I’ve never been to a Hawaiian birthday party.”
When the Andersons went home, Dad’s arms were loaded with pineapples, Jeffrey was lugging two coconuts, and Mother was wearing a lei. Jason toted two big bananas that had been grown in the Kanahele’s backyard in Hawaii.
“You know,” Mother said, smiling thoughtfully, “I think we’re taking more home with us than we took over to them.”
“Yes,” Dad said, “and we all seemed to enjoy our visit.”
Jenny tugged at Dad’s sleeve. “It certainly was more fun than watching television. And, Mom, now I know what I’m going to do for the variety show. Leimomi is going to teach me some hula steps and let me wear her grass skirt. Best of all, she’s my aikane (friend).”

It’s a bright, sunny morning on June 26, 1999. The green grass at the Indiana State Capitol building is looking a little shabby. A trailer pulls up, and as 14-year-old Ryan Tripp unloads a lawn mower, it becomes obvious this is no ordinary lawn job.
There are green balloons on the lawn in the shape of a big ribbon—the symbol for organ donation—and Ryan is thronged by Indiana state officials and a large crowd. Flashing a smile, he talks from the podium about the importance of people becoming organ donors.
The idea for what turned out to be a two-year mission began on a spring day in 1997 when Ryan and his dad, Todd, were returning home after mowing church lawns around Parowan, Utah, his hometown. When their truck broke down, Ryan suggested they ride a lawn mower back to town. During the ride Ryan said, “Dad, why don’t we ride this lawn mower all the way to Salt Lake and mow the state capitol lawn?”
His dad replied, “Why don’t you ride it all the way to Washington, D.C., and mow the White House lawn!” Ryan began dreaming about his name appearing in the Guiness Book of World Records for the longest lawn mower ride in history.
But something was missing. Ryan and his family felt they needed a greater purpose for such an undertaking.
Shortly after, while Ryan’s father was getting his truck repaired, his mechanic, a neighbor, confided that their three-month-old daughter, Whitnie, had a rare disease requiring a liver transplant. The cost would be enormous, and the Penders had limited insurance and funds.
Ryan’s heart went out to the Penders. He wanted to help, but what could he do? Perhaps his goal to mow the White House lawn could work together with a fundraising project for Whitnie! Why not hand out cards to the people he met along the way asking for donations to be sent to a special fund? People could pledge money for each mile he drove.
The Tripp family members all wanted to help, and wheels were set in motion. They charted a course from Parowan to Washington, D.C.; they obtained local police permission for Ryan to drive the lawn mower along state and city roadways, and a large lawn mower manufacturer generously donated a machine. Ryan’s mom, Diane, his two sisters, Tiffany and Chantel, and his brother, Robbie, agreed to temporarily take over the lawn-mowing business.
On August 15, 1997, Ryan began his 3,116-mile cross-country lawn mower drive, with Grandpa and Grandma Meidlinger leading the procession by car and his dad following Ryan in their truck.
Sound like fun? Picture yourself driving a lawn mower at 10 mph, 10 to 12 hours a day, for 42 days through blistering heat, rain, and wind. For the first few weeks, Ryan had lots of fun. He signaled his dad on their walkie-talkies, waved to passing cars, listened to music on his CD player, looked at the scenery, and made all kinds of noises as he drove along.
Then he ran into a problem. One day he was particularly tired from their early morning starts and dozed off listening to his music. He awoke to the blasting horn of his father’s truck behind him, just as his lawn mower was careening off the side of the road. His CD days were over.
After that, the hours became long, and it seemed the cornfield-lined roads would never end. “Sometimes I got a little antsy and wanted to get off my lawn mower and go do things a normal boy would, especially when it rained. It got kind of hard to just sit there and drive along the road,” he recalls. The trek became a challenge to Ryan.
However, each challenge brings its own reward, and Ryan’s was time for serious thinking. He thought about his plans for the future; he thought about the importance of never giving up, of keeping promises and commitments; and he thought about how nice it was to have his dad so close. Reaching his father on his walkie-talkie at any time reminded him of talking to another Father: “It was kind of a lesson to me about how close my Heavenly Father is and how I can reach Him through prayer whenever I need something,” Ryan says.
Thinking about his own supportive family, Ryan’s thoughts often turned to little Whitnie. He understood her family’s love for her and knew he must do whatever was needed to help.
Ryan began to see a much greater purpose in this trip. Breaking records took a distant second to helping Whitnie. And as he thought about her, and others he learned about along the way, Ryan’s prayers took on new meaning. “My dad and I would pray every morning before we started and again when we got back to the hotel,” he says. They prayed for safety, for Whitnie, and for all the people needing transplants.
Finally, Ryan’s quest ended at the U.S. Capitol. Senator Orrin Hatch of Utah, other government officials, press members, and TV viewers watched as he mowed the Capitol Hill lawn. The trip was successful—Ryan broke the record and, more importantly, raised $15,000 for little Whitnie, who received her transplant that same year.
But Ryan didn’t see this as the end of his goal. Throughout his trip he had become increasingly concerned about the 63,500 people in America waiting for organ donors. So, even before he and his dad left Washington, D.C., they formulated a plan to further raise awareness for organ and tissue donation: they would mow every state capitol building lawn in the country, including those in Juneau, Alaska, and Honolulu, Hawaii.
Two summers later, on June 1, 1999, Ryan set out on his second mission. This time he had a lot more company—his mother, his sisters, his brother, his Grandpa and Grandma Tripp, and his Grandpa Meidlinger.
The next 72 days were a whirlwind of state capitol buildings, governors, news reporters, talk-show hosts, and families involved in organ donation. The stories they heard from the many recipients, donors, and donor-hopefuls, buoyed them up at each stop.
“One of the coolest stories was about a family in Kansas,” Ryan says. “I had been on local TV speaking about the importance of organ and tissue donation a few days before their daughter died. They told us because they were so touched by what I was doing, they decided to donate their daughter’s organs.”
Ryan encourages everyone he sees to set their goals high and work hard. “With Heavenly Father’s help, you can do anything,” he says, especially if it includes serving others. “It makes you feel so good inside, and you never know how many people you helped.”
Although Ryan met many good people and celebrities along the way, when asked who his hero is, Ryan replies, “There are a lot of role models out there, but my hero is my dad because he’s a good example to me, and he believes in my dreams. I’d like to be just like him when I grow up.”

During the month of July, West Plains is like the rest of the Midwestern states—hot and sticky. Not exactly the time of year when most people are thinking about singing carols or wrapping gifts. But the youth decided it would be the perfect time to begin their preparations for a holiday celebration. Since they hosted their stake’s youth conference, they decided to include all the youth in a project that is ongoing in West Plains. Every year, members of the West Plains Ward find a way to help their local hospice, a program that provides support services to terminally ill patients and their families.

“The Relief Society in our ward has made lap quilts and other service projects for hospice,” says Stephanie Jones, a Laurel. “We decided that it would be fun to do some service projects that the youth could be involved in.”

So a few of the Laurels in the ward spearheaded the youth conference efforts as value projects, and everybody got to work.

The youth and their leaders decided that one of the nicest things they could do for the hospice patients and their families was to provide a simple Christmas decoration to brighten their homes. They decorated small, tabletop-sized Christmas trees, complete with ornaments and tinsel.

“When you or someone you love is ill, things like decorating for the holidays are sometimes forgotten,” says Angie Periera, the liaison from the hospice program who helped the youth put their project together. “But if someone else will do it for you, it makes it feel like Christmas. It’s a small thing, but it makes a big difference.”

Next, they decided that a message of love and hope would also be a great boost to people’s spirits, so they made personalized Christmas cards for each person who would be receiving a tree. Kyle La Brue and Buddy La Rue, two young men from the Osage Beach Ward, wrote “The Lord loves you and so do we” in their cards. Other youth used scriptures or wrote brief testimonies.

“Doing a project like this makes you think about your own family and friends,” says Mia Maid Julia Jones. “When we did our cards, we tried to let people know that we really did care about them, even if we didn’t know them.”

I always knew I wanted to be a mother, but when I was growing up, it wasn’t always on my mind. When my fiancé and I were engaged, one day I was talking with one of my college professors—a woman I greatly admired—about my engagement. She said something that brought my life choices into sharp focus. “You are wasting your talent,” she told me as she shook her head. She went on to say that someone as smart as I was should not get married young. She assumed I would have children in my future and would be “throwing away” my education and chances of a stellar career on my future motherhood. I could tell by the way she looked at me that she thought I was making a terrible and naïve mistake.
It’s been several years since that conversation, and my husband and I have two little girls. Kate is three years old and is my little sweetheart. She moves through life at a leisurely pace, savoring all of the little details she notices. Annabel is one year old, with bright, blue eyes and a head of curls. She’s exuberant and determined. Though I didn’t change my mind because of what my professor said, our discussion has stayed with me. In one way my professor’s predictions were correct: I do not have a prestigious working career. But my professor got the most important point wrong, because I have wasted nothing.

We chose the Book of Mormon because of its wonderful stories and plain presentation of gospel principles. It was also the only one of the standard works for which we had a large-type edition for the children. Angela was six years old, Jamie was three, and Dallas was newly born. At first, Jamie and Dallas had poor attendance, but Angela zealously showed up each morning.
About ninety seconds into our first morning, a few things became obvious: We were not going to finish for a very long time. Second, too much reading at one time would make this project miserable for all of us. And third, the children’s joy would come as much from reading to Mom and Dad as from the messages they learned from the Book of Mormon.
Keeping these things in mind, we decided to read one column of one page each day. We would each take a verse, in order, and read it aloud. For Angela, whose reading skills were limited, it usually meant that Linda or I would say one or two words and she would repeat them.
Discussions were prompted by questions from the children or the need for emphasis from Mom and Dad. Many times a short introduction to what was ahead made the reading more exciting. When a great prophet died, we felt sad and talked about it. When we came to a favorite story or favorite prophet, we mentioned it.
From the first, we recognized that reaching the book’s final verse wasn’t the point; the fun was in getting there. We soon lost any feeling of desire to get the book read in a hurry. If it took five years, so what? If the children, or even Mom and Dad, seemed to tire or become distracted, we would not read as much. We could always pick up the next day where we had left off.
We ended each session on our knees in family prayer.
As the weeks became months and the months became years, a miracle unfolded. We saw our children learning to read. Better yet, we saw them becoming acquainted with the prophets, stories, and teachings of the Book of Mormon.
As our family grew older, our children slowly mastered the text. They needed less and less help pronouncing words and names, and they rarely missed a word like Lamanite, even though they sometimes needed help with more common words. That large-type edition was soon passed from Angela to Jamie, from Jamie to Dallas, and then to our latest child, Jill. As the older children received their own copies of the Book of Mormon, their satisfaction grew even greater.

Among the early Saints who gathered to Zion was Hannah Last Cornaby, who settled in Spanish Fork, Utah, USA. In the difficult early days of the restored Church, Christmas was sometimes marked with a precious orange or a carved toy or perhaps only a rag doll—but not always. Hannah wrote of December 25, 1856:
“Christmas Eve came, and my darlings, with childish faith, hung up their stockings, wondering if [they] would [be filled]. With aching heart, which I concealed from them, I assured them they would not be forgotten; and they fell asleep with joyful anticipations for the morrow.
“Not having a particle of sweetening, I knew not what to do. They must not, however, be disappointed. I then thought of some squashes in the house, which I boiled, then strained off the liquid, that, when simmered a few hours, made a sweet syrup. With this, and a little spice, I made gingerbread dough which, when cut into every conceivable variety of design, and baked in a skillet, (I had no stove,) filled their stockings and pleased them as much as would the most fancy confectionaries.”1
Between the lines of this story is an account of a mother working through the night without even an oven to ease her efforts. Yet she was committed to bring joy to her children, to reinforce their faith, to affirm in their home, “Happy day! All is well!”2 Isn’t that the message of Christmas?

While my husband, Brandon, was in Orlando, Florida, on business, he woke up one night with a high fever and difficulty breathing. He called for an ambulance to take him to the hospital, where he learned that he had a serious case of pneumonia.

Because Brandon and I have toddler-age sons, I couldn’t immediately travel from our home in Pennsylvania to Florida. I called Brandon daily, hoping for his improvement so that he could return to us.

However, Brandon’s condition worsened. When a nurse at the hospital urged me to come to the hospital as soon as possible, I started thinking about who might be able to take care of our boys.

My mother agreed to take time off from work and said she would come as soon as she could, but the flight I needed to take left before she would arrive. I called a few friends to see if they could watch the boys until my mother arrived. A friend from Relief Society, Jackie Olds, said she’d be happy to watch them.

“Just bring their clothes and diapers,” she said, “and I’ll keep them for however many days you need to be gone.”

I started to refuse because this sister, with three children of her own, had a busy life, but she insisted. When I dropped our boys off a short while later, she comforted me by saying, “Don’t worry about them. Worry about getting Brandon better and getting him home. I’ve taken care of toddlers before.”

I knew then that the boys would be safe, happy, and well taken care of, which they were. I was able to be with my husband, who was seriously ill by the time I arrived at the hospital. But after a few days, he was well enough to return home.

I am grateful for a good friend who responded—far beyond what I would have asked of her—and ministered to us in a time of need.

Kelly Parks, Pennsylvania, USA

Years ago, when I was a young father, I went downstairs one day to our oldest son’s bedroom. He was very upset and had been crying. I was there to try to comfort him and find out what was wrong. As he and I talked, he confessed that he had told a fib to his mother. He said, “Dad, it’s so hard to be righteous.” This caused me to turn my head and smile, because he was young, but then he continued to say, “Dad, life is like climbing over a wall, isn’t it?” For a moment I was completely stunned. How could he have such insight?
We continued to talk, but the rest of the conversation is a blur. I hope my part of that conversation included teaching him how the Savior made it possible for him to repent of the fib he had told his mother and any other mistakes he had made. I also hope I taught him how very important it is to listen to and follow the promptings of the Holy Ghost each day of his life.

It wasn’t learning about the priesthood ban that shook Tomicka’s faith; it was the speculation behind that restriction put forward by some Latter-day Saints. Tomicka faced a choice: walk away from the Church or hold to the rod. Thanks to the Book of Mormon, she held tight.

I grew up in the Church. I attended Primary and went through the Young Women program. I loved it. My best friends were Latter-day Saints. When I went away to college, however, my activity in the Church wasn’t as great as it should have been.

I never had a doubt that the gospel was true, but after college I was reading about the priesthood ban on African-Americans. It really began to bother me—not so much the ban, but what people said were the reasons for the ban.

Some people said things like, “You weren’t as valiant in the war in heaven” or, “You’re not as intelligent or as faithful.” Those things didn’t mesh with what I knew to be true from my mom, from other black members of the Church who are really good examples of faith, and even from faithful black people outside the Church.

I had a moment, a crisis of faith, when I thought that I could just walk away from it all. But at that moment, I thought, “Is the Book of Mormon true? Do you believe it to be true?”

I could answer, “Yes, without a shadow of a doubt, I believe it to be true.” Then the Spirit told me, “Well, if the Book of Mormon is true, then everything else is.”

I got the impression that the gospel is perfect, but people aren’t. And so, I have to remind myself over and over that people sometimes do things and say things that don’t match with what the gospel tells us.

Some people in the Church are going to say things that are wrong. The gospel is perfect, but people aren’t perfect. The Church is for imperfect people. We’re trying to get there, but we’re still a long way from it.

A friend asked me point blank, “How did you stay, knowing all of this?” I said, “It’s my testimony of the Book of Mormon.” I believe it to be true. No, I know it to be true.

That was the reason I could stay.

In the years we lived as a single-parent family, my mom and we children developed a unique bond. We established a Friday night tradition of watching movies and playing games while “waiting up on Mom” to come home from her dates. We also had memorable family home evenings, singing favorite Primary songs around the piano.
When the announcement came that Mom was getting remarried, we were happy and excited for the change. A light in her eyes radiated hope for the future and relief to bear a lighter load. Our warm excitement, sadly, cooled off as we confronted some of the problems many stepfamilies face.
My personality, in particular, clashed with our new father’s in every way. He communicated differently than I, showed emotions differently, and even joked differently. When we gathered for family night, I could not understand why he didn’t sing with us. My mom explained that he simply did not like singing. It seemed he didn’t like to do anything I liked to do, and I most certainly was not interested in any of his hobbies. These dissimilarities built a wall between us.
As time went on, we tolerated more than loved each other. The tension between us hurt my mother. I stubbornly questioned almost every authoritative decision my stepdad made. On several occasions I vented my feelings to my mom. Each time, she pleaded with me to try to understand my dad and see the best in him. I tried, but it was just too hard.
While I was in high school, the animosity between us grew. I even considered not calling him Dad anymore. After all, I thought, he wasn’t really my father. Should I have been calling him Dad all these years? My negative thoughts escalated until my emotions could be bottled up no longer. One night, I yelled words to my mother that pricked her heart like needles. I stormed out of the house, slamming the door behind me.
Alone in my car, I felt an uncomfortable void of the Holy Ghost. The ugliness of the scene I had caused played over again in my head. In my fury I had suggested that my mom should leave my stepdad. Now, filled with sorrow, I realized that breaking sacred promises she had made with my stepdad, and with God, wouldn’t bring her or us any happiness. Why did I ever say such terrible things? That lonely night I decided to change. Skeptical that a relationship of love could be built after years of struggles, I determined to at least accept my stepdad’s role as my mom’s eternal companion. I did not want to damage their marriage.
Before, in prayer, my pleas were that the Lord would somehow change my stepdad. Now I prayed that the Lord would help me change. I asked for a softer heart. I asked to better understand someone so different from me. Love still did not come immediately. Yet it surprised me how fast the Spirit melted away the thick, icy layers of disrespect and gave me a fresh attitude. I stopped finding fault and started seeing the good.
Later that year, my stake organized an Aaronic Priesthood mission preparation camp. The week was rich in uplifting experiences. We were all soaring on a spiritual high the last night of the camp, when our parents were invited for a final testimony meeting. The spirit throughout the meeting was sweet and encompassing. My turn to stand came. I thanked Heavenly Father for a mom who had worked to keep the light of the gospel in our home. I looked into her eyes to communicate my sincere appreciation.
Just then another set of eyes caught my attention. My stepdad’s eyes looked tired after what must have been a long week. “He sure has come a long way to be here,” I thought. My mind raced through the many other times he had supported me. I thought of the early morning hour he left for work each day and of the many late nights he spent finishing projects from our home computer. I continued with my testimony, thanking God for my dad’s example. His diligence as our provider gave me a model to follow for my own family one day. When I sat back down beside him I realized the Lord had answered my prayer: I really did love this guy sitting next to me.
Our relationship has since blossomed into a friendship built on mutual respect. My stepdad helped pay for my mission. He further contributed by sending frequent letters of love and encouragement. He became one of my best pen pals and, more importantly, one of my best friends. Over time I came to recognize the love my stepdad had always had for me. Today, I feel blessed to call him Dad.

I lived in a ward where one woman was like a beacon of righteousness. Jessica (name has been changed) radiated love and goodness every week in our meetings. She went from person to person, greeting them and loving them—especially those who were “hanging on the edges” of the ward. She invited the lonely to her home, talked to the shy ones, and went out of her way to spread her commitment to Christ and His gospel. It impacted the entire ward for good.

When our son, Nate, returned from his mission, he had the same feelings as my friend John. Nate decided to volunteer to become a mentor in a program that matches adults with children in need of supportive one-on-one relationships. That service changed his college experience. Now that he is married, Nate and his wife, Carla, have “adopted” again through the program. It has been a great blessing for them in their marriage to share what they have with those in need.

I was so happy to meet President Nelson. When tickets became available for the event to meet the prophet, I made a phone call to our district president for a ticket, but he told me to wait. Later I prayed to God for a ticket and made a phone call to the district president again the next day and I got a ticket. I travelled with three other brothers by car to meet President Nelson in Bengaluru. On the way we stopped our car to have lunch in a village, where we met family members who were sad because their son had died, so we shared our testimony and told them that we were travelling to meet the living prophet, and later they felt so happy. When I met our prophet, I was so happy to hear the words which God instructed him to speak to us. I felt so blessed to hear God’s words. I was thankful to God for helping me to meet living prophet. —Prakash Prince (Chennai 1st Branch)

Years ago, when it was the practice to hold baccalaureate services at graduation time, President Harold B. Lee related a story to a group of college graduates that has always stayed with me.
He told of a woman who was widowed early in life and left with several children to support and care for. Money was scarce. The children had to work hard to supplement the meager amounts that the mother was able to earn doing laundry and cleaning houses.
But as the children took top academic honors and went on to notable achievements in the community and business world, the family attracted the attention of the local newspaper. A reporter was sent to the home to interview this remarkable mother who, by now, was somewhat stooped and gray.
Several questions were asked by the reporter in an attempt to learn the secret of her success. She had accomplished so much with so little.
The reporter asked his final question: “With such a wonderful family of children, which one did you love the most?” With a tear softly moistening her eye she replied:
“I loved most the one who was sick until she was better.
“I loved most the one who was away until he returned.
“I loved most the one who was failing until he succeeded.
“I loved most the one who was sad until she was happy.”