Gospel Story Finder

There were people everywhere—doctors and nurses in white coats, tired and crying children standing in line to get shots, anxious foster parents searching for their Indian children, and other families happily reuniting. Eight-year-old Rose Begay had been so excited to come on the Indian placement program this year with her older brothers and sisters that she’d hardly slept the night before she was to leave. But during the long bus ride from Arizona she began to realize how far away she would be from the world she knew. She had loved the twinkling lights of the Salt Lake Valley she’d seen the night before from the bus window, but the harsh lights in the building stabbed at her tired, scratchy eyes. When Rose was finally introduced to her new family by her caseworker, Brother Hall, she was so exhausted that the people blurred before her eyes.
“Rose, this is Brother and Sister Robbins, and Julie, Jason, Eric, Scotty, and Susan,” he was saying. They all had blue eyes, freckles, and big smiles. Rose peeked at them through a curtain of black hair, then quickly lowered her eyes and looked at her toes.
The Robbins family lived in a brown house on a quiet circle. Rose gazed in wonder at the large, comfortable rooms and the shiny kitchen with a sliding glass door looking out onto the lawn and garden. In the distance she could see snow-covered mountains. She touched the pink gingham curtains edged with wide white lace in the bedroom she would share with Julie, and her eyes were drawn to the matching bedspreads.
When it was time to be tucked into bed, Sister Robbins had wanted Rose to wear the pajamas she had ready, but Rose shook her head no. How could she explain that the clothes she had on were her only link with home? She looked so tired and ready to cry that she was allowed to get into bed in the clothes she wore. But the bed still felt strange, and she couldn’t get comfortable. She longed for her goatskin rug on the hard floor at home. She squirmed and squiggled. Finally, after Julie had gone to sleep, Rose took a blanket, curled up in a corner on the floor, closed her eyes, and thought about her desert home. She could almost see the piñon smoke drifting through the clear air and feel the gentle touch of a smooth brown hand. At last she slept.
During those first weeks with her new family, Rose had many things to get used to. It seemed strange to be allowed to have cookies and popcorn after school. At the small reservation boarding school Rose had attended for a few months, children could eat only at mealtimes. And, with a twinkle in her eyes, Julie would often remind her, “Oops, you left the fridge open again, Rosie.” Sometimes Rose would eat until she felt like bursting, and still the ache of strangeness was inside her.
One morning there were pancakes for breakfast—crisp and brown on the edges—with hot maple syrup. Rose was just about to pour herself a glass of milk when she noticed that her foster mother didn’t have any and that there was only enough for one glass. “I don’t feel thirsty for milk today,” she said.
Sister Robbins looked at Rose strangely, then glanced down at her own empty glass. “Rose, I don’t want milk this morning,” she said. “I’m going to buy more milk at the store as soon as you go to school.” Rose filled her glass and drank the good cold milk with the hot pancakes.
“Will you vacuum for me today before you go, please, Rose?” Sister Robbins asked after breakfast. She plugged in the vacuum cleaner, turned it on, and showed Rose how to use it. Rose pushed it back and forth, back and forth, back and forth …
Jason grabbed his jacket and hollered, “Hurry up, Rose. You’ll be late for school.”
In desperation, Rose turned to Eric and whispered, “How do you stop this thing?”
Vacuum cleaners and refrigerators weren’t the only strange new things in Rose’s world that gave her problems. She was having trouble in school.
“Why don’t you look at me when I talk to you?” Miss McBunn asked Rose. “And why haven’t you been turning in your assignments?” Rose turned her eyes to the floor and retreated even farther behind the curtain of dark hair. She was embarrassed to tell her teacher that Navajos consider it rude to look right into peoples’ eyes when they are talking to them. Her assignments were all completed as well as she knew how, but she feared turning them in. What if they are all wrong? she thought. I would be ashamed.
The bell rang for their next class.
“Saved by the bell,” Rose’s friend Angie whispered.
“OK, girls, we’re going to run the forty-yard dash today,” the gym teacher announced. When the girls had lined up, the teacher put her whistle to her lips and BLEW!
Rose streaked across the field, her hair flying behind her. She glanced back and saw that she was far in the lead. Her feet went slower until most of the others were even with her.
“Why did you slow down? Why didn’t you try harder to win?” Angie wanted to know.
Rose shrugged her shoulders shyly and said nothing. She didn’t know how to explain that it wasn’t the Navajo way.
After school Hank Holton walked by Rose and poked her with something sharp. He made an imitation of an Indian war whoop and taunted, “Where’s your tomahawk?”
Rose’s heart felt heavy, and her feet carried her home in slow, plodding steps. She felt much better when she got home and discovered that everyone was making preparations for family home evening.
“Mondays are my favorite times,” she commented to Julie as they put the best red glasses on the table with the good dishes and two tall candles. They were especially excited tonight because Grandma was coming for the evening.
“Be sure to pick all the toys up off the steps so Grandma won’t stumble on them,” Sister Robbins warned Scotty and Eric. But they ran off to play, and the toys were still there. Rose carefully gathered them up and put an extra cushion on Grandma’s chair so that she would be more comfortable. Then Rose went to the kitchen to check on the good smells. “What are you cooking tonight, Mom?” she asked.
“Oh, a special treat,” Sister Robbins replied, “shrimp and french fries.”
Rose had a funny look on her face.
“What’s the matter?” Sister Robbins asked.
“I don’t know whether to be a Navajo or a billigona (white person) tonight. Navajos aren’t supposed to eat fish, but oh, it smells so good!”
“Why, I didn’t know that Rose. I guess you will have to decide.” Sister Robbins gave her a hug.
“Why do white people touch each other all the time—hugging and kissing?” Rose asked with a puzzled look.
Sister Robbins laughed. “I guess it’s just a way we have to show our love for each other. Besides, I think it’s kind of nice, don’t you?”
Rose sat deep in thought for a while, then said, “Yes, I guess it is. One time my grandfather and I were going for a walk together. He held my hand so that I wouldn’t stumble in the holes. It was nice.”
After dinner Julie played the piano and Jason played his flute. Baby Susan clapped with everyone else and cooed.
As Rose watched Susan pick up a toy and play with it, all the lonely, homesick feelings and the strangeness of her new experiences seemed to swell inside her. She wanted to be as carefree as Baby Susan again. Rose reached over and snatched the toy from Susan so quickly that the baby lost her balance and tumbled over backward.
“Why, Rose!” Sister Robbins exclaimed in a shocked voice, “You mustn’t treat the baby like that! What’s gotten into you? Please go to your room and stay there!”
A while later Rose’s foster mother came into the darkened room to find the young Indian girl sobbing in a corner. Sister Robbins gathered Rose into her arms and carried her—even though she was eight years old—to the big rocker. Rose huddled on her lap choking on sobs that wouldn’t stop. “My Indian mother loves me,” she said brokenly again and again.
Sister Robbins stroked the damp hair from Rose’s hot face. “Oh, Rose, I love you, too,” she said soothingly.
Rose looked up and saw tears on her foster mother’s cheeks.
“You have become part of my heart. I don’t know what we would do without our little Rose. You bring a special gift to our family. Tonight I noticed how you cleared off the steps for Grandma and fixed her chair. None of my other children have ever watched to see that I had enough milk like you did this morning. You understand about peoples’ feelings in a special way.” She pressed her cheek against the smooth dark hair on the top of Rose’s head.
“Rose, I raised my voice at you tonight, and I’m sorry. I know that your Indian mother always speaks softly. Many of our ways must seem strange to you. Apples and bananas are not alike either, but they are both good. The gospel in our lives can be a bridge to cross over our differences.
“When I was only a few years older than you are now, I was baptized and became the only Mormon in my school in South Dakota. Some kids called me names like ‘Seagull’ and teased me because they thought I was different. But it didn’t matter because when I read the Book of Mormon, it seemed to fill a longing that had always been inside me. It seemed familiar to me, like my mother’s kiss, warm and comforting, as I drifted off to sleep at night. Your people helped to write that book, Rose. It is a great gift and blessing they have shared with us.”
“It is?” Rose looked up in wonder, her eyes still wet with tears.
“Oh, yes, my little Rose. Long years ago your people wrote that the time would come when we would care for you as nursing mothers and carry you on our shoulders—teach you the gospel. The placement program is part of the fulfillment of that prophecy. Saturday I will take you to Temple Square. You can see how Jesus came to your people long ago and how they gave us the Book of Mormon.” Rose snuggled deeper into her lap. She felt loved and safe as she drifted off to sleep.
On Saturday Rose felt special and important as she and Sister Robbins visited Temple Square. She enjoyed the stories and films about her people. Her grandfather liked to tell stories just like the Indian grandfather in one of the films. Grandfather had taught her to walk in beauty, to see the good and beauty in everything around her.
During the film, she heard the words of the Savior, “And other sheep I have, which are not of this fold: them also I must bring, and they shall hear my voice; and there shall be one fold, and one shepherd” (John 10:16).
Rose thought, I know about sheep. I’ve spent many hours tending sheep, finding them shade and water. I may be different from Julie and the others like apples and bananas are different, but I am one of His sheep.
Rose felt a comforting warmth, as familiar as snuggling down under her own goatskin rug or hearing her grandfather telling her stories. She had felt an ache and hunger inside that food could not satisfy, but it was beginning to melt away like the dew fades from the unfolding rose petals reaching for the sunshine.

On April 6, the sixteenth anniversary of the organization of the Church, rain fell all day. Brigham spent hours up to his knees in mud, helping the Saints along the road to a place called Locust Creek. There he helped to arrange wagons, pitch tents, and chop wood until all the Saints were settled in the camp. One woman who saw him in the mud, pushing and pulling to free a mired wagon, thought he looked as happy as a king, despite the challenges surrounding him.

That evening, freezing rain and hail bombarded the camp, coating it in ice. In the morning, William Clayton, Brigham’s clerk and captain of the brass band, found the camp in disarray. Many tents lay flat on the frozen ground. A fallen tree had crushed a wagon. Some men in the band were also out of provisions.13

William shared what he had with his band, although his own family had little. One of the first Saints to have practiced plural marriage, William traveled with three wives and four children. Another wife, Diantha, was still in Nauvoo, under the care of her mother. She was pregnant with her first child and in frail health, adding to William’s anxiety on the trail.

While the Claytons rested at Locust Creek with the Camp of Israel, Brigham proposed a plan to establish a way station midway across Iowa where Saints could wait out the bad weather, build cabins, and plant crops for those who would come later. Some Saints would then tend the way station while others returned to Nauvoo to guide companies across Iowa. The rest of the camp would push on with him to the Missouri River.14

On April 14, William was out all night rounding up horses and cattle that had broken loose in camp. In the morning, he needed sleep, but someone in camp received a letter mentioning Diantha and the birth of her baby. That evening, William celebrated the birth, singing and playing music with the band long into the night.

The skies were clear the next morning, and William saw better days ahead for the Camp of Israel. Sitting down with ink and paper, he wrote a hymn of encouragement for the Saints:
Come, come, ye Saints, no toil nor labor fear;
But with joy wend your way.
Though hard to you this journey may appear,
Grace shall be as your day.
’Tis better far for us to strive
Our useless cares from us to drive;
Do this, and joy your hearts will swell—
All is well! All is well!15

It started in August 2006, when a little boy drowned during a family trip. After losing their son Ryan, Craig and Alisha Adams wanted to build a swing or maybe a seesaw, something for their other children to remember him by. Within a few weeks, the project grew into a full-fledged memorial park, complete with a rocket ship playground and a dragon slide. It became a community effort to build a monument to all children.
Volunteers from across Cache Valley (in northern Utah) donated time and money to design and build Ryan’s Place Park, but first someone needed to dig the foundations for the playground supports. That’s where the Providence stake youth came in.
The park looks a lot different now that it’s finished. The playground echoes with children’s laughter. In addition, there is a cobblestone path that bears the names of children who left this life all too soon. The bittersweet contrast reminds grieving families that they will be with their loved ones again.
“This park is a fun, happy place to remember our family,” Craig Adams says. “One of these days we’re all going to be reunited, and it’ll be such a happy day. When that day comes, all of our suffering will be worth it because we’ll be with Ryan again.”

The basketball slipped through my fingertips and rolled down the driveway. “Nooooo!” I cried as it bounced across the street—right into Mrs. Clark’s yard!
I remembered Mrs. Clark’s angry words to Mason when his ball had bounced into her yard. “Look at this flowerbed,” she had shrieked. “It’s completely destroyed! If you come into my yard, I’ll call the police!” With that, she’d picked up his basketball, and it was gone. Now I was too afraid to even cross the street to get mine.
I worried all night about my ball. Sure enough, in the morning it was gone. Mom talked to Mrs. Clark the next day, but she wouldn’t give it back. She was one grumpy neighbor.
Mason and Andrew and I thought of ways to get even—like letting her dog out of her backyard at night. But we decided not to.
A few days later my friends and I were outside playing basketball when Mom came out with a cardboard box. Inside was a spaghetti dinner. “Is this for us?” Andrew asked, licking his lips.
“No, it’s for Mrs. Clark,” Mom replied. “She was in a car accident.”
We all frowned. “Why would you do that for Mrs. Clark?” Mason asked. “She’s the meanest person I know!”
“Mrs. Clark needs our help,” Mom answered. “It’s what Jesus would want us to do. Will you boys please take this dinner over to her?”
We walked to Mrs. Clark’s door with shaky knees, rang the doorbell, and waited. And waited. Finally, a cranky voice asked, “What do you want?”
“We, uh, have some food,” I said.
“Food? Why are you bringing me food?” she asked.
“Mom told us to. It’s spaghetti,” I said.
“Oh, spaghetti,” she said softly as she opened the door. Slowly a smile crept across her face. It was the first time I’d ever seen Mrs. Clark smile. She fumbled around in her purse. “Here,” she said, handing me some money. “Take this to your mother and thank her for me.”
“Oh, she won’t want the money,” I answered.
But Mrs. Clark wouldn’t take no for an answer. She dropped the dollar bills into my hand and quickly closed the door.
The next day Mom had another box, this time with beef stew. I placed the money from last time under the bowl of beef stew. Mrs. Clark smiled again when we brought her the food, and again she tried to pay me. But this time we got away without taking it.
“Mom doesn’t want the money,” I called back as we scurried away. “She wants you to have the food.”
The next Saturday we were playing basketball again, and this time Andrew’s ball got away! It bounced down the driveway, across the street, and landed smack in the middle of Mrs. Clark’s flowerbed. As usual, she picked up the ball and disappeared into her house. But this time something different happened. Mrs. Clark came back out carrying a box. She walked across the street, up the driveway, right to where we were standing. We were all about to run.
“Here,” she said, handing me the box. Inside were all three of our basketballs!
“Thanks!” I said with a big smile on my face.
On Sunday in sharing time, Sister Jones asked, “How can we love our enemies?”
I raised my hand high in the air. “By doing something nice for them,” I answered.
Sister Jones beamed. “That’s a great answer.”
When I looked at Mason and Andrew, they were smiling too.

Elder Alejandro Patanía, a former Area Seventy, relates the story of his younger brother Daniel, who sailed out to sea to go fishing with his crew. After a time, Daniel received an urgent warning that a major storm was rapidly approaching. Immediately, Daniel and his crew started for port.

As the storm intensified, the engine of a nearby fishing boat ceased to function. Daniel’s crew hooked a cable to the disabled boat and began towing it to safety. They radioed for help, knowing that, with the increasing storm, they needed immediate assistance.

As loved ones anxiously waited, representatives from the coast guard, the fishermen’s association, and the navy met to decide the best rescue strategy. Some wanted to leave right away but were told to wait for a plan. While those in the storm continued pleading for help, the representatives continued meeting, trying to agree on the proper protocol and a plan.

When a rescue group was finally organized, one last desperate call came. The raging storm had broken the cable between the two boats, and Daniel’s crew was going back to see if they could save their fellow fishermen. In the end, both ships sank, and their crews, including Elder Patanía’s brother Daniel, were lost.

Elder Patanía compared this tragedy to the Lord’s admonition when He said, “Ye [have] not strengthened, … [or] brought again that which was driven away, … [or] sought that which was lost; … and I will require my flock at [your] hand.”

Elder Patanía explained that, while we must be organized in our councils, quorums, auxiliaries, and even as individuals, we must not delay going to the rescue. Sometimes many weeks pass as we talk about how to help families or individuals who are in special need. We deliberate about who will visit them and the approach to take. Meanwhile, our lost brothers and sisters continue needing and sometimes even calling and pleading for help. We must not delay.

In Puerto Francisco de Orellana, an isolated village in the jungles of Ecuador, members have a strong bond of love and faith. The monthly branch council reflects their caring. They focus on individuals and families first, then how programs can help. Inspiration follows.
Many members need help finding work. The branch council finds that the members’ challenges can often be solved at the local level. As the council discussed the needs of a single mother with a young daughter who has health problems, the Relief Society president knew of a job where the mother could work and still be near her daughter.
The branch council also draws on Church resources, such as the LDS Employment Services career workshop materials.2 They established a class taught by a branch member, which helped another branch member find a better job.
Ramiro Reyes, first counselor in the branch presidency, says of the branch council: “We are instruments in the hand of the Lord. He will achieve His goals through our works.”

The Rockland California Stake youth choir gave two performances for their friends, families, and teachers. Jason sang in three special numbers and joined with the whole choir for the larger numbers. These performances, with 121 young people participating, were something that grew from simple beginnings.
It all started at a fireside in the Loomis Second Ward. “The fireside was at my house,” said Amanda Groth. “Everyone was taking a break. Sister Wentzel started playing the piano, and people started singing. Everyone just liked it.”
Danée Call was also at that fireside. “A couple of us girls had a song we were practicing for a sacrament meeting. A couple of the guys came over and tried to pick out their parts. Everybody just came around and was trying to sing. Sister Wentzel said, ‘I think we’ve got a youth choir on our hands.’ We said we would love to do it. Sister Wentzel talked to the bishop, and from then on it was choir practice every Sunday evening.”
The first practice was small. Eric Harms remembers, “It started with seven guys and three or four girls. We liked to sing, but none of us were that talented. We got some of the younger kids to come.”
Those younger kids are growing up and, in turn, are inviting the new Beehives and deacons to join. First the youth choir was just Loomis Second Ward. Then the Loomis First Ward joined to perform at youth conference. Then the choir expanded to take in all the wards of the stake for four months as they prepared to give a concert. Some were worried that the big choir wouldn’t be as good or as close. Anson Call tells about what it was like to take the choir from just their ward to include the stake. “It was like a family when it was our ward. I was afraid it wouldn’t be like that anymore. But it’s exactly the same. The same message and the same spirit, just with a lot more volume.”
At first the ward youth choir sang occasionally in sacrament meeting. Then they performed at missionary farewells and funerals. Expanded to the stake, they decided to give a concert, two performances, where they would invite everyone from their families to neighbors and teachers at school. With 121 singers who were pulling every note from their hearts, the choir was great. “It was so powerful,” said Heather Wentzel, “I almost started crying. I felt like the people in the audience were going to say, ‘Oh, this must be the right church,’ because they must be able to feel the Spirit.”
When the choir is together, singing a song that means something to them, the singers talk about the chills racing up and down their backbones. “Your hair feels like it’s standing up,” said Jadon Andersen. “You feel great.” And now they love that feeling and want more.

The ward Primary sacrament meeting program was next week. Mandy didn’t have a speaking part in the program this year. She was playing a piano solo instead. She had played prelude music for Primary before, but she had never played in front of the whole ward.
Mandy had been taking piano lessons since she’d turned eight last year. She loved her lessons. She especially liked learning to play the Primary songs. Right now, she played from a book of simplified arrangements. Someday, her teacher said, she’d play from the Children’s Songbook.
“I don’t know if I can play in the program,” Mandy said to her mother one night as they finished doing the dinner dishes. “I get all nervous just thinking about it.”
After Mother dried her hands on a dish towel, she said, “Did you know that Sister Hatch gets nervous, too?”
Sister Hatch was Mandy’s piano teacher, and she was also the Primary pianist. “Why would Sister Hatch be nervous? She plays great.”
“She still gets nervous. Just like you.”
At her next piano lesson, Mandy asked Sister Hatch, “Do you get nervous when you have to play in front of a whole bunch of people?”
Sister Hatch made a face. “All the time.”
“What do you do?” Mandy asked.
“First, I practice a lot. I try to do everything that I can to make sure I do a good job. Then I say a prayer.”
Mandy frowned. “What if you want to say a prayer right before you start to play?”
“I say the prayer in my head,” Sister Hatch said, “and in my heart. Heavenly Father knows what’s there even if I don’t say the words out loud.”
Mandy thought about that. “What if I make a mistake anyway?”
Sister Hatch grinned. “I make at least a couple of mistakes every Sunday when I’m playing for Primary.”
Mandy stared at her teacher in surprise. “You do? I’ve never noticed.”
“And no one will notice if you make a mistake. The important thing is to keep going. You know the song. Let your fingers do what they’ve been practicing.” Sister Hatch put her arm around Mandy’s shoulder. “I’ll be sitting right next to you during the program. If you start feeling afraid, reach over and squeeze my hand. And I’ll do the same if I feel scared.”
The morning of the program, Mandy felt sick to her stomach. She walked into her sister’s room. Sara was putting on her makeup.
“My stomach feels funny,” Mandy said.
“It’s just butterflies,” Sara said.
“It doesn’t feel like butterflies,” Mandy said. “It feels more like big, scary bats!”
“Don’t worry,” Sara said. “You’ll do fine.”
Mandy went to the piano and practiced her song. She had played it so much that she had memorized it. Still, she planned to take her book with her.
At church, Mandy sat with the other Primary children in the first three rows of the chapel. When the children went up to the stand following the sacrament, Mandy took her place beside Sister Hatch. Julie, who was also playing a solo, sat on the other side. As the Primary president introduced the Primary theme for the year, Mandy started to reach for Sister Hatch’s hand. Then she noticed that her teacher was reaching for hers at the same time. They looked at each other and smiled.
They squeezed hands, then Sister Hatch stood to go to the piano. The Primary children sang the first verse of “Follow the Prophet.”
As the time grew nearer for her to play her song, Mandy’s stomach started to feel funny again. Then she remembered what Sister Hatch had said about saying a prayer in her head and heart.
When it was Mandy’s turn to play, she placed her book on the piano, even though she didn’t need it. Her fingers did what they were supposed to do. When she played the last note, she let out a long breath and returned to her seat.
Sister Hatch gave Mandy a quick hug. “You did great,” she whispered.
Mandy felt great. The butterflies in her stomach had been replaced with a prayer in her heart.

Janaina is a convert. She first went to church with a friend and then with her Aunt Isabel, a member. Elder Nacimento and Elder Hill taught her family, and even when everyone else stopped taking the discussions, she continued and was baptized. Her parents later joined the Church too.
She remembers, “When I listened to the discussions and started going to church, I felt something good happening in my soul. Before, I was rebellious and argued with my parents, but now I started obeying my parents and trying to honor them. When I learned that Jesus was my Savior and that there were prophets on the earth to guide me, I felt great joy. The missionaries taught me to pray, and when I prayed, something that was bad inside me left, and a good spirit took its place and is with me still. I’m a different person than I was, and there’s a lot more love and happiness in our home.”

Elder ElRay L. Christiansen tells an interesting story about his neighbor who bought a boat. He really couldn’t afford a boat; but he bought it anyway, because he had a credit card. In order to pay for the boat, he had to take a second job, which meant he had to work on Saturday. This, of course, left one day per week on which he could use the boat. When do you suppose that was? Yes, you are right—it was Sunday. But he loved his boat and invited Brother Christiansen over to admire it, saying, “Isn’t it beautiful? What shall we name it?” (Now, you see, it is a member of the family—it has to have a name.)
Brother Christiansen said, “Why don’t you call it The Sabbath Breaker?” (Conference Report, April 1962, p. 33.) Now, please don’t misunderstand me—I have nothing against boats. I have a friend who has a boat, and he calls his boat “Never on Sunday,” which, of course, is a better name for a boat.

As a young man having just finished my first year of college and needing to earn money for a desired mission, I spent the summer working at the new Jackson Lake Lodge in Jackson Hole, Wyoming. Many college-age youths came to work in that pristine, beautiful area.
One such person was Jill, a young woman from San Francisco, California. Feeling that a young woman from a big city might be a little bit naive about her new environment, I and a few friends felt it our obligation to teach her about the ways of the real West. We decided to take her on a “snipe hunt.” For those of you who may not be familiar with a snipe hunt, it is a practical joke, as there is no such thing as a snipe, at least not in the western United States. The tools necessary for a snipe hunt are a stick and a cloth bag. The “hunter” is told to go through the brush, beating the bushes with a stick while calling the snipe in a high-pitched, ridiculous voice. The nonexistent snipes are thus to be driven into the cloth bag.
We gave Jill her cloth bag and a stick and an area to hunt across the hill. The plan was to return to our starting point in about 15 minutes, at which time we would supposedly count our snipes.
When she did not return at the appointed time, we gloated and took delight in the seriousness with which she took her hunt. After about 30 minutes, we felt it was time to rescue her, explain the joke, have a good laugh, and all go to dinner. However, it became apparent that she had taken her snipe hunt more seriously than we had expected—she was not to be found in her assigned area. After searching rather extensively and still finding no evidence of her, we began moving into the woods, calling for her at the top of our voices, but to no avail.
Hoping she might have gone back to her dormitory, we returned and asked some young women to search for her there, but this also was to no avail. It was now turning dark, and our concern heightened. We enlisted all the young men we could from the boys’ dormitory, and with flashlights continued the search deep into the woods. Well into the darkness of night—frightened, concerned, and hoarse from calling—we decided it was now time to report our ridiculous deed to the park rangers. While we were standing in front of the dorms, trying to determine which brave soul would have the privilege of reporting her disappearance, Jill suddenly appeared—not from her dormitory, but rather from that of a friend, with whom she had enjoyed dinner (which we incidentally missed) and a comfortable evening with her friends. Her first words to us as she approached said it all: “How do you fellows like hunting snipe hunters?” Well, so much for big city naïveté, and so much for the ways of the real West. The joke was on us, and I have never had a desire for any more snipe hunting.

Thirteen years ago, as a mission president in Japan, I received a call from a young serviceman’s wife who needed to see me. Her husband, an air force pilot, had just been shot down and had died in combat over Vietnam. As she was ushered into my office, I saw her hugging a large picture. We sat down to talk and she showed me the picture of her husband, a handsome pilot with his helmet in his hands, standing proudly beside his jet fighter plane.
She sobbingly said how much she loved him and couldn’t believe that he was gone. She continued by saying that she was a convert of nearly two years. She had met her husband while in college, and it was he who had introduced her to the gospel. Later she was baptized, and they were sealed in the temple for time and all eternity.
Her life with him had been beautiful and everything a person could ask for. She had looked toward the future with great joy and anticipation. But now, all too soon, it had come to a sudden, crashing halt.
She had a great adjustment to make in her life and wanted assurance that all would be well. What would your counsel be to her?

Faith in God is also a way to strengthen your family. Lindsey had just turned eight and received her copy of the Faith in God guidebook. Her parents reviewed the guidebook with her. Lindsey volunteered to give the lesson for family home evening. She chose one of the topics in her Faith in God guidebook. With the help of her family, Lindsey presented family home evening and also completed an activity.

Other families have also used Faith in God to help them with family home evening. One family chose a different article of faith to study and memorize each week. Another family let their children choose an activity from the guidebook when it was the child’s turn to give the lesson.

For a parent-child service project (see guidebook, p. 9), Michael’s family decided to make apple pies that each family member could take to someone. Michael asked if he could take his pie to a family who had been unfriendly. Although his mother was concerned, Michael persisted. Michael’s family delivered the pie. They discovered that the family was having hard times and that the unfriendliness was not directed at them. The two families became great friends because Michael wanted to live the gospel of Jesus Christ.

When you complete the requirements, you will receive the certificate at the back of the guidebook. Your Primary president and the bishop or branch president will sign it. But the greatest blessing is that you will have practiced doing the things that can help you live the gospel and be strong and courageous.

When you complete the requirements for Faith in God, you will also be better prepared to receive the Aaronic Priesthood or to become a righteous young woman. You will have established patterns for righteous living and will have had opportunities to live the gospel, serve others, and develop your talents. Best of all, you will have strengthened your testimony of Jesus Christ.

I also looked in my filing cabinet for my cheque book, because I wanted to attend tithing settlement on Sunday. I needed to write out a cheque for some extra tithing that I owed. I couldn’t remember the last time that I wrote a cheque for anything, so I had no idea where my cheque book was. When I eventually found it, I looked at the cheque stubs and saw that the last cheque that I had written was four years ago. It’s no wonder that the banks want to “phase” cheques out, because very few people use them anymore. The only thing that I used a cheque for in the past was to pay my tithing every month. Now that I pay my tithing using a standing order from my bank, I have no need to use cheques anymore. Once I had found my cheque book, I wrote out a cheque for the outstanding tithing that I owed this year and put it into my handbag.
Isn’t Heavenly Father kind to us? On the day that I wrote out a cheque for extra tithing, I found money and was given furniture equal to the exact amount that I had written out my tithing cheque for. I had read about these types of stories in the Ensign before, but it had never happened to me, until that day.

PETER: At the age of ten, Joyce was sitting on a bus going home. From the bus, she could see a Chinese Temple with the burning of incense still visible from afar. The bus then stopped at an Indian temple that has a huge Roman Catholic Church as its peaceful neighbor. At the next stop, a Malay Mosque can be seen with its devout followers humbly kneeling on their knees, praying and the sound of Koran recitation can be heard over the loud speaker. When the bus turn the corner, a Methodist Church was insight, and it suddenly dawned on Joyce that Singapore was indeed a country of religious freedom. She then started to contemplate which religion she should commit herself into. Her parents were traditional Chinese praying to many idols. Joyce remembered one particular black-faced angry looking Chinese god dressed like a warrior holding a spear poised for an attack. She shuttered at the thought of worshipping such a scary god.

Then, a face appeared in her mind's eye, and she recognized it to be that of Jesus Christ. It seemed right at that time for her to become a Christian. So, she started going from one church to another desiring to find out how she could become totally committed to Jesus and live his gospel. She asked many gospel questions, but they were left unsatisfactorily answered. Later, she met the missionaries who told her that she was a child of a loving God, and that she did not have to believe what they said but to ask God himself if their message was true. Joyce was intrigued, could God literally answer every sincere prayer? She decided to try. And Heavenly Father did answer the questions of a twelve-year-old girl. When Joyce first stepped into the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, a powerful feeling came over her, and she knew that she was home, she did not have to go elsewhere to search for the truth. Later, when Joyce was attending an early morning seminary class, the Holy Spirit again overwhelmed her entire being, and she gained a spiritual witness that an important part of her life's mission was to share the gospel with her Chinese fellowmen in China when it would be officially opened for the restored gospel.

It was a sweaty Sunday afternoon, and the chapel was stifling. My wife was wrestling with the kids to keep them reverent, and I was wrestling with my eyelids to keep them open. We were both losing.
The speaker didn’t help me any in my fight against sacrament meeting slumber. He was a typical youth speaker, and he followed the pattern of most youth speakers in our ward—he read to us from the book Especially for Mormons.
As he droned on, my wife and I both surrendered: she took the kids out to the foyer, and I decided to grab some shut-eye. I assumed sacrament sleep position number one: weight forward, elbows on knees, head down, face in hands, and soon I was dozing comfortably.
Maybe I was too comfortable or maybe somebody poked me awake—it’s happened before. At any rate, my head slipped out of my hands and “thwap!” my forehead cracked the bench in front of me.
I don’t normally have such headaches in sacrament meeting, but a dull speaker and a stuffy chapel almost always make me drowsy.

I was born in Brazil with rickets—a disease characterized by distorted bones. At 19 I weighed 50 kilos (111 lbs) and was 1.64 meters tall. As a result, I was not accepted into the military, so I began looking for ways to improve my physical condition. I began a series of exercises and ate a balanced diet.
During this time, I met the missionaries. I became acquainted with the Church and learned about the commandments, including the Word of Wisdom. It was just what I needed. It gave me guidelines of foods to eat and a list of impure items to avoid, namely tobacco and strong drinks. By reading the Doctrine and Covenants, I learned about the need for rest and sleep (see D&C 88:124).
I gained strength and weighed 78 kilos (172 lbs). I became a champion weight lifter. I also did judo and swam. Today at age 73 I am a marathon runner and have finished 30 marathons. In 2005 and 2006, I was second in my age class in Brazil. I have excellent health, and I am very happy.
I am grateful to our Heavenly Father for giving us laws that, if obeyed, will bring us blessings of health.
Antonio Olívio de Oliveira, São Paulo, Brazil

I know one BYU graduate who is a great example. He points out that there is a mirror quality to conversation. If we talk about the weather, people respond by talking about the weather. If we talk about sports, they respond by talking about sports. This friend says he asks people he meets about their school and listens intently. After they respond by asking him about his school, he tells them about BYU and then shares his testimony of the gospel. Then, in a positive way, he offers to let them learn more from the missionaries. He has been very successful in sharing the gospel. He has also remained on excellent terms with his friends who do not respond to his challenge because he genuinely loves them and is interested in them.

A year ago our thoughts turned to the celebration of the sesquicentennial of the arrival of the pioneers in the valley of the Great Salt Lake in 1847. What was Christmas like that year?
From an entry in the diary of Mrs. Rebecca Riter, dated 25 December 1847, we read: “The winter was cold. Christmas came and the children were hungry. I had brought a peck of wheat across the plains and hid it under a pile of wood. I thought I would cook a handful of wheat for the baby. Then I thought how we would need wheat for seed in the spring, so I left it alone.”

In Canada, it’s quite a feat to receive the Queen’s Venturer award—it’s one of Scouting’s highest honors in the country. Recently Harvey Calfrobe, a member of the Blood tribe in the Province of Alberta, earned that award.
Harvey had some unique challenges. At four he was diagnosed with leukemia, and he spent most of his younger years fighting it. A severe learning disability also made things even tougher. Now Harvey’s leukemia is in remission, and he excels in a vocational school. He loves to ski, swim, bowl, and, of course, scout.
Harvey was baptized three years ago and is now a priest in the Calgary Eighth Ward, Calgary Alberta West Stake.
In a speech given at the Scouting awards ceremony, Harvey said, “I am proud to be in the Venturer program. It produces winners, and we are winners.”