Gospel Story Finder

Eventually, I made my way back to BYU–Hawaii after serving a 19 month mission in L.A., a 14 month district mission in Guam, and a semester at BYU Provo. Like most return missionaries, you get thrown back into college life. I remember taking a religion class where there were more than 50 of us in a room. Mid-terms came and so, like you, we too had to take mid-term exams. Not too far into the exam, I noticed the teacher nodding his head, he then proceeded to pull people out from class. I wondered what was going on. We later learned from our teacher that the students were cheating on the mid-term. I thought to myself, “Are you serious?” Of all the classes to cheat in, it had to be this religion class. My teacher was so disappointed; you could tell in his facial expression. It was one of the saddest days in my college life. Here I thought, this is no ordinary school. This is the Lord’s University and people cheat! I thought to myself, they should be like my friend Leila. Leila was not your typical college student. She was from Tahiti and retired from working with CES. One day, she told me that she walked into her religion class; sat down to take the exam and after having read through it she realized that she did not know how to answer the questions on the exam. She wrote, “I don’t know how to answer these questions, but I live it.” She turned in her exam to the teacher and walked out of the class. She got an A for the exam.

“Maron, Maron,” her father whispered. “Wake quickly!”
Through the fog of sleep that held her, Maron heard her name but thought it was part of a dream.
“Please, my child.” The man shook her shoulder gently but urgently.
Struggling to open her eyes, Maron slowly became aware of her father. “But it is not yet dawn, and—” she started to say.
“Shhhh!” Her father gently laid his rough carpenter’s hand over her mouth. “You must be very quiet.”
What sleepiness Maron clung to fled as fear clutched at her stomach. “What is happening?” she whispered.
“Listen carefully, little one.” Her father squeezed both her hands in one of his. “I have just learned that some of Mocum’s warriors are planning to attack our people when we gather to listen to Teomnihah, the leader of our people in Kurom. I must get a message to him, but Mocum is watching me.”
“Speak no more, my father.” Maron sat up and began to pull her tunic over her nightclothes. “I will go. No one notices a girl of only ten years.”
“You are indeed a blessing to an old man,” her father whispered. ”I would send Melekib, but Mocum is watching him too.”
“My brother has done his part. Now I will do mine.” Maron finished lacing her sandals, then swung a cloak over her head and shoulders as she turned toward the door. “I will return before sunlight burns in the fields.”
“Maron.”
She turned to face her father. By the dim candlelight she could see a slight grin turning up the thin lips above her father’s bearded chin. I have done something foolish again, she decided, but what?
“Do you not wish to know where Teomnihah is?”
Maron lowered her eyes. “Yes, my father.”
“Your acts must never be more eager than your thoughts,” he warned.
“It is a fault of mine,” Maron whispered. “But I will give more to my thoughts. I will not fail you.”
“You must not, Daughter. Teomnihah must not speak to our people this day. Now go. Go to Kurom, to the house of Jorish. Go with the speed of a lion. And may God travel with you.”
“He will,” Maron whispered. “And with His help, I cannot fail.” Silently she exited into the moonlit countryside. Kurom was a sixteen-thousand-cubit journey to the east. From the moon’s position, she guessed it to be about three hours until dawn. She must hurry in order to be back before Mocum’s guards noticed she was gone.
Swiftly, but carefully, she moved along the footpath to the road. Just before reaching it, she turned into the trees, and raced beside the road, being careful to choose the way that allowed her the most cover. There would be many guards. How thankful she was for the dark brown cloak her mother had made.
As Maron thought of the importance of what she was doing, her feet seemed to take wing and glide over the rocky earth. Strength and determination to prove herself to her father surged through her. Never before had anything so important been entrusted to her. Always Melekib did the exciting things, while she helped her blind mother. Always she—
Maron jerked to a stop and merged into the shadows. Struggling to keep her rapid breathing silent, she made herself as motionless as the tree trunk that concealed her. Ahead on the road a guard approached, a sword girded at his waist and his hand resting upon the hilt. Had he heard her as she had heard him? Fear tightened her stomach as the guard’s eyes searched the trees along the road. When he turned her way, he stopped and seemed to look straight at her.
With no visible motion, but with all her might, Maron pressed into the tree, wishing she were part of it. After a long moment the guard slowly turned and went on his way, still searching the tree-lined road. Maron waited until she could no longer hear his footsteps, then spent her fear in running.
It was the fourth day of the new year, and there had been much trouble along with the New Year celebrations. For the past few years, the people of Mocum had become bolder in their persecutions of the people who followed the prophet Nephi. To celebrate this new year, Mocum’s men had stoned many Christians and plundered the homes of the righteous.
The memory of the raiders’ cries and torches and cruelty sent Maron’s feet racing even faster. But she could not keep their words from ringing in her ears: “Where is this Savior you brag about?” they shouted. “Let us see if He saves you now!” Just the memory of the horrid words sent pricks of pain through Maron’s racing heart. Her family had escaped to the caves near the land Bountiful until the celebrating ended. Since then Mocum had set guards around the land and over the Christians to keep those who waited for the Christ from seeking revenge on the nonbelievers.
“Mocum does not believe,” Maron whispered to herself as she ran, “that we Christians would never hurt anyone as we have been hurt.” Tears stung her eyes, but she blinked them back and made her feet move faster. Her sides ached and tree branches whipped her face as she stumbled on through the darkness, but she would not let herself rest.
To stop the dreadful memories, Maron began singing to herself songs about the long-awaited coming of the Savior. As she approached the protective shadows of the nearest building in Kurom, a strange feeling caused her to look up. The stars seemed oddly cold and sad, even though the moon was bright and the sky cloudless. As she pondered this curiosity, Maron suddenly became aware of something eerier: There was no sound but her breathing—no insect or bird noises, no animal sounds, no wind rustling the trees or weeds. Nothing. Nighttime was always a quiet time, but not this quiet. The silence was more frightening than any sound she had ever heard.
Urging her tired body on, Maron carefully skirted the main street of Kurom. Why had she been so anxious to come? Why had she thought it would be exciting? Maron bit hard on her bottom lip to keep it from quivering. She had not really thought of the danger or expected to have such strange feelings. “I must find Teomnihah!” Maron whispered to herself. “I must find the house of Jorish.”
There were no fires, no people, no sounds as Maron edged along the path to Jorish’s home. Tapping on the door, she called softly, “Jorish, Jorish.”
The door opened a crack. In the dimness Maron could see only the white of an eye peering out. “Who is it?” a harsh, whispery voice asked.
“Maron, daughter of Tat. I have a message for Teomnihah from my father.”
The door opened, and Maron slipped into the darkness. Finally a taper was lit, and Maron saw that the floor was covered with men on sleeping mats. The man who had opened the door turned to her. “What is the message?” he asked.
“Are you Teomnihah?” Maron asked.
“No,” the man said.
“I am.” A man sleepily turned on his mat to face Maron.
“I am Maron, daughter of Tat,” Maron whispered, though she didn’t know why. “My father sent me to warn you that you must not speak before our people today.”
“How did you get here?” Teomnihah asked.
“I ran.” Maron smiled proudly, forgetting her worries for a moment.
“Past the guards?” the man with the taper asked.
“I was careful,” Maron answered.
By now all the men were awake and stirring.
“You are a very brave girl,” Teomnihah said, “but Mocum has already gained control of the city and will allow no meeting.”
Maron’s heart fell. Her trip had been for nothing. Her message was not needed.
“Is there more news?” asked a man Maron recognized as Jorish. He stepped over the mats and men and came into the candlelight.
“No, only that Mocum has heavy guards around Bountiful. My father fears that he will make the Nephites his slaves.”
The men exchanged worried glances.
“I am afraid things are no better here. You must go back,” Teomnihah told her. “However, I do not like to see one so young go so far alone.”
“I will come to no harm,” Maron assured him quickly. “I came, and I will go back safely, for God is with me.”
Teomnihah looked at her intently. “Would that all Nephite fathers had daughters like Tat’s,” he said, smiling.
“At least let us feed her before she goes,” Jorish said.
Maron hadn’t noticed before how hungry she was. But as Jorish started pulling brown bread and cheese from a shelf, her stomach growled. The men laughed, and Maron felt her face flush with embarrassment.
A loud banging at the door silenced those in the room. “What goes on?” a deep voice asked.
Jorish looked at Teomnihah, then replied. “I am preparing the morning meal.”
“Cursed Nephites!”
Maron heard the man spit against the door before he continued, “Can’t even sleep like normal people. Always up before the sun. Let me see this breakfast party.”
Maron noticed the fearful looks on the faces in the room. She also noticed the men’s attempts to not let her see their fear. Teomnihah motioned, and the next thing Maron knew, she had been picked up and stuffed inside a large basket. Her head spun and her heart raced. The confusion and shuffling noises and a suffocating feeling all turned and churned and pounded inside her as a lid slammed over her head.
“Open!” the man outside growled. But before anyone inside could move, the guard began beating down the door. The sound of splintering wood pierced the basket where Maron huddled, and the intruder’s voice, now inside the room, cried, “Stop! Stop where you are or you will never move again!”

Our family has a personal interest in the massacre at Haun’s Mill because Sister Wirthlin’s great-grandfather, Joseph Young, was there. He had just arrived in Caldwell County, Missouri, from Kirtland, Ohio, when a small group of armed men told him he could proceed no further because he was a Mormon. He eluded the group and joined some of the Saints. He later saw the advancing mob of about 240 armed men fire into the mill where many of the Saints had taken refuge; he saw the robbing and looting. He fled to preserve his own life and then returned to help care for the wounded and bury the dead.

It seemed like a great way to earn a backpacking merit badge. A five-day trip, 14 miles in, 14 miles out, and a few side trips up canyons to achieve 32 total miles, just what the members of Varsity Scout Team 6475 needed to finish their qualifications. And along the way through the red rock country of the Colorado Plateau, from Hurricane Wash through Coyote Gulch to the Escalante River, there would be some remarkable scenery: Jacob Hamblin Natural Arch, hand-hewn by nature, time, wind, and water; and Lake Powell, Hole-in-the-Rock, and Dance Hall Rock, to be visited by car on the way home.
But as hikes often do, this one turned out to be harder on the trail than it appeared on the map. “It started out dry,” said Rob Perkins, 14, a member of the Orem 75th Ward, Orem Utah Windsor Stake, which sponsors the team. “Then it got drier and drier. Then finally, just when you were wondering if your canteen water would be enough to last, you noticed a trickle of water in the rocks at your feet. Pretty soon we were following a creek and catching tadpoles. Then we were following a river.”
The wash joined the gulch, which dropped deeper and deeper, crossing the path of water which would normally be far beneath the earth. At that point, the water simply flowed out of the ground.
But walking in the sneaker-deep stream presented some problems of its own. First of all, the water was full of silt.
“It would fill your shoes so full you couldn’t walk in them anymore,” said Willie Holdman, 15. “So you’d take your shoes off and walk barefoot. But then you’d come to a place on an S-curve where you could cut across open, sun-baked sand. Was it ever hot! I’ve never run so fast in my life. And at the end of the day, the tops of your feet would be sunburned. That makes it hard to want to put your shoes on anyway.”
Simple walking also created friction, which inflicted additional foot damage. “I felt like the soles of my feet had been rubbed with sandpaper,” Shriedhar Dusara, 15, said. “Sometimes they would get really tender.”
Of course, after a while packs got heavy and it seemed hot all the time. “It wasn’t a killer heat,” Brad Nelson said. “In fact, the farther down the gulch we got, the cooler it got. But anytime you’re carrying a lot of weight, you’re going to get tired.”
And, once again, thirsty. “We had to treat all of the water to make sure it was safe to drink,” Shriedhar said. “But even though it tasted funny, we were sure glad to have it.”
The gulch grew narrower and deeper. The sides became walls, some 50 feet tall and only four feet apart. Then the crevasse opened into a true canyon, with the river running broadly down the middle. Huge cliffs towered high on either side. Holes weathered in some rocks made them look like Swiss cheese. Elsewhere, rocks bore a remarkable resemblance to human faces or animals. In one side canyon, the weather had shaped rocks into small, round, ping-pong sized balls which literally covered the ground.
Brad explained that the Scouts would get their hats wet and let the water drip down and evaporate to cool their skin. He said he remembered being exhausted, then looking up and seeing a tree, the first greenery he’d seen for miles.
“All right,” he said. “Vegetation!”
And the river banks got greener from then on, even though rust red remained the predominant hue.
During the days, the Scouts discovered that there were plenty of grottos along the trail where they could rest in the shade. They learned that water collects at the base of cliffs and in sink holes, that plants often grow in such places, and that frogs congregate in the water. They also found some shallow quicksand and discovered that after they walked on it enough, the water was forced out and it became more solid. Evenings were spent in fireside discussions, lizard chases, games, hiking, showering under a waterfall, looking at cougar tracks, and cooking dehydrated meals over portable burners. One night the Scouts awakened to the sight of hundreds of daddy longlegs mounded together in vibrating heaps.
“We still don’t know where they came from or what they were all doing in one place like that,” Floyd Holdman, the team coach (equivalent to a Scoutmaster) said.
But of all the sights along the way, the Scouts were most impressed by Hamblin Arch.
“How can you not be impressed by something that big?” Shriedhar asked, and the others wondered with him about what hand could have sculpted scenery so monumental.
“You get an almost reverent feeling down there, wondering where it all came from,” Brad said. “It makes you feel so small.”
Brother Holdman reminded his boys of the scripture in Alma 39:44, “All things denote there is a God; yea, even the earth, and all things that are upon the face of it.”
“Yeah.” Willie nodded his head. Floyd is his father, so Willie is used to hearing him quote scriptures. But this passage seemed to mean more out where nature is so prominent. “I guess that’s right,” Willie added. “You sure feel that way when you see all these rocks. And think how long it took for the wind and rain to make an arch. It’s kind of like God is making sculptures, beautiful things for us to enjoy. This is like part of his art gallery.”
Finally the team arrived at the Escalante River.
“On the way, we had to tie ropes to our packs and lower them over cliffs by the waterfalls. Then we had to find our own way down,” Rob explained. “Sometimes on a short cliff we’d just jump down. On one of the highest cliffs, somebody had built a ladder and left it.”
“We’d been wandering around because we couldn’t find a way down,” Willie said. “Then we saw a sign scratched in the rock, ‘Ladder this way,’ with an arrow.”
“If I could meet the guy who built that ladder,” Brad said, “I’d sure tell him thanks!”
That night, the group camped away from river banks where water might rise, unrolling their sleeping bags on higher ground. The precaution paid off.
“We got up the next morning and looked at where we had planned to camp,” Brother Holdman said. “The water had risen a foot. If we had stayed there we would have been wet.”
It was a long, hard hike to make it all the way out the next day, but after coming in, going out would seem anticlimactic. And everyone was eager to make the additional stops at Lake Powell, Hole-in-the-Rock, and Dance Hall Rock. “It’s only 50 miles to Hole-in-the-Rock, once you hike out from Coyote Gulch,” Brother Holdman explained.
“Thinking about the additional things we would see kept us going,” Brad said, “but after five days of dehydrated food, so did the idea of eating the treats we’d left in the car.”
By 1:00 P.M., four hot, tired young men and one exhausted adult leader were snacking on candy bars, then relaxing in a car rolling down the highway.
“If you think you had it bad hiking out of Coyote Gulch, imagine what the pioneers went through,” Brother Holdman said. “The group that went through Hole-in-the-Rock took six months to go 300 miles, through all kinds of country even rougher than this. And they had to build trails and move wagons and cattle over mountains and through canyons.”
The words took on a deeper meaning when the young men actually stood at Hole-in-the-Rock, where in 1879 colonizers dropped down into Glen Canyon through a narrow gorge to cross the Colorado River.
“If you ever come this way it will scare you to death to look down it,” wrote one settler, Elizabeth Morris Decker. “It is about a mile from the top down to the river and it is almost strait down, the cliffs on each side are five hundred ft. high and there is just room enough for a wagon to go down … They put the brake on and rough locked the hind wheels and had a big rope fastened to the wagon and about ten men holding back on it and then they went down like they would smash everything. I’ll never forget that day. … [My son] looked back and cried and asked me how we would get back home” (Miller, David E., Hole-in-the-Rock, University of Utah Press, Salt Lake City, 1966, p. 116).
Shriedhar, Rob, Willie, and Brad had probably never thought so much about the sacrifices others made for the Church as they did looking out at the waters of Lake Powell that day. Although the lake water now covers much of the area the pioneers traversed, the courage of the moment was evident.
“I don’t even know how they did it,” Rob said. “I’d rather go 500 miles the other way.”
“You can still see the stairs they carved in the solid rock,” Willie said. “You can see blasting holes they drilled when they tried to make the opening wider.”
Shriedhar said, “It’s not something I’d want to do. All those rocks and steps to try to take wagons and cattle down. It’s so steep. And that’s just to get you to the bottom where there’s more work to do.”
Later however, as the group visited Dance Hall Rock, they glimpsed another side of pioneer life—recreation. Dance Hall Rock is a huge sandstone formation shaped like a natural amphitheater with a smooth floor. With three fiddlers in the company to supply music, pioneers spent several pleasant evenings dancing. Even today, some expeditions to the area will provide music so their participants can enjoy the acoustics.
“You think of pioneers just being in wagons all the time,” Rob said. “It’s nice to know they danced and had fun too.”
After the stop at Dance Hall Rock, it was time to head home.
During their five-day journey through Coyote Gulch, the members of Varsity Scout Team 6475 hiked enough to qualify for a merit badge, and they were proud of what they’d accomplished. But they also had learned a little bit about history and gained some empathy for colonizing pioneers.
“The next time I hear the names of those places I’ll pay more attention,” Willie said, “because now I’ve been there.”

I had an experience when I was in the southern states that helped me to realize what I think the Lord meant. I received a letter from a good brother from down in Phoenix. He was quite an elderly man. He said that his grandfather was one of the first converts in the state of Mississippi back in 1840. He said, “Since that time my father and his descendants have given over 100 years worth of missionary service to the Church.” There were then 15 in the mission field, and we had three of them in our mission.
I told that story in a missionary meeting after I was appointed Presiding Bishop in 1940—just 100 years after the grandfather joined the Church. His grandson happened to be in that meeting and I didn’t know it. He came up to me after and said, “Brother Richards, it is now 165 years of service.” When you get to adding 10 or 15 years at a time, it doesn’t take long to add another 100 years.
This was my thought: If that missionary who waded through the swamps of Mississippi back in 1840, when they traveled without purse or scrip and many of them contracted malaria fever, had only brought that one man into the Church, he might not have thought that he had done much. But in 100 years there was 165 years of missionary service from that one man and his descendants, without counting all the converts he had made and all the converts they had made. How can you “lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal” (Matt. 6:20) in any better manner than by performing a service like that?

Hope Gentile, four days before her first chemotherapy treatment in March 2015.
Photographs of Hope by Nicholas Gentile
A few years ago, a single word—cancer—thrust the young family of Nicholas and Christina Gentile into what Brother Gentile called “the uncharted depths of a life-or-death trial.” Their 19-month-old daughter, Hope, had been diagnosed with a tumor in her lower back.
“Over the next five months of surgeries and chemotherapy,” recalls Brother Gentile, “Hope’s battle for life created a kaleidoscope of experiences that ultimately strengthened our family’s testimony of the Savior’s grace.”
Hope’s trial and uncertain future drew the family closer—to each other and to the Savior.
“We knew that what we saw was only part of the reality that God saw for Hope,” said Brother Gentile. “Despite the darkness, we trusted in Him, regardless of the outcome.”
One dark night during Hope’s second five-day round of chemotherapy, Brother Gentile noticed how much hair she had lost in the previous few days. Her remaining strawberry blonde wisps painfully reminded him of her mortality. Nevertheless, he found solace in the Lord’s promise that “a hair of [her] head shall not fall to the ground unnoticed” (Doctrine and Covenants 84:116).
“I felt that Jesus Christ was deeply aware of Hope’s journey—and our heartache,” said Brother Gentile. “He did ‘not leave [us] comfortless’ [John 14:18].”
During bedtime one evening as he read a board book to Hope, Brother Gentile asked in a silly voice, “What does the owl say?” Giggling, Hope replied, “Hoo, hoo!” Then he asked, “What does the cow say?” Hope proudly responded, “Moo, moo!”
At that moment, a picture of the Savior on the bedroom wall caught Brother Gentile’s attention. The Spirit prompted him to ask, “Hope, and what does Jesus say?”
As he waited for his daughter’s reply, she snuggled into his shoulder, opened her big blue eyes, and whispered, “‘Hold you.’ Jesus says, ‘Hold you.’”
Brother Gentile gently pulled Hope’s tiny body close and hugged her as he sobbed. As Hope hugged back with her tiny arms, she whispered, “Love you, Dada.”
God had given Brother Gentile and his family that moment for a special reason: “Jesus was holding our family in His loving arms,” he said. “Since that sacred night, I have pondered the tender truth God taught me through my daughter’s words: Jesus will hold us and bless us during our trials if we let Him. These blessings come according to His perfect time, way, and will, but they do come. I know these truths because the Holy Ghost helped me to feel them in Hope’s room on that dark night.”2
I am happy to report that the Gentile family’s faith and prayers were answered. Today, Hope is a healthy, happy 10-year-old.
Left: Hope after her fourth chemotherapy treatment in June 2015. Right: Hope at nine years old.

Near my family’s home in St. George, Utah, was a big hill where I loved to play. One day as I was playing there with my older brother, Dennis, I slipped and tumbled onto a huge, prickly cactus plant. I had cactus spines everywhere—in my shoes, my trousers, my shirt. Frightened and in pain and scarcely able to move because of all those sharp spines, I started to wail at the top of my voice. Dennis tried to help by pulling out the spines, but that seemed to hurt even worse and caused my skin to bleed. Finally, to my surprise, Dennis turned without a word and ran down the hill. I thought, Oh boy, that’s great. Right when I need him, he runs away. I was afraid I was going to be left alone with that cactus in me forever.

Soon, however, I looked up, sniffling, to see him struggling up the hill with his small red wagon. He had run home to get it, and he pulled it all the way up the hill, tugging and pulling and huffing and puffing, so that he could take me home in it.

In some ways, the love my brother showed for me that day was like the love the Savior has shown for us. I would not have been able to return home without the help of my brother, just as we would not be able to return safely to our heavenly home without the selfless, loving help of our Savior, Jesus Christ. He paid a terrible price to do this for us, a price that caused him great pain and suffering. Yet because of him, our fears are calmed and we are able to have eternal life.

Something else that helped me stay strong as a youth was the seminary program, which was introduced in Germany in 1972, when I was 14 years old. It had a great impact on my life. I can still remember my seminary teacher, because she left a great impression on me and influenced me in such a positive way.
Because of my seminary experience and my individual study of the scriptures as a youth, I learned to love the scriptures. My study strengthened my testimony, and I have never lost my love for seminary and institute classes. I taught one of the first early-morning seminary classes in Germany. It was a great class. The young people loved it, and they came every morning. Some of them traveled quite a distance. Out of that group, the young men all went on missions, and almost all of those young men and women have stayed active in the Church.

Before his mission had ended, Elder Spori had received word from an almost inconsolable wife, still in Switzerland, that their eldest daughter, Katherine, had died from injuries received in a fall from a swing. Jacob, knowing well of the gospel’s ability to heal spiritual wounds, wrote his wife of the doctrines of the Church. She was touched by these new truths and became convinced the gospel was true.
Mrs. Spori applied for baptism and was reunited with her husband when he arrived in Switzerland following his missionary labors. She later bore fervent testimony and gave thanks for the eternal truths the gospel brought into her life.

Life was going to start at 16. No more having Mom drop me off at dance practice or chauffeur me on my nights out. No more watching older sophomores jingle their key chains as I stepped off a sputtering bus. I was going to get my driver’s permit!
Sure, I would have to drive with an adult in the car, but it was the first step toward freedom. Since age 12 I had been bugging my father to let me practice, but Dad always refused. I still remember the lecture he gave me on the eve of receiving my permit.
“The car is not a toy. Blah, blah, blah. Driving is a serious thing. Blah, blah, blah. People get in car wrecks. Blah, blah, blah.”
I sat in the living room, arms folded, listening quietly. But there was a gleam in my eye. I was ready to hit the road. When Dad put the keys in my hands, I felt a surge of power. Life had begun!
So think of my surprise when driving turned out to be infinitely more difficult than I’d imagined. The road looked so small from the driver’s seat. I could never shake the feeling I was overlapping into the next lane. Every time an oncoming car neared me, I swerved to get away. What’s more, I had lived in the same town all my life and never paid attention to how to get anywhere.
Now, if these had been the only crises of my driving career, I would have probably reached 17 unscarred. But I had to face another obstacle on a daily basis—our driveway.
Our driveway was five times as long as a normal one and had an uphill curve right at the end. It might have been manageable going forward, but Dad insisted we back in. He said he liked to pull out onto the road and see what was coming at him.
It was nearly impossible to negotiate the thing in reverse. To make matters worse, Dad always parked his truck right on the other side of the driveway. It was a big truck that left little room for error. And the truck was Dad’s pride and joy, a sitting duck in a bad location.
One fateful day, after I’d finished trying to find my way through town, I failed the driveway obstacle course. Dad was sitting in the passenger seat yelling his usual directions at me, “Okay, take it slowly. To the right. To the RIGHT! You need more gas. Turn it left now. LEFT! Straighten it out. Straighten it! Straightenstraightenstraighten! STOP!!!” Crunch.
My father leaped from the car and surveyed the damage. The truck had an ugly, ugly dent. He was furious.
“Why didn’t you straighten the car out? Why didn’t you stop?”
I had tried to stop, but I had pressed the gas instead of the brake. I didn’t tell him though. I went in my bedroom, and cried. Life had ended.
A while later, a knock came on the door. I opened it, and Dad stepped in.
“I owe you an apology,” he said. “I’ve always believed people are more important than things, but that’s not how I acted just now. I’m sorry.”
I was too amazed to say much. I had just smashed his truck and he was apologizing to me. He was really sorry. It was a lesson I would remember long after the other driving sessions had faded from recall.
Three days later, my younger brother noticed the dent. We were about to get in the car to leave for his soccer game.
“Wow!” my brother gasped. “What happened to the truck?”
“It was a hit and run,” Dad said calmly. Which in the broadest sense was true. I had hit the truck and run to my room. My brother didn’t notice the half smile Dad slid to me. I smiled and got in on the driver’s side.
“Okay,” I said cheerfully. “How do we get to the soccer field?”

Joseph F. Smith was called on a mission when he was fifteen years old. He served in the Hawaiian Islands for over three years.
After his mission, he was traveling through California with a small group of men while returning to the Salt Lake Valley.
One afternoon, a mob of drunken men on horses rode into their camp. They were swearing, shooting their guns, and yelling, “Kill the Mormons!”
The other men in the camp ran and hid in the bushes by the creek. Joseph F. was gathering firewood. Why should I run from those men? he thought.
The leader of the mob rode up to Joseph F. and aimed a gun at him. “It’s my duty to kill every Mormon. Are you a Mormon?” he yelled.
Joseph F. stood tall. He looked the mob leader in the eyes. “Yes, siree; dyed in the wool; true blue, through and through.”
The mob leader was surprised. “Well you are the … pleasantest man I ever met! Shake, young fellow. I am glad to see a man that stands up for his convictions.”
Then the mob rode off. Joseph F. and the other men were not harmed.

I had asked for things in prayers before and had not received the answers I wanted. When I was nine, I prayed to be able to walk on water like the Apostle Peter. I tried it in the bathtub. It hadn’t worked. When I was 10, I prayed that if God could move mountains, could He please move a perfume bottle on my dresser just to let me know He could. Didn’t happen. What if Heavenly Father really didn’t answer prayers? Maybe He just didn’t answer mine.
Yet somehow I couldn’t back away. The article said every person.
Pushing my fears aside, I finally started my prayer and explained the problem to Heavenly Father. I told Him about the article I’d read. I told Him I was pretty sure the Church was true anyway, but the article said every person should pray. Then I said, “Please help me know if the Church is true. I think it is, but would Thou help me know?” Then I ended my prayer.
I never made it to my feet before a warmth that was physical as well as spiritual filled my whole body, mind, and heart. There wasn’t a corner of me that wasn’t filled with confidence, the confidence of knowing—really knowing—the Church was true, Joseph Smith was a prophet, and the Book of Mormon was true.
“But, behold, I say unto you, that you must study it out in your mind; then you must ask me if it be right, and if it is right I will cause that your bosom shall burn within you; therefore, you shall feel that it is right” (D&C 9:8).
It’s been at least 30 years since I offered that prayer and received my witness that Joseph Smith is a prophet of God. I challenge every person in a new day, a new age, and in a brand new issue of the New Era to ask Heavenly Father for themselves if the Church is true.

Several years ago I had the opportunity of hiking Mount Sinai. It was a very significant experience in my life. I started in the early morning when the stars were still spread across the darkness and watched from the peak of the mountain the world illuminate beneath me as the sun rose. Pilgrims who had come seeking spiritual enlightenment surrounded me, adding a cosmic quality to the journey. I remember thinking I would never experience anything quite like it again. My friend who was with me, however, said that we could have many “Sinai experiences” in our lives and that we should seek these experiences.

Alice watched the new girl walk out on the playground all alone. She tried to remember what the teacher said her name was. Marisol—that was it.
Alice’s friend Cassie ran up beside her. “Hey, are you coming to play tag?” Cassie asked.
Alice glanced at Marisol. “Cassie, should we invite the new girl to play with us?”
Cassie whispered, “I don’t know. But anyway, be quiet. She’ll hear you talking about her.”
“No, she won’t. Don’t you remember when Mrs. Johnson introduced her? Marisol only speaks Spanish,” Alice said. “Her family just moved here from Mexico.”
“How would we play with her if we can’t even talk to her?” Cassie asked. “Come on, they probably started tag without us.”
Alice didn’t move. Jesus would find a way to be kind if He were here, she thought. She took a deep breath. “Marisol!” she called and ran over to join her. Marisol’s face broke into a big grin.
While they played tag, Alice, Cassie, and Marisol found out they could talk to each other using motions and facial expressions. Marisol also knew some English words, like no, yes, go, and stop. Alice could tell Marisol was having fun because she laughed a lot when they played at recess and smiled whenever the girls tried to tell her something new.
But Alice wanted to do more to show Marisol they were friends. She started praying about what she could do. One night Alice remembered that her dad spoke Spanish. She ran downstairs and asked him how to say a few sentences. She practiced that night and the next morning until she could say the words perfectly.
Alice waited until recess was almost over to say what she’d practiced. “Marisol, ¿quires ser mi amiga?” Want to be my friend? She hoped she’d said it right.
Marisol’s face lit up in a big grin. “Sí, sí!” Yes.
Alice smiled back at her new friend. “Muy bien,” she said. “Yo también.” Good! Me too.
Marisol clapped her hands. “Sí. Muy bien.” She suddenly looked nervous. “Ahora yo,” she said. Now me. “New game?” Marisol asked with a shy smile. She pointed to herself, then pointed to Alice.
“Sí! Sí!” Alice said. For the last bit of recess, Marisol showed them a game she played in Mexico. It was kind of like hide-and-seek. Every day after that, Cassie, Alice, and Marisol played tag or games Marisol taught them. Marisol knew lots of fun games.
But a few weeks later, Marisol didn’t come to school. “She must be sick,” Cassie said.
Marisol was gone the next two days. When the rest of the class left for recess, Alice and Cassie stayed behind to ask Mrs. Johnson where their friend was.
“Oh, I forgot to announce it to the class. I’m sorry, girls, but Marisol moved. Her dad got a new job, and her family had to leave.”
Alice sank down into a chair. “But … she just got here!” Alice couldn’t believe Marisol was gone. Cassie shook her head and looked like she might cry.
Mrs. Johnson looked sad too. “Marisol wasn’t here for long, but you were her friends while she was here. That’s what counts.”
Cassie smiled a little. “I’ll remember her for a long time. I hope she remembers us.”
“I’m sure she will,” Mrs. Johnson said.
Alice and Cassie left the classroom and walked out to the playground.
“I’m glad we were friends with Marisol—even if she wasn’t here very long,” Cassie said.
“Yo también, Cassie,” Alice said. Me too.

Almost three years ago, one of our daughters got married and immediately left with her husband for medical school in a distant city. She was leaving the security of the nest to begin a family of her own. I wondered: “Did I teach her everything she needs to know? Does she know what is most important in this life? Is she prepared to build a happy home?”
As I watched her drive away, I remembered a little journal I gave her on her 17th birthday. It was entitled “Did I Tell You … ?” In it I recorded counsel I had often given her in our late-night conversations. As she and her new husband headed for their life together, I thought of three additional entries I wanted to add to that little journal to help her make a transition more important and challenging than that of crossing the country—the transition to starting her own home and family. Let me share these entries to her and to all young people in the Church, to teach and testify of the importance of family.
First, did I tell you … how to make your home a haven of peace and a fortress of strength? You should follow the pattern you witnessed as you entered the Lord’s house, to “establish a house … of prayer, a house of fasting, a house of faith, a house of learning, … a house of order” (D&C 109:8). As we follow this pattern, great peace will dwell within our homes in a world of increasing turmoil.
Look to the example of your grandparents’ homes. Both sets of grandparents brought up their “children in light and truth” (D&C 93:40). Dad’s home was a house of learning. He said at his father’s funeral that he had never learned a gospel principle at a Church meeting that he hadn’t already learned in his own home. The Church was a supplement to his home. My home was a house of order. It was of utmost importance (in spite of many hectic schedules) for us to be together for breakfast and dinner. Mealtime meant more than just refueling. It was a crucial time for nourishing spirits as well as bodies.
Small things make a happy home—things like praying, saying “I’m sorry,” expressing gratitude, reading a good book together. Remember how we laughed and cried as we built the backyard fence? Remember how every time we drove in the car we sang so we wouldn’t quarrel? Remember how we fasted for one member’s important decision and for another’s crucial test? The family proclamation reiterates this: “Successful … families are established … on principles of faith, prayer, repentance, forgiveness, respect, love, compassion, work, and wholesome … activities” (“The Family: A Proclamation to the World,” Ensign, Nov. 1995, 102; Liahona, Oct. 1998, 24).
In your youth, you formed habits of praying and reading scriptures. Capitalize on those habits as well as the skills you learned of cooking and budgeting. With your righteous desires and your homemaking abilities, you will build a home that is a haven of peace and a fortress of strength.
Next, did I tell you … that “children are an heritage of the Lord”? (Psalm 127:3). The family proclamation declares, “God’s commandment for His children to multiply and replenish the earth remains in force” (Ensign, Nov. 1995, 102; Liahona, Oct. 1998, 24). We hope Heavenly Father will bless you with children. Many in the world miss the joy and see children only as an inconvenience. It is true that parenting is physically exhausting, emotionally draining, and mentally demanding. No one will give you good grades or blue ribbons for what you do as a mother. Sometimes you might wonder, “Did I do this right? Is it all worth it?”
It is worth it! All latter-day prophets have borne witness to the sacred role of motherhood. President Spencer W. Kimball said, “It is important for you Latter-day Saint women to understand that the Lord holds motherhood and mothers sacred and in the highest esteem” (“Privileges and Responsibilities of Sisters,” Ensign, Nov. 1978, 105). The Spirit testifies to my soul that this is true.
You will come to know, as I do, that parenting is not only challenging, but it provides life’s greatest joys. Joy comes when at family home evening a five-year-old tells a scripture story with complete and correct details or when a child reads the Book of Mormon faithfully every night. I feel joy when my cheerleader has the courage to tell her squad that the new cheer they are learning has inappropriate actions in it, and when a missionary daughter writes of her testimony of the gospel. Joy comes as I watch a daughter read to a blind woman and a son serve in the temple. In these moments, I feel as John the Beloved: “I have no greater joy than to hear that my children walk in truth” (3 John 1:4). Did I tell you … that to the very depths of my being, I love being a mother?
Finally, did I tell you … that love is the foundational virtue in building a strong home? Our Father in Heaven exemplifies the pattern we should follow. He loves us, teaches us, is patient with us, and entrusts us with our agency. President Hinckley said: “Love can make the difference—love generously given in childhood and reaching through the awkward years of youth … and encouragement that is quick to compliment and slow to criticize” (in Conference Report, Oct. 1993, 79–80; or Ensign, Nov. 1993, 60). Sometimes discipline, which means “to teach,” is confused with criticism. Children, as well as people of all ages, improve behavior from love and encouragement more than from faultfinding.
When a young man I know had a long hippie hairstyle during his teens, his parents chose to concentrate instead on his good work ethic and his kindness to needy people. Eventually he himself chose to cut his hair. He went on to get a good education, serve in the Church, and follow in his own family this pattern of loving children into doing what is right.
We demonstrate our love for family members not only in teaching them affirmatively but also in giving them of our time. Some time ago I read an article called “Putting Children Last,” which told about parents who talk about their children in “appointment book” terms: 15 minutes at night when possible, regularly scheduled play time once a week, and so on (see Mary Eberstadt, Wall Street Journal, 2 May 1995). Contrast that with the mother who vowed to give her children not just quality time but quantity time. She recognized that a loving relationship requires constant and ongoing talking, playing, laughing, and working moments. I too believe that parents and children need to participate in each other’s everyday, ordinary experiences. So I know about your upcoming test; you know about my lesson preparation. I attend your games; you join me in the kitchen for dinner preparation. We are major players in each other’s lives, absorbing love through daily experiences.
And love endures through the hardships of life. The Apostle Paul taught: “Charity suffereth long. … [It] beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things. Charity never faileth” (1 Corinthians 13:4, 7, 8). I watched a mother’s enduring love for her alcoholic son. She never gave up praying for him and being available for him. In his later years, he finally “came to himself” (Luke 15:17), kept a respectable job, and used his mechanical skills to fix up his mother’s house.
Many families struggle with wayward children. We can take comfort in “the eternal sealings of faithful parents” which will draw children “back to the fold” (Orson F. Whitney, in Conference Report, Apr. 1929, 110). We must never give up loving them, praying for them, and trusting in our Heavenly Father’s care.
So to my daughter, and to all young people in the Church, as you make the transition to this new phase in your life, I tell you these things. I testify that in the eternal scheme of things, the most crucial and fulfilling thing you will do is to build a holy home and rear a strong family in love. This family unit will bless society and endure through eternity. I so testify, in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Several years passed after that cold night on the river’s shore. In 1835 Mary Elizabeth married Adam Lightner. A few months later, the couple moved to Far West, Missouri, where many other Saints were living.
Mary Elizabeth and Adam lived in Far West for two years. It wasn’t long before mobs began to fight against the Saints in Far West, just as they had in Independence.
One day a mob came to Far West and set up cannons to attack the town. Some men from the mob approached Mary Elizabeth’s house. They carried a white flag to show that they came in peace. The men asked to speak to Mary Elizabeth, Adam, and Adam’s sister and her husband. They gathered outside Mary Elizabeth and Adam’s house.
One of the men was a general in the Missouri military. “Governor Boggs has given me orders to remove your families from Far West before we destroy the town,” he said. Mary Elizabeth used to work for Mr. Boggs and his family in Independence. The Boggs family had liked Mary Elizabeth. Now Mr. Boggs was governor of the whole state, and though he disliked the Mormons, he wanted to save her.
“Will you let all the Mormon women and children leave before the fighting begins?” Mary Elizabeth asked.
“My orders are to spare only these two families. Everyone else must be destroyed,” said the general.
Mary Elizabeth stood tall and said, “If that is the case, then I refuse to go. I am a full-blooded Mormon, and I am not ashamed of it.”
The general tried to persuade her to leave and save her children’s lives, but Mary Elizabeth stood firm. The general became angry. Suddenly a man rushed over. It was Heber C. Kimball, one of the Twelve Apostles! He helped defend Mary Elizabeth and her family from the angry general.
“Sister Lightner,” said Brother Kimball, “God Almighty bless you. I thank my God for a soul that is ready to die for her religion. Not a hair of your head will be harmed. I will protect you.”
“So will I,” said a voice. Brother Kimball was joined by Hyrum Smith, the Prophet Joseph’s brother. Other Church leaders came forward to support Mary Elizabeth and her family.
Even though the mob was ready to attack, the Saints in Far West were not harmed at that time. Mary Elizabeth took comfort that her faith in the Lord had made her strong.

Timothy Wood had a fun time serving at the dance. He made sure that everyone was having a great time, and even led a large group in a “train,” where everyone lined up behind each other and snaked through the gym. Timothy says that serving is acting as Christ would and that doing so has built his testimony. “I act better when I’m here,” he says. “I’m calmer, more patient, and I think of others’ needs before mine. It helps me to be more like Christ would have me be.”
Timothy says that on some nights at special-needs Mutual, when he’s waiting for his friend, Stephen, to arrive, he’ll remember something he needs to get for the activity. But Timothy will wait for Stephen to arrive because he wants him to feel welcome when he gets there. “Being a volunteer helps me to care more for others,” Timothy says.

On the plains of Paraguay sits the tiny village of Mistolar. It is located on a large stretch of land in a desolate area near the Pilcomayo River. There in this small farming community is a branch of the Church. In June of 1987, with the melting snows of the Andes, the river which was their lifeline for crops was also the source of their destruction. It overflowed its banks not once but twice, forcing the Saints to relocate and then relocate again. They lost everything: their chapel, their homes, their gardens and fences. For a month they waded in knee-deep water simply trying to stay alive.
The Area Presidency, hearing of their plight, dispatched supplies, and Elder Ted E. Brewerton of the Quorum of Seventy led the rescue party in a grueling two-day journey.
When the group arrived they were warmly welcomed by the women and children because the men, for the most part, were away hunting and fishing.
The people had little food and clothing to sustain them in that freezing winter weather, and their surviving livestock included three sheep, a few chickens, a goat, and a scrawny dog. At night their makeshift reed-and-stick homes offered very little protection.
Clearly their situation was bleak, yet the villagers were smiling. Their peace was a stark contrast to their destitute circumstances.
How were they sustaining their spirits under such difficulties? The answer came when Elder Brewerton asked the young branch president, “Do you have any sick among your members?”
The young priesthood leader paused and said, “I don’t think so; let me ask the other brethren.” A few minutes later he answered, “There are thirty-nine of us who hold the Melchizedek Priesthood. We watch over and bless our people.”
That evening at the branch meeting a sister offered a prayer, one Elder Brewerton will always remember. She said, “Father, we have lost our beautiful chapel, we have lost our clothing, we no longer have homes, … we don’t have any materials to build anything, we have to walk ten kilometers to get a drink of dirty river water and don’t have a bucket. But we desire to express to thee our gratitude for our good health, for our happiness, and for our Church membership. Father, we want thee to know that under any conditions, we will be true, strong, and faithful to the covenants we made to thee when we were baptized” (in Heidi S. Swinton, Pioneer Spirit [1996], 10; see 8–11).
When all around them had washed away, the Saints in Mistolar held firmly to the power of the priesthood and its spiritual blessings (see D&C 107:18). I can picture that Relief Society sister standing up to thank the Lord in prayer for all they had. They had practically nothing—not even a bucket. But they had their covenants, they had their Church membership, their commitment to Christ. They were blessed to become “partakers of the glories.” In the Doctrine and Covenants we read, “Blessed are you for receiving mine everlasting covenant, even the fulness of my gospel, sent forth unto the children of men, that they might … be made partakers of the glories which are to be revealed in the last days” (D&C 66:2).

You are always concerned for the people you have baptized, and you always wonder how they’re doing. About seventeen years after that first mission, my wife, Carol, and I had an opportunity to travel to Brazil. When we landed in Rio de Janeiro, our taxi driver happened to be a Church member. We told him who we were, and I talked to him about being in Brazil on my mission. No sooner did we get checked into our hotel room than our telephone rang. I thought, Who could be calling us here at this hour? It was someone from the mission office, inviting us to dinner at the mission home the next evening. We arrived at the appointed time, the door opened, and there stood my ex-Protestant minister convert. He was the mission president! What a thrill!

There are many today who harbor in the deep recesses of their hearts a canker, a hurt, a feeling of resentment, a dislike, or in some cases even a hate because of unpleasant experiences with past and present associations. Some have been taken advantage of in a business sense. Others have had their feelings hurt by neighbors, or relatives, or friends. A few have been lied to or had a trust of long standing betrayed. Some children, young and now grown, have been offended by harsh or dictatorial parents. Husbands and wives may have deep schisms between them caused by criticism and a resulting resentment. The list of sad experiences goes on and on—yes, it is too long. To those of you who have been nursing the wounds of hurt feelings from the past, even from the little things, I would like to tell an experience which happened some time ago.
For much of our lives, we lived in central Arizona. Some years ago a group of teenagers from the local high school went on an all-day picnic into the desert on the outskirts of Phoenix. As some of you know, the desert foliage is rather sparse—mostly mesquite, catclaw, and palo verde trees, with a few cactus scattered here and there. In the heat of the summer, where there are thickets of this desert growth, you may also find rattlesnakes as unwelcome residents. These young people were picnicking and playing, and during their frolicking, one of the girls was bitten on the ankle by a rattlesnake. As is the case with such a bite, the rattler’s fangs released venom almost immediately into her bloodstream.
This very moment was a time of critical decision. They could immediately begin to extract the poison from her leg, or they could search out the snake and destroy it. Their decision made, the girl and her young friends pursued the snake. It slipped quickly into the undergrowth and avoided them for fifteen or twenty minutes. Finally, they found it, and rocks and stones soon avenged the infliction.
Then they remembered: their companion had been bitten! They became aware of her discomfort, as by now the venom had had time to move from the surface of the skin deep into the tissues of her foot and leg. Within another thirty minutes they were at the emergency room of the hospital. By then, the venom was well into its work of destruction.
A couple of days later I was informed of the incident and was asked by some young members of the Church to visit their friend in the hospital. As I entered her room, I saw a pathetic sight. Her foot and leg were elevated—swollen almost beyond recognition. The tissue in her limb had been destroyed by the poison, and a few days later it was found her leg would have to be amputated below the knee.
It was a senseless sacrifice, this price of revenge. How much better it would have been if, after the young woman had been bitten, there had been an extraction of the venom from the leg in a process known to all desert dwellers.