Gospel Story Finder

Dan is trying very hard to follow the example that Jesus Christ has set for us. Last year he was baptized because he knew that that was what Jesus wanted him to do. And he was baptized in the Jordan River, where Jesus was baptized by John the Baptist (see Mark 1:4–11).
DeAnna, Dan’s mom, said that he worked very hard to prepare himself for baptism by learning more about the gospel and by studying the scriptures every night. “He is a wonderful example to his younger brothers,” she said. “They want to be baptized, too, when they reach the age of accountability, eight years of age.”

Renee Holloway, a member of the Bonifay Ward, Panama City Florida Stake, is a goal setter.
At the beginning of her senior year she set several goals that helped her throughout the year. She decided she would read her scriptures every night and devote time to seminary study. She also achieved a goal to complete her Young Womanhood Recognition.
Renee received an award as the outstanding senior band member at her high school. She also received an award for being the most outstanding senior in her graduating class, an accomplishment she believes she couldn’t have achieved without setting goals. Renee said she was often inspired by the many faithful Latter-day Saint teenagers she read about in the New Era.

There is a choice account of how this practice was carried out in the early days of the Church. History has recorded the testimony of Elder William Farrington Cahoon, as he filled his assignment as a teacher to the home of the Prophet Joseph Smith. The account is as follows:
“Before I close my testimony … , I wish to mention one circumstance which I never shall forget: I was called and ordained to act as a teacher to visit the families of the Saints. I got along very well till I found that I was obliged to call and pay a visit to the Prophet. Being young [only about seventeen years of age], I felt my weakness in visiting the Prophet and his family in the capacity of a teacher. I almost felt like shrinking from duty. Finally I went to his door and knocked, and in a minute the Prophet came to the door. I stood there trembling, and said to him:
“‘Brother Joseph, I have come to visit you in the capacity of a teacher, if it is convenient for you.’
“He said ‘Brother William, come right in, I am glad to see you; sit down in that chair there and I will go and call my family in.’
“They soon came in and took seats. He then said, ‘Brother William, I submit myself and family into your hands,’ and then took his seat. ‘Now Brother William,’ said he ‘ask all the questions you feel like.’
“By this time all my fears and trembling had ceased, and I said, ‘Brother Joseph, are you trying to live your religion?’
“He answered ‘Yes.’
“I then said ‘Do you pray in your family?’
“He said ‘Yes.’
“‘Do you teach your family the principles of the gospel?’
“He replied ‘Yes, I am trying to do it.’
“‘Do you ask a blessing on your food?’
“He answered ‘Yes.’
“‘Are you trying to live in peace and harmony with all your family?’
“He said that he was.
“I then turned to Sister Emma, his wife, and said ‘Sister Emma, are you trying to live your religion? Do you teach your children to obey their parents? Do you try to teach them to pray?’
“To all these questions she answered ‘Yes, I am trying to do so.’
“I then turned to Joseph and said, ‘I am now through with my questions as a teacher; and now if you have any instructions to give, I shall be happy to receive them.’
“He said ‘God bless you, Brother William; and if you are humble and faithful, you shall have power to settle all difficulties that may come before you in the capacity of a teacher.’
“I then left my parting blessing upon him and his family, as a teacher, and took my departure.” (Juvenile Instructor, 27 (15 Aug. 1892): 492–93.)

During many summer vacations as a child, my family drove the long distance from our home in northern California to visit relatives in Utah. As a true city boy looking for adventure, I especially enjoyed our trips to my grandmother’s farm in southern Utah.
On the farm, my brothers, sisters, cousins, and I climbed to the tops of towering haystacks and then jumped off, flying down to a soft cushion of hay below. Next, we took turns on our uncle’s old tractors, grabbing the steering wheel and pretending we were racing across the field. After that, we balanced like tightrope walkers and made our way across the top of the rickety old fence rails that kept the cows corralled. The best fun, though, was riding old Blaze.
Blaze was a gentle, old, brown horse that loved kids to ride on her. When I was younger, I rode double with one of my older brothers or sisters. However, the summer I was about nine years old, I announced to everyone that I was old enough to ride Blaze all by myself. My parents agreed, so with a boost onto her back and some last-minute instructions from my uncle, I was riding Blaze all on my own like a real cowboy.
As I slowly guided Blaze into a partly fenced-in field, my family could see that I was handling Blaze as well as any professional cowboy. They left me to my fun and went inside Grandma’s old farmhouse. Holding the reins loosely in my hands as I sat atop the gentle horse, I felt like I was king of the world.
However, only a few minutes had passed when Blaze suddenly broke into a mad gallop. I pulled gently on the reins to slow her down, but she kept up her fast pace. I pulled harder on the reins and yelled, “Whoa!” But Blaze seemed to just go faster and faster. I kept tugging at the reins but didn’t dare pull too hard for fear that she would rear on her hind legs and buck me off.
I pulled again and again on the reins, but Blaze just kept on galloping out of control. My cries for her to stop turned into screams of panic as she raced from the safety of the field and away from the farmhouse while I bounced and jerked wildly in the saddle.
At a terrifying speed, she headed straight for an old tractor, swerving just in time to miss it. Racing like lightning, she headed next toward a wooden, railed fence. I thought for sure that we’d crash right into it, but Blaze swerved away again just in time.
No matter what I tried, I couldn’t control her at all. Eventually she galloped off the farm property onto the rarely used country road. With tears streaming from my eyes, I realized my situation had just grown considerably worse. I couldn’t stop her on my own, and it might be hours before anyone who could help me might venture this way. I could end up lost, miles away from my grandma’s farmhouse, before Blaze ever came to a stop or threw me off her back.
At that moment, I realized that there was only one thing left for me to do. I prayed with all my heart. I prayed in my mind, and I prayed out loud. I knew that Heavenly Father would hear my prayers and that He could help me.
It wasn’t long after my prayers that an old truck came barreling down the road. The man driving it saw right away that I needed help. Driving alongside the galloping horse and me, the man yelled from his truck window, “Pull on the reins!”
I pulled, but Blaze kept running. The man yelled for me to pull harder. Even though I was still afraid that Blaze might rear back, I pulled back even harder on the reins than I had tried before. Blaze kept on racing.
“Pull harder!” yelled the man.
I was afraid to pull any harder, but I realized that the man knew more about horses than I did. So, gathering all my strength, I pulled as hard as I could on the reins. Blaze didn’t stop at first, but with the man’s continual urging, the horse finally slowed to a complete stop.
The man in the truck pulled off to the side of the road and hopped out. My whole body shook as he helped me down off the horse. When I told him that Blaze was usually a mild-mannered horse, he explained that even the gentlest horse might break into a run if its rider holds the reins too loosely.
After thanking the man for his help and assuring him that I was OK, I started the long way back to the farmhouse, leading Blaze by the reins. As I walked, I realized that some people might say that the man coming by when he did was just a coincidence. But I knew differently. It was a direct answer to my prayers. Heavenly Father knew ahead of time that I would need help when I did. He inspired a man who knew a lot more about horses than I did to drive his truck down a lonely county road. I know with all my heart, that Heavenly Father answered the prayers of a terrified young boy who couldn’t stop a galloping horse on his own.

I was raised a member of the Church in a branch in México. But as a teenager, I rebelled, like Alma the Younger. When many of my friends left on missions at age 19, I never asked for a missionary interview with my branch president. I always justified myself, since my mother was a widow and we had a lot of financial problems. I became less active. The next two years filled me with anger; they were the worst time of my life.
During this time, I dated a young woman in my branch. I was amazed at her closeness to God. Something inside me began to stir. I wanted to come back to the Church, but I had a lot of pride. That was the beginning of my fight against the Lord. I went with my friend to church sometimes, but I always said something against Church teachings to spoil the spirit of the meetings for her. Time passed, and my girlfriend, who had become my fiancée, finally left me, thinking I would never change. I began to feel desperately lonely.
A few months later, I felt encouraged when I opened a Church magazine and found a Mormon Message: “No matter what your past has been, you have a spotless future” (Tambuli, September 1989, 47). But still I was so depressed and full of anger that one day I decided to try to be happy by living my life the world’s way. That very day I had an experience that changed my life. I felt as if something or somebody touched me on the shoulder. I looked back, and nobody was there. I felt a little bit afraid. A little while later, I felt the same thing again, but this time the force on my shoulder was so powerful that I fell to my knees. I began to cry. For the first time in years, I prayed. I don’t know how much time I spent on my knees, but I eventually fell asleep. When I woke up, my mother asked what had happened. I told her I felt as though I had been asleep all my life and had only now opened my eyes.
I found the Book of Mormon and began to read. When I finished reading, I prayed with all my heart. I felt a warmth in my heart and a burning in my chest.
My life turned around. I began to pray, fast, bear my testimony, preach the gospel to my coworkers, pay tithing, and read and study the holy scriptures. I felt happy and close to my Heavenly Father. One day I talked to my branch president about serving a mission, and he eventually sent in my mission papers.
The members of my district were happy when they learned I had received a call to the México Chihuahua Mission. Some people were amazed.
The last Sunday before leaving on my mission, I bore my testimony. I said that everybody can change. Alma the Younger changed; the sons of King Mosiah changed; Zeezrom changed; Paul changed; and I changed.
While serving my full-time mission I witnessed the power of love and had the privilege of bringing souls to our Heavenly Father.
After returning, I married Erika Mendoza in the Dallas Texas Temple. We are both busily involved in callings in Sunday School and Young Women.
Whenever I see a picture of Peter walking over the water to reach Jesus but falling into the deep sea, I put myself in Peter’s place (see Matt. 14:22–33). Sometimes I feel myself faltering, and I pray that—just as he did for Peter—the Lord will reach out his hand to catch me so that I can keep walking toward him.
I will never forget what the Lord has done for me in healing my soul. I know he loves all of his children, and I’m grateful knowing that no matter what our pasts have been, our futures are spotless.

May I relate to you my first journey along a personal Jericho Road. In about my tenth year, as Christmas approached, I yearned as only a boy can yearn for an electric train. My desire was not to receive the economical and everywhere-to-be-found wind-up model train, but rather one that operated through the miracle of electricity.

The times were those of economic depression, yet Mother and Dad, through some sacrifice, I am sure, presented to me on Christmas morning a beautiful electric train. For hours I operated the transformer, watching the engine first pull its cars forward, then push them backward around the track.

Mother entered the living room and said to me that she had purchased a wind-up train for Widow Hansen’s boy, Mark, who lived down the lane. I asked if I could see the train. The engine was short and blocky—not long and sleek like the expensive model I had received.

However, I did take notice of an oil tanker car which was part of his inexpensive set. My train had no such car, and pangs of envy began to be felt. I put up such a fuss that Mother succumbed to my pleadings and handed me the oil tanker car. She said, “If you need it more than Mark, you take it.” I put it with my train set and felt pleased with the result.

Mother and I took the remaining cars and the engine down to Mark Hansen. The young boy was a year or two older than I. He had never anticipated such a gift and was thrilled beyond words. He wound the key in his engine, it not being electric like mine, and was overjoyed as the engine and two cars, plus a caboose, went around the track.

Mother wisely asked, “What do you think of Mark’s train, Tommy?”

I felt a keen sense of guilt and became very much aware of my selfishness. I said to Mother, “Wait just a moment—I’ll be right back.”

As swiftly as my legs could carry me, I ran to our home, picked up the oil tanker car plus an additional car of my own, ran back down the lane to the Hansen home, and said joyfully to Mark, “We forgot to bring two cars which belong to your train.”

Mark coupled the two extra cars to his set. I watched the engine make its labored way around the track and felt a supreme joy difficult to describe and impossible to forget.

Mother and I left the Hansen home and slowly walked up the street. She, who with her hand in God’s had entered into the valley of the shadow of death to bring me, her son, across the bridge of life, now took me by the hand and together we returned homeward by way of our private Jericho Road.

Some remember mother for her rhymes recited, others for her music played, songs sung, favors bestowed, or stories told; but I remember best that day we together traveled our Jericho Road and, like the good Samaritan, found a cherished opportunity to help.

Church leaders were assigned by the First Presidency of the Church to reorganise the stake presidency. They had prayed and received impressions to their hearts and minds (See Doctrine and Covenants 8:2) that Kumaitotoya, who was then serving as a bishop, was the man the Lord had chosen.
Kaumaititoya received authority to lead the stake as Church leaders placed their hands on his head and blessed him in the same manner as the disciples were in the Biblical account found in John 15.
Elder David A. Bednar, of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, taught that the priesthood is the authority to act in the name of Jesus Christ. He said, “Because Christ is not here with us, His priesthood is needed to teach His doctrine and to perform the ordinances of salvation. Priesthood authority is given to worthy male members of the Church and is received ‘by the laying on of hands by those who are in authority, to preach the Gospel and administer in the ordinances thereof’ (Articles of Faith 1:5). Theological training or reading the Bible does not convey priesthood authority; rather, it comes from God according to the pattern He has established.”1
The call in 2013 came as a surprise to 45-year-old Solomone Kaumaititoya. It was not something for which he sought or to which he aspired. In fact, it caused him deep introspection and feelings of inadequacy. He would continue in his full-time career as an airline purser to financially support his family.
Kaumaititoya prayed fervently, asking, “Lord, what do you want me to do? What do you want me to say?” He also wondered, “How can I still do my job and be a stake president?”
The answers came to Kaumaitotoya in the form of scriptures and dreams that penetrated his heart deeply.
The words found in Moses 1:39, “For behold, this is my work and my glory—to bring to pass the immortality and eternal life of man,” left an impression upon Kaumaitotoya. He said, “This was a call to do the Lord’s work. It wasn’t about me.”
Dreams came to President Kaumaitotoya every few days when he was first called. He was shown some of the events that would happen in the stake. He said, “I knew what to do because I had seen it in a dream.”
He found that his life experiences had also prepared him in ways he couldn’t foresee. President Kaumaitotoya had a very difficult childhood. As a young teenager, he climbed a hill one day to pray and to ask God why he had to go through such hard things.
He recalled, “I was really angry with God. I couldn’t understand why the Lord would let me go through such hard things. I was asking Him why?”
Kaumaitotoya didn’t understand, at first, the answer that came on the hill that day: “For your experience.”
As he served, he made sense of what “for your experience” meant, when a teary congregant walked into his office to seek his ecclesiastical counsel about a similar family situation. Afterwards, it dawned on Kaumaitotoya what the answer to his boyhood prayer meant. His path and his challenges had prepared him to minister to and serve people with understanding and love.
Lavinia Kaumaitotoya voiced her gratitude for her husband’s opportunity to serve. She said, “I have seen my husband grow and change to become a more spiritual, loving father and husband. I have seen him coming to know the Saviour.”
Latter-day Saints believe that callings or invitations to accept responsibilities or offices in the Church, are opportunities for growth and refinement. Serving the Lord and others in these volunteer roles increases love for God and for His children. It is a blessing to sacrifice time and energy for the Lord and to be called by Him to do His work.
Nine years ago, when Lavinia and Solomone Kaumaitotoya learned that it was time for a new stake president to be called, they fasted and prayed. They called upon the Lord to bless those seeking inspiration to know who the Lord wanted to lead their stake. They prayed that their stake would be blessed.
Almost as a bookend, the Kaumaitotoya’s again fasted and prayed the week before the stake conference when Solomone would be released as stake president, offering prayers of gratitude, and seeking blessings for the new stake president.
Solomone Kaumaitotoya declared, “President Adrian Yee has the authority to lead the stake now, and I sustain him. I’m ready to do whatever the Lord wants me to do.”

In the St. George Utah Green Valley Stake, Troy and Sue Olsen began attending a self-reliance group on emotional resilience, anticipating they were going to help others. Their bishop asked ward council members to participate in a group so they could share what they learned with others.
The Olsens were dealing with some challenging blended-family dynamics with adult children. “We have a family member who was going through some difficult times,” Sister Olsen explains. “I was frustrated that I was not able to help more.” The discussions about “myths” and “realities” from the workbook helped the Olsens see their family situation differently.
Then another group member shared how guilty and hopeless she felt when her brother had taken his own life. Sister Olsen realized that others also had emotional burdens that she was completely unaware of and needed ministering to in a unique way.
She might not be able to lift the burden, but the Savior could. The workbook stressed, “Your role is to love and minister to people, and the Savior will do the healing.” Sister Olsen says, “By casting our burdens on Him, we saw with new eyes, heard old messages in new ways, and had a renewed understanding of the gospel and His healing power.”
Group discussions, workbook examples, and personal empathy all helped greatly improve their situation as well. Sister Olsen still has some anxious moments and many heartfelt prayers. Importantly, she now sees her role differently—to love and minister—not to fix or solve others’ issues.

“This isn’t even music. I play the same stuff over and over again,” Carrie complained. “How come you like music so much?”
“When I was eight I had scarlet fever. I almost died. I couldn’t do anything except lie in bed. I was really scared. Mom would sing hymns while she did the housework. It was her way of letting me know she was there.” She paused long enough to turn the oven on. “Dad bought me a music box. It played ‘Star Dust.’ I played it so much the music box finally broke. I remember not feeling so scared when the music was playing.”
“That’s why you sing so much?”
“And why I want you to play the guitar. Don’t get discouraged. You might be a little slower than your brothers and sisters, but you’ll catch on. The guitar isn’t that easy,” her mother smiled.

The Savior counseled that we should pray for those who “despitefully use” us. This principle is often overlooked in our prayers. The Prophet Joseph Smith understood it clearly. His petitions were fervent, his motives pure, and the blessings of heaven regular.
Daniel Tyler, an associate of the Prophet, recalled an important occasion: “At the time William Smith and others rebelled against the Prophet [at Kirtland], … I attended a meeting … where ‘Joseph’ presided. Entering the school-house a little before [the] meeting opened, and gazing upon the man of God, I perceived sadness in his countenance and tears trickling down his cheeks. … A few moments later a hymn was sung and he opened the meeting by prayer. Instead of facing the audience, however, he turned his back and bowed upon his knees, facing the wall. This, I suppose, was done to hide his sorrow and tears.
“I had heard men and women pray—especially the former—from the most ignorant, both as to letters and intellect, to the most learned and eloquent, but never until then had I heard a man address his Maker as though He was present listening as a kind father would listen to the sorrows of a dutiful child. Joseph was at that time unlearned, but that prayer, which was to a considerable extent in behalf of those who accused him of having gone astray and fallen into sin, [was] that the Lord would forgive them and open their eyes that they might see aright—that prayer, I say, to my humble mind, partook of the learning and eloquence of heaven. There was no ostentation, no raising of the voice as by enthusiasm, but a plain conversational tone, as a man would address a present friend. It appeared to me as though, in case the vail were taken away, I could see the Lord standing facing His humblest of all servants I had ever seen. … It was the crowning … of all the prayers I ever heard.”

I spoke recently to a young father who has lost his job in the recent economic crisis. He knows that hundreds of thousands of people with exactly his skills are looking desperately for work to feed their families. His quiet confidence led me to ask him what he had done to become so confident that he would find a way to support his family. He said he had examined his life to be sure that he had done all he could to be worthy of the Lord’s help. It was clear that his need and his faith in Jesus Christ were leading him to be obedient to God’s commandments when it is hard to do. He said that he saw that opportunity as he and his wife were reading in Alma where the Lord had prepared a people to find the gospel through adversity.

That young man with whom I spoke recently was one who had done more than put away food and a little savings for the misfortune which living prophets had warned would come. He had begun to prepare his heart to be worthy of the Lord’s help which he knew he would in the near future need. When I asked his wife on the day he lost his job if she was worried, she said with cheerfulness in her voice, “No, we’ve just come from the bishop’s office. We are full-tithe payers.” Now, it is still too early to tell, but I felt assured as they seemed to be assured: “Things will work out.” Tragedy did not erode their faith; it tested it and strengthened it. And the feeling of peace the Lord has promised has already been delivered in the midst of the storm. Other miracles are sure to follow.

President Joseph F. Smith was five years old when his father, Hyrum, was killed in Carthage Jail. Later, Joseph crossed the plains with his widowed mother.
At age 15 he was called on a mission to Hawaii. He felt lost and alone and said: “I was very much oppressed. … I felt as if I was so debased in my condition of poverty, lack of intelligence and knowledge, just a boy, that I hardly dared look [anyone] in the face.”
While pondering his plight one night, young Joseph dreamed he was on a journey, rushing as fast as he possibly could. He carried with him a small bundle. Finally, he came to a wonderful mansion, which was his destination. As he approached, he saw a sign which read, “Bath.” He quickly went in and washed himself. He opened his little bundle and found clean white clothing—“a thing,” he said, “I had not seen for a long time.” He put them on and rushed to the door of the mansion.
“I knocked,” he said, “and the door opened, and the man who stood there was the Prophet Joseph Smith. He looked at me a little reprovingly, and the first words he said [were]: ‘Joseph, you are late.’ Yet I took confidence and said:
“‘Yes, but I am clean—I am clean!’”8

It was the annual live Nativity. You could walk around and see people dressed up like the Wise Men, shepherds, and Mary with Joseph and the Baby.
We walked over to see the shepherds. The youngest was no more than five, and he was standing by his father. He had his hands clamped tightly together.
My mom came up to me and whispered, “That little boy doesn’t have any gloves. Would you like to give him one of yours?” I looked down at my hands that were double gloved. If I took one layer off, my hands would get cold. I swallowed, took off the best pair, and followed Mom back to the fire.
“Here,” my mom said to the boy’s father. “Some gloves to keep his hands warm.” She slid the gloves onto the boy’s hands.
“Thank you,” the boy’s dad said. “We will get them back to you.”
“Oh, you can keep them,” Mom said as she took my hand. We walked to a big barn where the woman playing the role of Mary stood.
Mary said, “These feet will walk on water, these hands will heal a blind man and raise a child from the dead, and then these hands and feet will be nailed to a cross to pay for our transgressions.”
I looked at the baby representing Jesus in her arms and his tiny hands holding her finger. I looked at my own hands in a worn pair of gloves. I thought of the little boy’s hands with my perfect pair of gloves. Then I smiled to myself. I was glad I had given him my gloves, because I didn’t know what his hands would do someday. They might not do the same things that Jesus did, but his hands would do something good. The least I could do was help keep them warm.

When I was about nine years old and attending elementary school here in Salt Lake City, all of the youth in the city’s schools were asked to fill out a form indicating what we wanted to be when we grew up. The lists were then to be placed in a waterproof metal box and buried beneath a new flagpole which graced the entrance to the City and County Building grounds. Years later, the box was to be opened and its contents made available.
As I sat with pencil in hand, I thought of the question, “What do I want to be when I grow up?” Almost without hesitation, I wrote the word cowboy. At lunch that day I reported to my mother my response. I can almost see Mother now as she admonished me, “You get right back to school and change that to banker or lawyer!” I obeyed Mother, and all dreams of being a cowboy vanished forever.

The warm August sun gave Margaret a feeling of peace and happiness as she gingerly set one foot exactly in front of the other and balanced herself with outstretched arms. The abandoned, rusty train track glowed like a long brown ribbon as it ran off into the distance. Jeff, her brother, was right behind her.
“C’mon, slowpoke,” he chided her as he accidentally stepped on the back of her shoe.
“Oh, Jeff, look what you’ve done! This is the first time I’ve stepped off the track since we began. You go ahead of me if you’re in such a great hurry.”
She glanced across at her best friend on the other rail and grinned. Allison was having a harder time staying on, and she reminded Margaret of a circus tight-rope walker. Cory, Allison’s brother, was quite far ahead of them. He’d had more practice at rail walking, but it seemed to Margaret that he skipped off often, even though he moved faster.
Looking down the track, Margaret had warm memories of past days when her father came home from the mine with coal dust on his face, hands, and clothes, set the wooden kitchen chair in the middle of newspapers spread out on the floor, and carefully removed his boots. Even more carefully he shook out his tucked-in pant legs. Margaret liked the sound of the coal particles falling onto the paper, and she mentally compared each little pile with the previous night’s. She missed those days. Diesel engines and other inventions had almost eliminated the need for coal, and many of her father’s friends and coworkers had had to move. It will be all right as long as Allison and Cory Anderson stay here, she thought now.
Cory was now out of sight around the bend and headed toward the forest. It was full of wonderful paths created by the miners when they’d walked between the town and the mine. The children spent hours galloping through the trees on pretend horses or playing king and queen on the large boulders in the woods. “Pretend” was always their favorite game, and Cory had a new variation in mind as he waited for them.
“Let’s pretend we’re miners,” he suggested, “and that we’re searching for gold. We must find it by dark so that we can take it to the wicked king and free the good prince before the rats go into his dungeon. Rats always come out at night, you know, and the prince hates them—they scare him almost to death!”
The four friends galloped through the forest toward the old tipple. Margaret was surprised at how quickly the three-story gray building where the coal had been washed and sorted had deteriorated. A few of the windows were broken, and the whole building seemed to be sagging as they stared at it in the shadows of the late afternoon.
To their dismay, they saw that fencing had been put up and that no-trespassing signs had been posted.
“Well,” sighed Jeff, “so much for finding gold.”
“Aw, c’mon,” Cory argued. “We aren’t going to let a little fence stop us. We can find a place to climb through.”
They found a sagging wire, and each crawled through as they held the other wires apart.
Just then something very strange happened to Margaret. She thought she heard a very quiet whisper: “Don’t go in there!” She wasn’t sure where the sound came from, but it seemed to come from deep inside her. Or did it? Maybe she had just imagined it. But as they climbed the hill to the back of the tipple, her spine seemed to tingle.
The four friends peered into the opening where the coal cars had once rolled on tracks into the building and were filled. It was dark and foreboding, and, of course, the boys had to hoot like owls and make ghostly sounds as they entered.
“Jeff,” Margaret pleaded, “it’s time for us to go home. Please, Jeff, don’t go any farther in there! Allison, Cory! Let’s go home now. Please!”
“Ha! Look at Margaret. She’s afraid.”
“No, I’m not. I just don’t want to go in there, that’s all.”
“C’mon, Margaret,” pleaded Allison. “It sounds like such a fun game, and I don’t want those two boys teasing me about being a scaredy cat. We’ll only be in there for a few minutes.”
“C’mon, Margaret,” begged Jeff. “This is the most fun we’ve had in a long time. All we have to do is cross the boardwalk and dig up the gold on the other side. It will only take a minute, and then you can run right back out.”
Margaret could see the board walkway just inside the big entryway. It seemed like only yesterday when she had stood with her father, watching the coal pickers standing on the boards next to the conveyor belt. It was their job to sort the “bony” coal, which was full of rocks, from the good ore by throwing the bony lumps over their shoulders into a huge bin behind them. The good coal continued on to a waiting coal car, which hauled it away to be processed. Even with her father there beside her, Margaret hated the steep drop behind the boardwalk. Now, standing just inside the old, dilapidated tipple, she felt much more uneasy. “I know what I’ll do!” she said. “I’ll stay here on guard while you three get the gold. If the wicked king’s men appear in the forest, I’ll hoot like an owl three times.”
“Good idea!” Cory seemed relieved that Margaret’s fears hadn’t discouraged the others. “You wait here, but hide inside the door. Spies might be crawling all over the forest, and you wouldn’t want to be captured and thrown in with the rats too!”
Margaret watched them scamper across the boards and into the dark shadows. She sighed as she glanced outside. Early evening was usually her favorite time of day because it was so peaceful. However, she wasn’t feeling very peaceful just then.
Her thoughts were shattered by a loud crash and the sound of splitting wood. She heard a scream and more splitting wood, then silence. She froze for an instant with the deepest fear she had ever known. Filled with panic, she ran to the edge of the boardwalk. She could see nothing, and she could hear only her own heavy breathing.
“Jeff! Allison! Cory! Somebody answer me. Jeff, please—answer me!” She tried hard not to breathe as she listened for a sound. None came.
She sobbed, then fell to her knees. “Please, Heavenly Father, help us. Help them not to be hurt!” Scrambling up, she ran out of the tipple, down the hillside, back through the fence, and through the forest. She slipped and fell, rolled and tripped for what seemed miles to her home.
When she gasped out what had happened, her father’s face went white. As he grabbed his miner’s hat and other equipment he thought he might need, he said, “I’ll stop by the Andersons’ on my way. I may need all the help I can get.”
“We’re going too!” Margaret’s mother was emphatic. “I’ll get some blankets and coats.”
Five very grim faces retraced the path to the tipple. Five very serious pleas were silently sent heavenward.
When they reached the entrance of the dark, rickety building, the two mothers and Margaret waited while the men lit the lights on their hard hats, gathered the ropes, and cautiously advanced to the edge of the bony bin.
“Jeff! Cory! Allison! Are you all right?”
Jeff answered. “Yes, Dad. I think I’ve broken my arm, but otherwise we’re fine.”
The two women and one very relieved Margaret gave thanks as they hugged each other with joy.
The house seemed extra cozy to Margaret when her parents tucked her into bed later that night. Cory and Allison were bruised, badly shaken, and very dirty. And Jeff had broken his arm. How grateful they all were that the bony bin had been half full instead of empty and that only the wind knocked out of them had prevented them from answering or even functioning for a few minutes. It had taken a while for them to crawl through the dark bin to find each other, but they were glad to be together until help came.
“Margaret,” her mother asked when she bent to kiss her good night, “why didn’t you go farther into the tipple with the other three?”
“My Primary teacher taught us the same thing you and Dad did about the still, small voice and how it speaks to us when we need comfort or are in danger. She said that it sometimes is so quiet that you can hardly hear it and that at other times it is clear and loud. Well, I heard it this afternoon when we were on our way to the tipple. I should have told the others about it, but I wasn’t sure until the boardwalk caved in. All I know is that it caused me to be afraid, even though I didn’t feel that way at first.”
Her father gently hugged her. “I’m grateful for your teacher—and for a daughter who paid attention in class. It might have taken days for us to find you. However, there was one thing you didn’t pay attention to when you played around the tipple. Do you remember what that was?”
Margaret thought very hard, then said, “Yes, Dad. We should never have crossed the fence that had those no-trespassing signs. That was very wrong. You taught us to regard warning signs and to not trespass on other people’s property. We were so excited about our new game that we just ignored those rules. None of this would have happened if we’d listened to our consciences right at the beginning.”
“That’s right, honey. We all learn through our experiences, and Jeff has learned the same lessons you have. I’m sure that Cory and Allison have learned them too. One of the greatest tools we can use in helping us through this life is to become a listener. We’re grateful that you did listen the second time.”
Eight hearts gave thanks that night to Heavenly Father, who also had listened that day, just as He always listens.

At first, I didn’t really understand what my dad was doing those mornings when he prayed for me. But as I got older, I came to sense his love and interest in me and in everything I was doing. It is one of my favorite memories. It wasn’t until years later, after I was married, had children of my own, and would go into their rooms while they were asleep and pray for them, that I understood completely how my father felt about me.

I had always enjoyed the warmth and green of Southern California winters, but Christmas in Helsinki, Finland, was something out of a storybook. There was snow on the ground, pine trees in the park, and stars so brilliant that heaven seemed only a hand’s reach away. I could almost hear the angels singing, “Peace on earth, good will to men!”
My heart was filled with that peace as my missionary companion, Sister Pels, and I settled into our chairs at a fast-food restaurant. Our meeting had concluded at about 7:00 P.M.,and we were eager to relax for a moment over a meal before our bus arrived.
Suddenly the doors flew open and in swept about 20 people wearing costumes. One was dressed like Joseph, another like Mary, and still others like shepherds, the Wise Men, and angels with wings. They had obviously just come from a local Nativity play. Joking and laughing, they purchased their food and sat down to eat.
A few moments later another man walked into the restaurant. He was obviously not part of the first group. His hair was tousled, and he was wearing old, torn clothes. When he collected his meal, he wandered around looking for a seat. Finding one among the Nativity performers, he started to squeeze in between two of the Wise Men. As he did, he accidentally tipped his tray too far, and his soda pop fell onto the floor.
There were chuckles from the group as he backed away and found a table next to ours. He eased into the seat and just sat there, head hung, not looking at his food, not looking at much of anything but the floor. It occurred to me that this meal must have been something special for him, a rarity he could barely afford. The loss of his drink must have broken his heart. It broke my heart to look at him.
“We have to do something,” I said to Sister Pels.
“Well, they do offer free refills for spilled drinks,” Sister Pels remarked. She immediately stood up and walked over to the food counter. As she did, all Bethlehem noticed her missionary name tag. Some of the group rolled their eyes.
A few minutes later, Sister Pels handed the man a new drink as an attendant cleaned up the spill. The man stared at the drink, then turned to stare at Sister Pels and me. His eyes filled with tears. “Thank you,” he said through a throat tight with emotion. “Life’s really hard right now.”
He told us he was 54 years old and had once been a sailor. He was alone now. His father had just died, and the rest of his family was gone. “Who are you?” he asked.
“We’re missionaries for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints,” I replied. “We’re in Finland sharing the gospel of Jesus Christ and another testament of him called the Book of Mormon. Would you like a copy?”
He shook his head. “Thanks anyway.”
The conversation ended quickly when Sister Pels noticed that our bus was due to arrive. We would have to hurry to catch it. As we were leaving, we passed by the Nativity group. One of the angels glowered at us and said through clenched teeth, “The Bible is the book.” Momentarily startled, Sister Pels and I edged out the door. Behind us came the tattered and lonely stranger.
“Where are the angels going?” he asked. Puzzled, we looked back into the restaurant at the performers. But then we noticed he was looking at us. “Where are the angels going?” he asked again.
We smiled and wished him a merry Christmas, then boarded the bus. As it pulled away from the restaurant, I gazed at the stars. Heaven did indeed seem especially close.

So when the high school football coach asked Jake to be the water boy for the team, Jake jumped at the chance. “I’ve always liked football. There was never any doubt that I would say yes. I was pretty excited,” says Jake.
Jake is happy to be part of the team, and his positive influence also lifts the spirits of those around him.
Riley Davis plays center on the football team and is one of Jake’s longtime friends. He says the players “were all sophomores coming into the school and didn’t have too many friends. But when Jake joined the team, everybody wanted to be his friend, and then we all started being friends together.”
Another player on the team, Sheen Beard, found Jake to be a tremendous help to him. Injured before the season began, Sheen was unable to play on the team and became a water boy alongside Jake. Jake helped him not only with water and equipment but also by easing the ache of being unable to play. Sheen says, “It turned out well; we worked as a team. He made it fun and had a really good attitude the whole time.”
“Jake has never allowed his problems to affect his life too much,” his mother says. “Of course, he couldn’t do it alone. Joining the football team has made it a lot easier for him and for us, as parents.”
Jake and his parents are especially grateful to Coach Mike Miller for giving Jake such a tremendous opportunity. “This new opportunity gave Jake something to look forward to at a time when he really needed it,” his mom says.
“Jake also receives help from his good friend Riley,” she says. “He has always been the one to go out of his way to do things with him.”

As a small child, I must have been a great “talker.” According to my mother, I liked talking to adults and enjoyed the attention this generated. My observations and comments often resulted in laughter, which at times, I later learned, came from the embarrassment those remarks had caused my parents.
Soon after my family moved to Holladay, Utah, many of my parents’ friends came to visit and to see our new home. After one such visit, in which I had given my usual performance, my father took me aside and said, “Keith, I’m grateful you are so honest in the things you say. Mother and I are proud of you.” He paused and then with greater emphasis said, “Keith, always be honest.” Then he added, “But Keith, you don’t have to tell all you know.” He then explained what he meant. Evidently, in my chattering before his friends that evening I had really said too much. What impressed me, however, was my father’s counsel to always be honest.
In later studying the thirteenth article of faith, I noticed that it began with “We believe in being honest.” [A of F 1:13] I was very pleased that my father had taught me that principle.

My second example is also simple, but it too will never be forgotten. Following the closing prayer at a session of general conference in October 2017, the General Authorities and officers were leaving the stand when one of the Seventy tapped me on my shoulder and said, “Brother Brough, your shoe is untied.” He then knelt down and tied my shoe. He knelt down and tied my shoe!

I did not know what to do. I thought of pulling my foot away and saying, “No, I will do that.” At first, I was embarrassed that a member of the Seventy was kneeling and tying my shoe. Then I found myself feeling such love from this servant of Heavenly Father and also from Heavenly Father Himself. This was one of the kindest acts I have experienced in my whole life. With tears in my eyes, I thought, “What a great example! I might not be able to do much, but I, too, can always tie someone’s shoe.”