Gospel Story Finder

My name is Alan. I’m eleven years old and a member of the Blazer patrol of Boy Scout Troop 103. We don’t get to do many things with the older Scouts, so when the Scoutmaster came to our meeting and asked how many of us wanted to go on a winter campout with the troop, every hand shot up.
“That’s what I thought,” he said. “I want you to cook in patrols, so start planning your menus.”
We had to plan a supper and a breakfast for six—Josh, Justin, Russel, Mark, me, and Russel’s grandpa. “Spaghetti and garlic bread,” I suggested, and everyone else thought that sounded good. We planned to make hot chocolate and French toast for breakfast.
The campout was set for the day after Thanksgiving. The weather was cold, and there were about four inches of snow on the ground. Mom bought me a new pair of moonboots, put two quilts in our heaviest sleeping bag, and made me wear long underwear, a flannel shirt and a sweatshirt under my coat, and two pairs of socks.
We met Friday afternoon in the church parking lot. The sky was dark and cloudy. We were all waiting when Dave, the assistant Scoutmaster, pulled up in his truck and began loading the tents and camping gear. He told us that the Scoutmaster had had trouble with his truck and that he’d come up later, which he did. Dave said that he could only take two passengers with him in the cab of his truck, and he chose a couple of older Scouts to ride with him. We’d have to find another ride to the camping place. My mother offered to drive the Blazer patrol to the campsite, so we all piled into our station wagon and headed for the hills south of town.
When we came to a sign announcing that we were entering a national forest, Mom asked, “Now where do we go?”
We all looked at each other. No one knew. There was an open meadow nearby where Scouts sometimes camp, and Mom said she’d see if Dave was there. He wasn’t, and I had a sinking feeling. We waited for about an hour to see if Dave would come; then Mark remembered that one of the older Scouts had mentioned something about Lead Drop.
Russel’s grandpa said that he knew where Lead Drop was, so we all got back into the station wagon and drove to a mountain road about two miles from the meadow. The road was fine for a while, but then Russel’s grandpa said that we had to turn left and go up a steep hill. Mom’s car wouldn’t make it up the snow-covered road, so we had to get out and walk from there.
A half mile from the top of the hill we found Dave and the two other boys setting up a tent. Although we were winded after our climb, we couldn’t rest. The sun was going down, and we had to get our tent up. It was an old eight-man tent, and right away we ran into trouble. We tried to drive the stakes into the ground by stomping on them with our boots, but after they went down into six inches of snow, they hit rockhard frozen ground. Luckily, Russel’s grandpa had brought a hammerhead hatchet, and we were able to drive a few stakes solidly into the ground. We had to tie the rest of the tent tabs to trees and bushes and hope that the tent wouldn’t blow away.
When we laid out the tent poles, one of them was missing. Russel’s grandpa found a stout stick, and by shifting the poles around and using the stick, we got the tent up, though one side was a little lower than the other.
By then it was dark, and we still had to cook our supper. First we had to build a fire ring, and the only place where we could find any rocks was a small stream that ran by the camp. When we started gathering rocks, Mark picked up one that was too heavy. He staggered and stepped right into the freezing water. Mark went back to the tent and changed his socks, but he had to wear the wet boots.
We dug a pit in the snow and arranged the rocks, then borrowed wood from another patrol to start our fire. Josh was in charge of cooking, so we left him to fill the water pot while we collected more firewood. I was tugging on a branch of a dead tree when it suddenly broke loose and hit Justin on the head. It didn’t hurt him, though.
We came back to camp with our arms full of wood just in time to see Josh spill the whole package of spaghetti. It looked like a porcupine sticking out of the snow. He just picked it up, snow and all, and dumped it into the pot of water and set it in the middle of the fire. We put our foil-wrapped garlic bread at the side of the fire to get warm. I knew it only took my mom about twenty minutes to cook spaghetti, so we kept testing it, but it didn’t get soft, even though we kept throwing more wood onto the fire. Josh wondered if he should have let the water boil before he put the spaghetti in.
Finally, after more than an hour, we couldn’t wait any longer. We dumped a can of spaghetti sauce into a pan, stirred it until it started to steam, and dished it up along with the spaghetti. We all stood around the fire, crunching hard spaghetti in lukewarm sauce. By that time the garlic bread had burned, but we ate it anyway.
The cold froze our backs when we faced the fire, and our fronts when we backed up to it. After Russel got too close to the fire and burned his glove, we decided to go to bed.
Russel’s grandpa was smart. He had lugged up a propane tent heater and set it up in the middle of the tent. We arranged our coats and boots around it, and Russel scorched his boots by putting them too close. Mark had to break the ice off his socks before they’d come off. We all laid our sleeping bags in a circle around the heater with our heads toward it, except Mark. He put his feet closest to the heater.
It was hard to go to sleep. The ground had looked level when we spread out the tent, but I guess the snow covered a lot of things. I kept rolling over hard bumps, and sharp things kept sticking into me.
The next morning was beautiful. But the sun gleamed so brightly that its reflection off the snow hurt my eyes. Breakfast was much better than supper. Russel’s grandpa sort of took over the cooking chore for us, and he cooked French toast until the bread was gone. Mark dropped the jar of strawberry jam on a rock and put out our fire. I had to eat my last three pieces of French toast without any jam. I’d probably overeaten anyway, because I had a stomachache the rest of the day. We used one of the other fires to finish heating water for our cocoa.
Then the Scoutmaster called us together for some activities. We divided into teams and had a stretcher race. We had to find some sticks, make a stretcher, and carry a victim back to camp. The first team to return would be the winner. We found our sticks, made our stretcher out of coats, and, since I was the smallest, I got to be the victim. We would have won, too, except one of the sticks broke and I got dumped into a snowdrift.
For the next activity, Dave gave us a compass and a piece of paper with directions on it and said that we would find a pot of hot soup if we followed the directions correctly. We took off, with Justin counting the paces and Russel pointing the compass. But something must have disrupted our compass (Mark said a plane flew over and disoriented it), because we ended up halfway down the hill. There was no soup there, so we went back to camp. But Russel’s grandpa was looking out for us. He’d stayed in camp (where we were supposed to have ended up!) and made sure the others saved some soup for us.
While we ate, a black cloud covered the sun, and the wind began to blow. The low side of our tent dipped lower, and the Scoutmaster said that it was time to go home. We threw all the gear into the trucks, stuffed the tents on top of it, buried our fire ashes in the snow and scattered the rocks, and drove off down the mountain before a snowstorm came.
When I got home, I smelled like smoke. I was dirty and hungry and wet and cold—and I’ve never had so much fun in my life!

A few weeks after the temple dedication, Louisa Pratt and her daughters started west with a company of Saints. Ellen was now fourteen, Frances was twelve, Lois was nine, and Ann was five. They had two yoke of oxen, two cows, and a wagon loaded with new clothes and provisions.

Before crossing the river into Iowa, Louisa called at the post office and found a long letter from Addison dated January 6, 1846—five months earlier. Addison reported that he was now in Tahiti with some Tubuaian friends, the married couple Nabota and Telii, on their way to help his fellow missionary Benjamin Grouard with missionary work on the nearby Anaa atoll. He had sent Louisa sixty dollars and loving words for her and the children.

Addison expected to serve among the island Saints for many years to come, but not without his family. “If you can get any books,” he wrote, “and have any leisure time, I think you and the children had better attend to the studying of the Tahitian language, for in my opinion you may have use for it within a few years.”32

The letter pleased Louisa, and she found her journey west surprisingly joyful. The spring rains had ended, and she liked riding horseback beneath clear skies while a hired man drove her wagons. She rose early every morning, gathered up stray cattle, and helped to drive them during the day. Occasionally she worried about how far she was traveling from her parents and other relatives, but her belief in Zion comforted her. The revelations spoke of Zion as a place of refuge, a land of peace. That was what she wanted in her life.

“Sometimes I feel cheerful,” she wrote in her journal on June 10. “The Lord has called us, and appointed us a place where we can live in peace and be free from the dread of our cruel persecutors!”33

Five days later, Louisa and her company arrived at Mount Pisgah, one of two large way stations the Saints had established along the Iowa trail. The encampment hugged the base of some low, sloping hills crowned with a grove of oak trees. As Brigham had envisioned, the Saints there lived in tents or log cabins and cultivated crops to supply food for companies who would arrive later. Other areas of the camp provided pastureland for the livestock.

Louisa selected a site in the shade of some oak trees for her family. The place was beautiful, but overhead the sun beat down on the encamped Saints, many of whom were exhausted from the rain and mud they had battled that spring.

“May the Lord reward them for all their sacrifices,” Louisa thought.34
Farther ahead on the trail, Brigham and the Camp of Israel stopped at a place called Mosquito Creek, not far from the Missouri River. They were hungry, two months behind schedule, and desperately poor.35 Yet Brigham still insisted on sending an advance company over the Rocky Mountains. He believed that a group of Saints needed to finish the journey that season, for as long as the Church wandered without a home, its enemies would try to scatter it or block its way.36

Brigham knew, however, that outfitting such a group would strain the Saints’ resources. Few had money or provisions to spare, and Iowa provided limited opportunities for paid labor. To survive on the prairie, many Saints had sold prized possessions along the trail or worked odd jobs to earn money for food and supplies. As the camp moved west and settlements thinned, these opportunities would only become harder to find.37

Other matters also weighed on Brigham. The Saints who did not belong to the advance company needed a place to spend the winter. The Omahas and other Native peoples who inhabited the land west of the Missouri River were willing to let the Saints camp there over the winter, but government agents were reluctant to allow them to settle on protected Indian lands for a long period of time.38

Brigham also knew the sick and impoverished Saints in Nauvoo were depending on the Church to take them west. For a time, he had hoped to assist them by selling valuable property in Nauvoo, including the temple. But so far this effort had been unsuccessful.39

On June 29, Brigham learned that three officers from the United States Army were coming to Mosquito Creek. The United States had declared war on Mexico, and President James Polk had authorized the men to recruit a battalion of five hundred Saints for a military campaign to the California coast.
The next day, Brigham discussed the news with Heber Kimball and Willard Richards. Brigham had no quarrel with Mexico, and the idea of helping the United States galled him. But the West could become American territory if the United States won the war, and assisting the army could improve the Saints’ relationship with the nation. More important, the enlisted men’s pay could help the Church fund its westward migration.40

Brigham spoke with the officers as soon as they arrived. He learned that their orders had come after Thomas Kane, a well-connected young man on the East Coast, had heard about the Saints’ plight and introduced Jesse Little to important officials in Washington, DC. After some lobbying, Jesse had met with President Polk and persuaded him to help the Saints move west by enlisting some of them in military service.

Seeing the benefits of the arrangement, Brigham endorsed the orders wholeheartedly. “This is the first offer we have ever had from the government to benefit us,” he declared. “I propose that the five hundred volunteers be mustered, and I will do my best to see all their families brought forward, as far as my influence can be extended, and feed them when I have anything to eat myself.”41

Drusilla Hendricks was furious with Brigham’s decision to cooperate with the United States. Her husband, James, had been shot in the neck during a skirmish with Missourians in 1838, leaving him partially paralyzed. Like others in camp, she still resented the government for not helping the Saints at that time. Even though her son William was old enough to volunteer for the battalion, she did not want to let him join. With her husband’s paralysis, she depended on her son for help.42

Recruiters visited the camp daily, often with Brigham or other apostles. “If we want the privilege of going where we can worship God according to the dictates of our conscience,” Brigham testified, “we must raise the battalion.”43 Many Saints swallowed their resentment and supported the endeavor, but Drusilla could not bear parting with her son.

Sometimes the Spirit whispered to her, “Are you afraid to trust the God of Israel? Has He not been with you in all your trials? Has He not provided for your wants?” She would acknowledge God’s goodness, but then she would remember the government’s cruelty, and her anger would return.

On the day of the battalion’s departure, William rose early to bring in the cows. Drusilla watched him as he walked through the tall, wet grass, and she worried that her lack of faith would do him more harm than good. He could get hurt traveling on the trail with his family just as easily as he could marching with the battalion. And if that happened, she would regret having made him stay.

Drusilla started breakfast, unsure what to do about William. Climbing onto the wagon to get flour, she again felt the Spirit’s whisper: Didn’t she want the greatest blessings of the Lord?

“Yes,” she said aloud.

“Then how can you get it without making the greatest sacrifice?” the Spirit asked. “Let your son go in the battalion.”

“It is too late,” she said. “They are to be marched off this morning.”

William returned, and the family gathered for breakfast. As James blessed the food, Drusilla was startled when a man interrupted the camp. “Turn out, men!” he shouted. “We lack some men yet in the battalion.”

Drusilla opened her eyes and saw William staring at her. She studied his face, memorizing each feature. She knew then that he would join the battalion. “If I never see you again until the morning of the resurrection,” she thought, “I shall know you are my child.”

After breakfast, Drusilla prayed alone. “Spare his life,” she pleaded, “and let him be restored to me and to the bosom of the Church.”

“It shall be done unto you,” the Spirit whispered, “as it was unto Abraham when he offered Isaac on the altar.”

Drusilla searched for William and found him sitting in the wagon, his head buried in his hands. “Do you want to go with the battalion?” she asked. “If you do, I have had a testimony that it is right for you to go.”

“President Young said it is for the salvation of this people,” William said, “and I might as well have a hand in it as anyone.”

“I have held you back,” Drusilla said, “but if you want to go, I shall hold you no longer.”44

Later he served in the Ecuador Guayaquil Mission. Just three months into his mission, while serving as branch president in the town of Jipijapa, he mourned with branch members and others after an 11-year-old boy drowned while participating in a Church activity.
As he pleaded with Heavenly Father in the weeks and months that followed, he gained an unshakable testimony of the plan of salvation. He also witnessed the Lord’s compassion as others in the community embraced the gospel. Together they came to understand the sacred nature of life and the power of the Lord’s grace.

Experience 3: One night several years ago while my family traveled home from a campus concert on winter roads, our vehicle began to slide. Unable to regain control, we spun around several times, went off the road, took out a signpost, plowed out about 20 feet of farm fence, and came to rest in a ditch with the driver’s side wheels in the air. We had barely stopped moving when several other cars stopped and their occupants came on the run to administer help. Miraculously, my pregnant wife, my children, and I were shaken but unhurt and our vehicle was largely undamaged, but compassionate, heroic strangers came to our rescue and stayed with us until we could get back out and return home. They didn’t have to, but they did anyway, and it made a difference.

By the time Domingos turned 18, his Church activity began to irritate his father.
“Dad thought seminary was getting in the way of my schoolwork, so he banned me from getting up early to go. I wanted to honor him, so I quit going. But I still did seminary at home. Then he didn’t want that either, so I put that away.
“Then he would find me reading my scriptures and think I hadn’t done my homework, even though my grades were good. One time he grabbed my scriptures and threw them in the rubbish bin. I had spent the last two years reading them and marking them, and they are really precious to me. The next morning I was able to get them back, but I had to give them to the branch president for safekeeping.”
It wasn’t long before Domingos’s father banned him from everything related to Church activity—scripture study, Mutual activities, home teaching, and, finally, Sunday meetings.
“Even though I was 18 and legally my own person, my first reaction was to obey. Really. You want to obey your father because he is your father. But I knew I couldn’t break my promise to Heavenly Father to attend church.
“Dad said if I went that Sunday, not to worry about coming back. So I packed my bags. My prayers were very sincere that night. The next morning, when he saw me dressed up, he was furious.”
Domingos left, but his parents came to the chapel and found him. They reached an agreement that he could attend every other Sunday. “I wasn’t happy with it, but it was better than nothing,” he says.
The next time he got ready for church, his father again told him that if he went, he could never return. “The second time was just as bad, probably worse. I’d been waiting to receive my patriarchal blessing, and the patriarch, who can come only about once a year, had come from far away. I got there for the appointment, but my father came at the same time. I had to go home and missed my blessing.”
The third time that his father confronted him in a similar way, Domingos left home and moved in with his grandmother. “Eventually my mum came and said my father was all right and wouldn’t get angry again. So I came back.”

President Thomas S. Monson shared this example of President Smith’s love: “On a cold winter morning, the street cleaning crew [in Salt Lake City] was removing large chunks of ice from the street gutters. The regular crew was assisted by temporary laborers who desperately needed the work. One such wore only a lightweight sweater and was suffering from the cold. A slender man with a well-groomed beard stopped by the crew and asked the worker, ‘You need more than that sweater on a morning like this. Where is your coat?’ The man replied that he had no coat to wear. The visitor then removed his own overcoat, handed it to the man and said, ‘This coat is yours. It is heavy wool and will keep you warm. I just work across the street.’ The street was South Temple. The good Samaritan who walked into the Church Administration Building to his daily work and without his coat was President George Albert Smith of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. His selfless act of generosity revealed his tender heart. Surely he was his brother’s keeper.”21

“Matthew, Brother Erickson is here!” These were the words I had been dreading to hear all day. It was the type of situation you knew you would have to face eventually but hoped desperately would always be one more day away. But this was the day.
Earlier that morning, just before opening exercises for priesthood, 80-year-old Brother Erickson had caught me. “You have been called as my home teaching companion. Would it be all right if we visited one of our families later today?”
I was shocked. All my friends had been assigned to be their dads’ companions. At least when they made a fool of themselves it would be in front of a family member, not someone who has had eight decades to get to know everything about the gospel. I muttered to him that it would be fine.
He replied, “We will be going to the Wiseman family. You are going to love it!”
I was convinced this was a rather large lie.
The Wiseman family truly lived up to their name. Like Brother Erickson, they were older and wiser members of the ward. They had known apostles and even prophets and had a reputation for having a great understanding of the gospel. If that weren’t enough, there were two of them; what one didn’t know, I was sure the other one would. So I trudged out the door and into the car where Brother Erickson waited, smiling.
We talked a bit about school and my family on the way to the Wisemans. I think Brother Erickson sensed I was nervous. We finally arrived at the door, and I forced a smile. When I entered the home, warm smiles and hearty handshakes greeted me. The Wisemans were as amazing as I had thought, only they were so much cooler than I imagined they would be.
“Will you be starting school soon, Matt?” Sister Wiseman asked.
“I will be in ninth grade in August,” I responded quickly, not knowing how Sister Wiseman would react.
“That’s wonderful!” she exclaimed, and she actually meant it.
“What things do you like to do in school?” she said, diving in for more.
“Well, I’m in the choir,” I said a little less timidly.
“I used to love to sing too,” Sister Wiseman said, and the conversation continued more fluidly from there as my nervousness slowly eased away.
We continued talking about school, skiing, television, and everything else imaginable. I was amazed that I actually had things in common with these people! And more than that, they seemed to enjoy talking to me. To my great surprise I found that when the lesson was over and the closing prayer said, I didn’t want to leave. My fear of home teaching turned into a fear of the clock telling us it was time to go.
As I continued as a home teacher I grew to love my companion, Brother Erickson, and the Wiseman family more than I thought I ever could. They taught me much and allowed me to teach them as well. I never knew I had so much in common with other members of the Church, regardless of age, background, or education.
I know that even though the home teaching program is meant to bless the lives of the families taught, it also has a great impact on the home teachers. To this day I still consider Brother Erickson and the Wisemans as three of my best friends.

On August 5, 2010, 33 Chilean miners were trapped by a massive cave-in after the rock inside the mine collapsed. They were restricted to a small safe area and to the mine shafts below the collapse, 2,300 feet (700 m) deep inside the earth.
The situation looked bleak. They were separated from home and family by almost a half a mile of unmovable rock overhead, and they had only a small supply of food and water. Although they had tools and knowledge, because of the instability of the mine they could not save themselves. Their only chance was to be found and rescued.
In spite of this, they chose to have hope. They organized themselves, rationed their food and water, and waited. They had faith that those on the surface were doing what they could to rescue them. Even so, it must have been hard to hold onto that hope as they waited in the dark. Days passed, and then weeks. Their carefully rationed food ran out.
On the 17th day of their trial, hope was renewed for the miners when a small shaft was created by a drill bit that broke through the rock that held them captive.
The trapped men, wanting the rescuers on the surface to know they had been found alive, pounded on the drill bit and fastened a note written in red marker to the end of it. It read, “Estamos bien en el refugio, los 33” (“We are well in the shelter, the 33”). Hope was restored. They had been found.
Through a small hole, the circumference of a grapefruit, communication was established with the world on the surface. Food, water, medicine, and notes from loved ones were sent down the shaft to the miners.
It must have been with mixed feelings that the miners realized their situation. Although they had overwhelming joy and relief that they had been found, their situation was still precarious. Even though those on the surface knew where they were, it would take time to put a rescue plan into place, and they could only hope it would even work.
The rescuers reluctantly informed the miners that it would be months before they could be brought to the surface. They hoped to have the miners back with their families by Christmas, which meant the miners faced an entombment of an additional four months. However, now they waited with hope.
Although different attempts were made to rescue the miners, only one drill followed a straight path, through one of the small pilot holes that had been drilled previously to locate the miners.
The miners were not passive in their rescue. As the drill pounded its way to their rescue, rock fell down the smaller shaft and heaped up in the cavern where the miners were trapped. They moved the rock as it came down, clearing the way for the larger drill.
The rescuers built a capsule to be lowered down the narrow shaft using cables. The rescue capsule was barely big enough for a man to fit inside. The capsule was only four inches (10 cm) narrower than the shaft that was driven through 2,300 feet (700 m) of solid rock.
When the time came for the miners to be rescued, each man was faced with a choice. One man at a time stepped into the capsule; each would ascend alone. As each man chose to trust in the plan, he had to hope that the capsule would be drawn up the narrow shaft in a true and straight ascent and not become off balance and get stuck. The plan had to work, or all hope was lost. Each miner stepped into the capsule and gave his will over to the plan and the rescuers.
One by one the miners made the solitary journey up from the darkness and into the light. They were greeted by their loved ones as the whole world watched and cheered.
The rescue plan succeeded; not one man was lost. They were redeemed on October 13, 2010—69 days after the mine collapse and 52 days after they had been found alive.

The wind wheeled through the empty lot in great gusts, pushing down the knee-high grass like a huge, flat hand. Overhead, the sky shone a vivid blue as it opened into endless space.
Geoff came running through the field, folding back the long green blades with his body. Held above his head was the kite, its knotted tail snapping at his back. In his other hand, wrapped around a stick, was a very large ball of string.
Out of the midst of this green carpet rose a grassless hill that was just round enough on top to hold one boy Geoff’s size.
“So you’re going to fly the world’s highest kite?” The words Dad had spoken earlier that day came back to Geoff now.
“Yep.” Geoff had continued to wrap the twine around the stick. If he held both ends of the stick loosely in his hands while his kite was airborne, the string would spin off freely, carrying the kite higher and higher.
Dad had sat down beside Geoff on the back porch. “Sure is a great day for flying a kite. How high do you suppose you’ll get it?”
“Oh, I figure about a hundred miles high.”
“You sure that’s high enough?” Dad had asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, it seems to me that if you’re going to try to do something as important as flying the world’s highest kite, you should take the time to do some research and planning.”
“It doesn’t take planning to fly a kite,” Geoff had responded.
Dad had put his arm around Geoff’s shoulders and said, “But you’re not flying just a regular kite. Yours is to be the highest-flying kite in the whole world! Doesn’t it make sense to check how high other kites have flown? Then you’d know how long your string has to be for your kite to fly the highest. And wouldn’t it be worth your time to find out how hard the wind is blowing so that you’d know how strong your string has to be? There are other things you probably need to know, too, if you’re going to fly the highest kite.”
“I guess so, Dad, but this kite’s ready to go.”
Now the wind was beating back Geoff’s hair and clothes. The kite’s tail began to split the air that tugged at the kite itself, and Geoff gave the kite up to its hunter.
For a moment the kite hung suspended just above the grass. Then the wind bit into it, and it rose shakily higher.
As he played out the string in his hands, Geoff watched the kite shrink into the sky. The tail was now waving lazily from side to side. Geoff moved his hands to the left; the kite bowed to its right. He pulled right; it went to the left. String zipped off the spool as the kite climbed ever higher!
Geoff thought again of his dad’s advice. He was sure his dad had meant well, but a kite was just something you put together with the supple limbs of a eucalyptus tree, some giant-size tissue paper, and a long tail of tied-together strips from one of Mom’s old sheets. You didn’t have to go to all the trouble Dad was talking about …
Geoff had to squint now to see the kite. It was a small triangular speck against the blue. The fat ball of string had become thin.
Suddenly Geoff felt the string go limp. Then he saw about fifty feet of limp twine drifting listlessly to the ground. He peered at the triangular thing way up in the sky. At first it didn’t appear to be falling, but as he watched it, it began to twist and zigzag toward the earth. The tail wiggled every which way, like a drowning swimmer clutching the water.
In a flash, Geoff was down the side of the hill and running as fast as he could through the tall grass toward home.
Dad was already waiting for him in the pickup. “I saw it go and thought you might like some help in retrieving it.”
Geoff jumped into the cab, and the truck sped down the road, leaving a billowing cloud of dust behind them.
“There it is!” Geoff’s finger stabbed at a place in the sky about a quarter mile away from where they were.
“Looks like it’s over by Hansen’s Pond!” Dad said. The side road to Hansen’s Pond suddenly appeared out of the field, and Dad took the corner with tires screeching.
Geoff stuck his head out the window to get a better view of the falling kite. It was swiftly approaching the ground now and would be crashing any minute.
Dad pulled the truck to a quick stop. “It’s out of the upper airstream now, so it’s going to fall pretty straight. Let’s go!”
The field around Hansen’s Pond had lots of small trees and shrubs, making it difficult for Geoff and Dad to spot the kite.
“I can’t see it anymore!” Geoff groaned.
“I think I know where it’s going to fall. Just follow me.”
A dozen feet later Dad stopped and pointed to the ground. The end of the broken string lay at his feet. “If we follow the string, we’ll find it.”
Geoff picked up the string and began to wrap it around his hand. The twine led along a trail of tangled underbrush, around the base of some gnarled tree trunks, and through a dry creek bed. Finally, rounding the edge of a scrub oak, Geoff saw the kite hanging in the limbs of a small tree that grew half in, half out of Hansen’s Pond.
With Dad’s help, Geoff retrieved the kite. On the way home he examined it closely. The branch he’d used as a crosspiece was split, and there was a six-inch-long tear in the tissue paper. It was obvious that he could never use this kite again. He looked at his dad. “Since I have to build a new kite anyway, I think I’ll do some research first—and use stronger string.”

Jed looked forward to the day when he, like his brother David, would be old enough to go into the world and be a missionary. In his last letter, David had written, “People here ask us why we’ve left our homes to come here, and we tell them we’re here to share something that is most precious to us. And that’s true. I feel a great love for each and every person we meet each day.”
Although Jed looked forward to being a missionary, he had just turned 14. He lived with his family in Broken Arrow, Wyoming, just across the border from Idaho. His dad ran the only auto repair shop in town.
In the late afternoon of December 29, his dad asked Jed if he’d fill in for him at the shop. “Your mom and I would like to go to the temple. All you need to do is stay there until closing time, then lock up.”
“I guess I could do that.”
“Oh, one thing,” his dad continued, “a lady will be coming in to ask about her car. She’s from out of state, and her car broke down just outside town. Tell her I won’t be able to get parts until after New Year’s Day. If she needs a car, she can probably rent one in Idaho Falls. That’s about it. Any questions?”
“Can I have some change?”
“What for?”
“To get some candy from the machine.”
Shortly after his folks left, it began to snow. That was hardly news for Broken Arrow in December. But then the wind started to pick up.
Jed liked being at the shop. He liked wearing his dad’s work coveralls with the name of the shop on the front. He even liked the smell of the place, a mixture of old oil, grease, and, at that moment, the candy bar he was eating. Someday he wanted to be like his dad, a mechanic who could fix just about anything. He helped out during the summers and sometimes, when the work was stacked up, on Saturday mornings.
Nobody came in until just before five o’clock, when a smartly dressed woman with a cell phone to her ear entered the shop, accompanied by her daughter.
The girl appeared to be about his age. She was nearly as tall as he, had long dark brown hair, brown eyes. She frowned at him and then ignored him and started checking out the advertisements for tools on the wall.
“I’d like to pick up my car,” the woman said. “The name is Smith-Porter.” She was wearing an expensive but not very warm coat.
“You’ve got two last names?”
“It’s hyphenated,” the girl said, running a finger across the dust covered counter.
“Oh,” Jed said, confused why a person would have two last names.
“Is there anyone here who actually knows something?” the girl asked.
“Bailey, that’s really not necessary,” her mother chided.
“I’m the only one here, and I know quite a bit about cars,” Jed said, his voice cracking as he said it.
“That’s my car there,” the woman said, glancing into the shop area. She reached for her purse. “How much is it?”
“My dad said to tell you that he won’t be able to get parts until after New Year’s, but if you need a car, you can rent one in Idaho Falls.”
“How far is that from here?” the woman asked.
“It’s about 70 miles.”
“Is there some other place in town that can fix my car?”
“No, we’re the only shop in town.”
“How are we supposed to get to Idaho Falls?” the girl asked impatiently.
“Well, there’s a bus twice a day. The next one should be coming in about half an hour. It leaves from the Broken Arrow Cafe, just across the street. I’ll warn you, though. We have a saying about that place, ‘If it ain’t broke, don’t eat there.’” Jed chuckled enthusiastically for the girl’s sake because he knew she would not approve.
The woman nodded her head. “Well, that’s not too bad then. Thank you for your help. We’ll need to get some things in the car.”
The girl stayed behind while her mother went into the shop area to get their luggage. The girl scowled at the candy wrappers in front of Jed. “How many candy bars have you had?”
“Two or three.”
“Disgusting.” She scowled at him.
“Is your name really Bailey Smith-Porter?” he asked.
“Yes it is. So?”
“It sounds like a law firm.”
“Really? How old are you anyway?” she asked.
“Fourteen.”
“I’m way more mature than you.”
“How old are you?”
“I’m going on 15.”
Before Jed realized that anyone who was 14 was also going on 15, the mother returned with their luggage and they left. Jed watched them fight the wind and the snow on their way across the street. It was then he noticed the cafe, where the bus stopped each day, was closed because of the storm.
Jed looked at the clock. Just a few more minutes and then he could close up and go home. He walked through the shop, making sure everything was locked up. When he went to the front to turn off the outside light that illuminated the sign advertising the shop, he could see the woman and the girl huddled in the doorway of the cafe, waiting for the bus.
“With the way the wind is picking up, the bus probably isn’t going to come,” he thought. “I’d better go tell ‘em.”
He was standing inside in the dark about ready to leave. “There’s no place they can go tonight.”
He answered himself. “That’s not my problem. I did everything I was asked to do here.”
He thought about going out the back door, so he wouldn’t have to see them standing there in the storm.
“What are they going to do if you don’t help them?” he asked himself.
“That’s not my responsibility.”
He went to the back door to leave. As he stepped outside, a sudden gust of wind blew a blast of snow into his face. At the same time, part of his brother’s letter came to his mind. “I feel a great love for each and every person we meet each day.”
He stepped back inside. “I don’t like the girl. How many times did she put me down in the five minutes they were in the shop? I don’t need that.”
He walked to the front of the shop again. “Maybe the storm has let up and the bus will make it after all. For all I know, maybe the bus has come and gone already. Maybe it’s not that bad outside of town.”
He stood at the window and looked out. The storm had grown into a blizzard as the wind sent pulsating waves of snow down the main street of the town. Across the street, their coats now caked with snow, the two strangers huddled in the doorway, waiting for a bus that wasn’t going to come.
Suddenly Jed made a decision, stepped outside into the storm, made sure the door was locked, and walked across the street. “I guess the bus isn’t coming today.”
He expected the girl to insult him or the bus company or the town, but she was too cold to say anything.
“Is there a place in town we can stay?” the woman asked.
“There’s a motel in town.”
“Good.”
“But it’s closed down until May.”
“I see.”
“You could come home with me, if you want. At least you’d be warm.”
“Are you sure?” the woman asked.
The truth was he wasn’t totally sure what his folks would say, but one thing he was sure of, his brother David would agree it was the right thing to do.
“My mom and dad are out of town, but they should be home soon. I’m sure they’d want you to stay with us until things clear up.”
“That’s very kind of you. Let’s go, Bailey.”
He offered to lug their suitcases but they said they could do it themselves.
Because there was no traffic, they were able to walk down the middle of the street. They trudged their way through deep drifts alternating with places where the wind was sweeping the road’s surface bare. By the time they reached the house, they looked like snowmen. Once inside, they stomped and brushed the accumulated snow from their coats, slacks, and heads.
Bailey’s mother warmed up for five minutes and then got back on her cell phone.
“Who is she talking to all the time?” Jed asked.
“Very important people. Famous people. Business leaders.”
“Okay.”
“She’s a very influential person.”
Bailey rapidly went through a list of names of famous people that worked with her mother. Then, seeing no recognition in his face, she said, “You’ve never heard of any of them, have you?”
“No, sorry.”
“You’re really out of touch with what’s happening in the world, aren’t you?” she asked.
In a way Jed was amazed. Bailey was tall, had dark eyes and a penetrating glance. She stood with such good posture that he was sure it was something she’d been taught. And she stood too close, almost as if she expected an argument. Also, her voice was too polished. In short, she wasn’t like any of the girls he’d ever known in Broken Arrow.
More than anything, he feared she might make him talk about current events, so he tried to change the subject. “Are you hungry?”
She nodded enthusiastically. “I really am.”
“You want to help me cook up something?”
“Well, I don’t know how to cook very well. We eat out most of the time.”
“Can you peel potatoes?”
She started to blush. “Uh, well, you’ll have to show me.”
“You’ve never peeled potatoes before?”
“Not really.”
Jed went to the storeroom and brought back five or six large potatoes and set them on the counter next to the basin. He grabbed a peeler from the drawer and placed it in her hand. “The idea is, you try to get the brown parts off.”
She smiled. “You don’t have to tell me that.”
“I wasn’t sure.”
Jed got some ground beef from the fridge and started to make patties.
In the living room Bailey’s mother was pacing the floor complaining to someone on the phone.
“How come you and your mom came out here this time of year?” he asked.
“We wanted to be some place safe for the new year.”
“Safe?”
“You know, because of Y2K. My mother was worried there might be riots and no food in the city, so she rented a cabin for us until the middle of January. Then we drove here from Los Angeles.”
She paused. “What has your family done to prepare for the new year?”
“Well, I think my dad picked up a calendar at the bank. They give them away every year.”
“Don’t you people around here know what could happen? What are you going to do on New Year’s Day?”
“We’ll probably have nachos and salsa and watch football.”
“If that’s all you’ve done, then you’re not prepared. It’s as simple as that.”
“If we’re the ones not prepared, how come you and your mom are staying with us?”
“Believe me, this is the last place in the world I want to be.”
“It’s not that bad.”
“It’s so isolated. Have you ever been to Chicago?”
“No.”
“What about New York?” she asked.
“No.”
“Europe?”
“No.” He glanced at how she was doing at peeling potatoes. “You’re doing a good job.”
“So, basically, you’re going to live the rest of your life right here?”
“I suppose so.” He paused. “Except when I’m 19, I’ll go out into the world for two years.”
“Doing what?”
“Being a missionary for my church.”
“What church?”
“The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
“My mom and I don’t believe in organized religion.”
“Sometimes we’re not that organized. Like this one time, somebody forgot to get the key to open up the chapel for an activity …”
Just then her mother came into the kitchen. “Well, this is quite a sight. Bailey, I hope you’re learning some great Wyoming recipes.”
“We’re just fixing fried potatoes and hamburgers,” Jed said.
“Sounds wonderful. Well, I’ve called everywhere, and it looks like we’re stuck here. The storm is building in intensity. Looks like the roads may be closed here for a couple of days.
“That’ll give Bailey time to finish peeling that potato she’s been working on since we got here,” Jed teased.
Bailey glanced up from her work, and, to Jed’s surprise, came very close to smiling again.
The food preparation sped up considerably with Bailey’s mother stepping in and taking charge. Jed insisted on cooking the hamburger patties. He thought they turned out pretty good.
While they were eating, the phone rang. Jed answered it.
It was his dad. “Jed, we’re in Idaho Falls. They’ve closed the roads, so we’re going to stay at your Uncle Mel’s place. We’ll try to get out tomorrow. Are you doing okay?”
“Yeah. Oh, that woman and her daughter who left their car at the shop. They were stranded, so I invited them to stay here. I hope that’s okay. I didn’t know what else to do. They didn’t have anywhere else to go.”
“No, that’s good. I’m glad you invited them.”
His dad asked him to go to the shop in the morning and make sure the flat roof didn’t have too much snow on it, and then Jed talked to his mom and told her about the unexpected guests. She gave him a flurry of instructions of what he needed to do to be a good host.
By the time he returned to the kitchen, the dishes were done, and Bailey’s mother was pacing back and forth in the living room, talking on her cell phone.
Bailey was sitting at the kitchen table, deep in thought.
“You okay?” he asked.
“I’ve got a question. Why aren’t you worried about Y2K? If all the computers break down, it will be like all of us don’t exist anymore. It will be like we’ve all been erased.”
“Come with me,” he said.
He opened the front door, and they went outside into the storm. “You feel the wind in your face? That’s real. The snow is real. It’s not going to be erased by some computer. Some things can’t ever be erased.”
“Like what?” she yelled over the storm.
“Like who you are and what you stand for.”
They hurried back inside and sat down again at the kitchen table.
“What did you mean when you said, ‘What you stand for’? Do you stand for something?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“What?”
Jed wasn’t ready for this. He always imagined he would have to go to some faraway place before he’d have a chance to tell people what he believed. He never imagined they would come to him.
He told her about the Prophet Joseph Smith and gave her his copy of the Book of Mormon to read.
While Bailey was reading, he went in the bathroom and set out the guest towels, like his mother had told him to do. And then he put clean sheets on the bed in the guest room, got an extra blanket from the closet, and turned up the heat.
When he finished getting the room ready, he stood in the doorway and looked with satisfaction at what he’d done for his guests.
The first time he’d read his brother’s letter, Jed had had a hard time understanding how his brother could love all the people he met on his mission. But as he watched Bailey sitting at the kitchen table reading the Book of Mormon, and her mother, who had joined her while he’d been making up the guest room, he now understood how that could be.
Jed smiled. He was very happy, and he looked forward with great anticipation to the new year.

My assistants recently had an experience that bears this out. Occasionally they go to a Vietnamese restaurant close to our office in Honolulu.

Being the good missionaries they are, they contact everyone, including every waitress who ventures close. They had been served by a young woman and had attempted to share a gospel message with her on a few occasions, but she had not shown any interest.

One day a few weeks ago, these elders were eating dinner when this waitress came over to their table and simply said, "OK, I'm not happy! Why are you so happy?" She could tell there was something different about them; that they had something she didn't have. She is currently attending church and being taught by missionaries in Honolulu.

Some years ago I was appointed chairman of the board of a music school in the city of Hanau, Germany. As part of my duties, I attended an exhibit of musical instruments. Although I am not a musician, I strolled through the thousands of instruments and tried to ask an intelligent question or two.
As I wandered around the main floor, I noted that each exhibit had a soundproof enclosure, supposedly so that those trying out trumpets, cornets, French horns, organs, drums, or tubas would not disturb those trying out violins, clarinets, pianos, flutes, oboes, or saxophones. Actually, “not quite soundproof” would be a more accurate description of those enclosures. A terrible noise filled the air, as if musicians from several orchestras were all tuning their instruments at once.
Then I saw a sign reading “Orchestral Instruments” with an arrow pointing upstairs. I’m saved, I thought, even though the sign was a bit unclear—the instruments on the main floor were orchestral instruments. But I headed up the stairs anyway, hoping to find a little peace and quiet.
Instead I found myself in another large room filled with even more musical instruments—most of them used for performing rock music. The air was filled with much louder and shriller noises than those I was trying to escape. I quickly scanned the room for the closest exit.
But suddenly I stopped. For just a fraction of a second, I thought I heard a beautiful melody among all those discordant sounds. Was it possible? Or was it an illusion?
Then I heard the melody again. What an unmistakably beautiful sound! It was definitely a strain of violin music—almost lost in the ocean of noise. I looked around to see where it was coming from. I noticed that two others had heard it as well and were also seeking it out.
Eventually, we found what we were looking for. In the smallest booth in the hall, a man was softly playing a beautiful violin while his wife stood nearby. He told us that he was a Swedish violin maker and that he was trying to market his product the best he could amid the electric guitars and synthesizers.
“I was deceived,” he told us sadly. “I rented this spot because it was supposed to be the site of the orchestral exhibits.” Then he turned again to his violin, and we listened entranced as he played a familiar masterpiece. We no longer heard the discord around us—just the beautiful notes of that violin.
Some time later, while standing in an overcrowded room with too many intermingling voices, I was once again forced to choose what I would listen to among many discordant sounds. This time I didn’t hear beautiful music, but I was struck with the thought that often in life we are surrounded by many voices, some of which advocate false ideas, such as “Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die” (2 Ne. 28:7). Still other voices are loud and raucous, brazenly tempting us to try something new—such as a new morality that simply turns out to be the old immorality.
But even among these loud, conflicting messages, if we choose to listen carefully, we can hear the soft sound of a heavenly voice. And we can know that the still, small voice of the Spirit is just as real as the beautiful melody of a well-played violin.

The little log cabin in Winter Quarters was not quite finished, but Orson Spencer and his six children moved into it anyway. They were anxious to get settled before Father left for England where he had been called by President Brigham Young to publish a newspaper for the Church.
Father had told Ellen, who had just turned 14, and Aurelia, who was 12, that they were to be “little mothers” to the four younger children. The baby, Lucy, was only three years old. Their mother had died soon after the family left Nauvoo, so their father ferried them across the Missouri River and then hurried to build the cabin before he left.
He bought eight cows so there would be plenty of milk to drink and enough to sell. They also owned a horse that was to be sold to buy food.
Two of the girls were just recovering from an illness when late in the fall their father said good-bye to them. Friends in neighboring cabins had agreed to help the children if they were needed.
The winter was long, cold, and lonely. Many people in the little community died. Among them were several friends of the Spencer children.
Aurelia wrote in her diary, “We got through the first part of the winter pretty well but it was uncommon in its severity. Our horse and all our cows but one died. Therefore, we had no milk or butter. Our provisions had also nearly given out so that in the spring and summer following we really suffered for something to eat. Part of the time we had nothing but cornmeal, which was stirred up with water and baked on a griddle. Many a night I went to bed without supper, having to wait until I was hungry enough to eat our poor fare.”
Then one day late in the fall of 1847, President Brigham Young went to visit the Spencer’s one-room log cabin. He found it neat and the children clean. Their father had been gone about a year when the Saints began making preparations to start their move to the mountains in the west the following spring.
The children told President Young that their father wrote often to them, making suggestions as to what they should wear, how to comb their hair, what to do if they became ill, and how to take care of each other. They brought out the last letter they had received. After President Young read it, he told them he had a very important matter for them to think about. He asked, “What would you say if your father stayed in England at least another year? We need him there.”
The children looked at each other and then waited for Ellen to speak since she was the oldest. “If it is thought best,” Ellen said quietly, “we would like it so, for we want to do for the best.”
All the other children agreed. They remembered that Father had once written, “Though He slay us, we should trust in Him, and all will be right.”
They had faith in their father, in his counsel, and in their Father in heaven. And so in the spring of 1848, the Spencer children, with determination and grateful hearts, began their preparations to move west with the Saints.

On November 10, 2020, government officials in a large jurisdiction announced that religious organizations should suspend all public gatherings and meetings. These restrictions were intended to help reduce the spread of COVID-19 and would be in effect for a minimum of three weeks—and likely longer. The announcement included a three-day warning that all operations should cease by midnight on Friday, November 13.

Because the temples had been closed for a period of time earlier in 2020, temple patrons, leaders, and workers were especially disappointed that ordinance work again would be halted. And given that only living ordinances were being performed by individual appointment and with reduced capacity resulting from physical distancing and other safety protocols, scores of members had been waiting patiently for their turn to enter the temple to make sacred covenants through priesthood ordinances. The new restrictions would cause Church members to face yet another heart-aching delay of uncertain duration.

Temple leaders and workers in one temple prayed earnestly for direction, counseled together, and sought inspiration from heaven. Answers came. The decision was made to keep the temple open around the clock on Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday to accommodate as many patrons as possible. The doors of the temple would remain open, and the lights would not be turned off until midnight on Friday, the 13th of November.

The tasks that needed to be completed seemed overwhelming. Some patrons would have to be contacted to confirm existing appointments. Other patrons with appointments scheduled after Friday the 13th would need to be informed about the temple closure and offered the opportunity to reschedule. Availability of temple workers would have to be evaluated so the extended hours of operation could be covered adequately. Crews to clean and sanitize the temple interior would need to be arranged. So many things to do and so little time to get them done!

The work began. Phone calls were made. Emails were sent. Text messages were delivered and answered. Volunteers were requested, and they responded by the dozens. The temple doors opened early Wednesday morning, and the lights were not turned off until midnight on Friday.

I now want to share with you quotes from eight individuals who were involved in these remarkable experiences. Please excuse the lengthy quotations, but only firsthand descriptions can do justice to the events that occurred.

Quote #1: “When I started calling patrons Tuesday afternoon, . . . I completely expected to leave messages. Almost everyone answered their phone. To me, [this was] a miracle. Almost all available time slots were filled in less than a day and a half.”

Quote #2: “Office clerks and secretaries spent countless hours calling patrons affected by the closure to see if they would like to reschedule their appointments. Every time I walked by their desks, they were on the phone. When they hung up, they would have smiles on their faces as they filled the schedule with new appointments for ordinances to be performed throughout the night. I have never seen such dedication as these sisters worked so hard to accommodate patrons in the work of the Lord.”

Quote #3: “In every aspect of this experience, the Lord’s hand was evident. There was miracle after miracle—miracles in scheduling, miracles in obtaining necessary paperwork to have ordinances completed, miracles in having one available appointment time precisely at the only time a patron was able to come. I am convinced that we are only aware of a small portion of that which the Lord did to allow His children the opportunity to receive temple blessings.”

Quote #4: “As I arrived at the temple on Thursday morning around 5:00 a.m., I saw ordinance workers who had served all night long still smiling as they served. The most common theme that I heard from the workers was that this felt like Nauvoo when the Saints needed to leave but kept coming to the temple to receive their temple ordinances.

“And just like Nauvoo, I saw sacrifices made by people who love the Lord and who love the temple. One brother stayed at the temple day and night, not going home for three days. His service was invaluable and needed in so many ways. I saw sisters who serve in the office spend countless hours on the phone to reschedule the people desirous to receive their ordinances. I saw older adults walk the halls of the temple after receiving their endowment—with huge smiles on their faces. I saw the happy faces of couples sealed in the house of the Lord, grateful they didn’t need to wait for the temple to reopen. I saw missionaries come to the temple with their families, ready to be endowed with power from on high before embarking on their missions. I saw guests who had driven all night to attend the temple with their family. I witnessed a beautiful two-year-old girl surrounded by parents, grandparents, and other family members as they prepared to have her sealed to them for all eternity. I saw temple staff and ordinance workers spend countless hours sanitizing the temple, keeping everyone safe during the pandemic. There were ordinance workers who had served all morning who volunteered to come back and work all night. I will never forget the dedication and kindness shown this week in the Lord’s house.”

Quote #5: “What is inspiring to me are all the ordinance workers who came in droves at all hours of the day and night to make this happen, along with the engineers, assistant recorders, and especially the housecleaning crew (which I believe deserves the greatest praise. What a challenge they must have had!).”

I was called to Central America. After several months in the mission field, I realized what a blessing had come to me in that call. While I was helping to find people who loved the Lord, I was also walking in places where much of the Book of Mormon may have happened. This was a second witness to the testimony of my grandfather, who had learned to love the Book of Mormon the first time he got his hands on one in the 1920s. His father was a salesman and trader who traveled widely in Mexico. My great-grandfather had told his children stories of ruined cities and highways in the jungle, and my grandfather had always wanted to know who the people were who built them.

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

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

One mother tells the story of her initial attempt to do something with her antagonistic daughter. For some time the daughter had associated with a group of girls whose behavior—drinking, late parties, and skipping school classes—had been the cause of much contention in the home. Soon the only conversation the girl had with her parents was loud and condemning. The mother, finally realizing how far their relationship had deteriorated, determined to do something about it.

The daughter was unwilling to spend time with her mother in any kind of activity, but she was willing to let her mother drive her to school each morning. The first few weeks were strained; their conversations were simple questions with yes/no answers. But as time went on and the daughter saw that her mother would not criticize or condemn her, she began to open up to her mother, to share her life and feelings with her. Their morning rides became close and comfortable conversations, and the young girl found her mother to be a loyal friend.

This story happened in Bolivia.
“Ha! You don’t know anything!” Fabricio pointed his finger at José and laughed.
Adam frowned. José had just asked the teacher a question. It wasn’t nice of Fabricio to tease him for that.
“Fabricio, that’s enough,” the teacher said.
Adam looked over at José. He was staring down at his notebook, like he hadn’t even heard Fabricio.
José was new to their school. At first, no one talked to him. Then some of the other kids started to tease him. They always called him names and laughed at him. Adam felt like he should help José, but he never knew what to say.
Besides, José looked just fine. It seemed like the teasing didn’t even bother him.
Adam turned back to his book. They had a big math test soon, and he had to focus.
On the day of the test, Adam did his best, but it was hard! He was nervous about his grade. What if he had failed?
The next day, their teacher stood at the front of the room with a stack of papers.
“I have your test grades,” she told them. “Many of you have room to improve, but some of you did very well.”
She began to read each student’s grade out loud. Most of the grades were pretty low. Adam waited anxiously for his name.
“Adam,” the teacher said. “Eighty.”
Adam couldn’t believe it. He had passed! He smiled big.
Then the teacher read José’s grade.
“One hundred,” she said, loud and clear. “A perfect grade.”
Fabricio stood up. “No way!” he shouted. “José cheated!”
“Yeah!” said another boy. “He doesn’t know anything. He must have copied someone.”
Other students joined in. José tried to tell them that he didn’t cheat, but they didn’t listen. The teacher tried to tell them to be quiet, but they wouldn’t listen to her either.
“Cheater!” someone yelled.
“Liar!” said someone else.
Adam’s heart was beating fast. He didn’t know what to do. He looked over at José. He would be OK, right? José was always calm.
José stared down at his desk like he always did. Then he started to cry.
The other kids stopped shouting, and the room went silent. All Adam could hear was the sound of José crying. He knew he couldn’t just stay still this time. He had to be brave. The Holy Ghost was telling him to help José.
Adam stood up. The other kids watched him as he walked over to José. He still didn’t know what to say. So he just leaned down and gave José a tight hug.
“It’s OK,” he whispered as he patted José on the back. “It’s OK.”
Soon other kids came to hug José too. Even Fabricio came over and said sorry. Before long the whole class was standing around José to say sorry and cheer him up.
“We love you, José!” someone said.
“You’re the best at math!” said another.
José wiped away his tears and smiled. Adam smiled too. Being kind took courage, but it was worth it.
Illustration by Shawna J. C. Tenney

Brothers and sisters, we have not seen the last of Joseph Smith. He is not merely a prophet of the past. When Joseph and Hyrum were in Carthage, Elder Parley P. Pratt was traveling on his way home to Nauvoo from a mission. In the very hour their innocent blood was being shed, “a strange and solemn awe” came over Elder Pratt, “as if the powers of hell were let loose.”[83] When he later heard that Joseph and Hyrum had been killed, he cried out in anguish:
O Lord! In the name of Jesus Christ I pray Thee, show me what these things mean, and what I shall say to Thy people [in Nauvoo]? On a sudden the Spirit of God came upon me…and while the spirit of revelation glowed in my bosom with as visible a warmth and gladness as if it were fire. The Spirit said unto me: “Lift up your head and rejoice; for behold! It is well with my servants Joseph and Hyrum. My servant Joseph still holds the keys of my kingdom in this dispensation, and he shall stand in due time on the earth, in the flesh, and fulfill that to which he is appointed.[84]

Crystal was in high school and Angel was six years old when their mother could no longer look after them. I offered to take them in. “I promise I will never leave your children,” I said. “I will take good care of them.”
Years later, another young mother asked me to take in her baby, Allison. This mother faced difficult circumstances and knew I could give her baby a good life. I took Allison in.
I try to teach these children the important things in life. I bring them to church and try to help them grow closer to God. I know that when I am nearer to Him, I can do so much more, even the things I think are impossible. Of course, I want that for Crystal, Angel, and Allison.
These children have suffered in life, but I’ve watched the gospel and the Spirit heal their hearts. I’ve watched their perceptions and behaviors slowly change. Together we pray for their birth parents, because no matter what, I want them to respect and love them.
I love Crystal, Angel, and Allison as if they were my own children. Sometimes people ask me if I will regret my decisions. What if Allison’s mother decides to take Allison back? Will I regret loving Allison and becoming attached to her? But why should I regret it? Helping other people is nothing to regret! It’s something to be grateful for.
I am so grateful for Crystal, Angel, and Allison. Thanks to them, I have learned how to be a mother. I learned how to wake up in the middle of the night for diaper changes, how to teach young children to pray, how to love more deeply than I thought possible. That is something I didn’t think I would ever have.
Perhaps my calling in this world is to take care of those that don’t have mothers or are far away from their mothers.

That kind of unity among the Seventy and their wives has great power. I remember being on assignment in Japan and traveling between cities with Elder Yoon Hwan and Sister Bon Choi, then serving in the Asia North Area Presidency. I knew of a problem in their home country of Korea, and I brought it up. After I prodded her a little, Sister Choi told me of the serious nature of the problem. She then made suggestions that proved extremely helpful in finding a solution.