Gospel Story Finder

I remember very clearly an experience I had when I was about twelve years old. It was a Saturday, and my father and I were at the meetinghouse, preparing the building for meetings the next day. All of a sudden, my father stopped. “I feel that we need to go home,” he said. So we locked up the building and left.
At home, Dad took a shower and put on his suit. Almost immediately the phone rang. My mother, who had left earlier in the day to attend a Primary leadership meeting, had been in a terrible car accident. She and the other sisters in the car had been taken to the hospital. The doctors didn’t expect my mother to live.
My father left immediately for the hospital. I had a paper route and left to deliver my papers. I didn’t understand exactly what had happened, but I knew that my mother was hurt very seriously. During my route, I stopped and knelt in a secluded area. I poured out my heart to Heavenly Father, asking Him to bless and help my mother. I felt a strong assurance that she would be all right.
After I finished my paper route, I stopped to visit my younger sister, who was baby-sitting. We knelt together and prayed for my mother. Afterward, we felt a deep sense of peace.
In the months that followed, we relied heavily on those feelings we had received as we prayed. My mother had sustained very serious brain damage, and she was in a coma for weeks. Even after she returned home, she was never the same. Her physical and mental health was fragile, and her memory had been affected. But she had a profound faith and a deep love for us, her children.
That experience strengthened my testimony that Heavenly Father hears and answers our prayers. When I knelt to pray for my mother that first time, I hadn’t known just how badly she had been hurt. In fact, I prayed that her arm would not be broken. But Heavenly Father understood.

Eliza R. Snow, second General President of the Relief Society, offered a riveting answer. Because of Missouri’s infamous extermination order, issued at the onset of the grueling winter of 1838, she and other Saints were forced to flee the state that very winter. One evening, Eliza’s family spent the night in a small log cabin used by refugee Saints. Much of the chinking between the logs had been extracted and burned for firewood by those who preceded them, so there were holes between the logs large enough for a cat to crawl through. It was bitter cold, and their food was frozen solid.

That night some 80 people huddled inside that small cabin, only 20 feet square (6.1 meters square). Most sat or stood all night trying to keep warm. Outside, a group of men spent the night gathered around a roaring fire, with some singing hymns and others roasting frozen potatoes. Eliza recorded: “Not a complaint was heard—all were cheerful, and judging from appearances, strangers would have taken us to be pleasure excursionists rather than a band of gubernatorial exiles.”

Eliza’s report of that exhausting, bone-chilling evening was strikingly optimistic. She declared: “That was a very merry night. None but saints can be happy under every circumstance.”

“I know the power of prayer by my own experience. Recently I was alone in my office. I had just gone through a medical procedure on my hand. It was black and blue, swollen, and it was painful. As I sat at my desk, I could not focus on important and critical matters because I was distracted by this pain.
“I knelt in prayer and asked the Lord to help me focus so I could accomplish my work. I stood and returned to the pile of papers on my desk. Almost immediately, clarity and focus came to my mind, and I was able to complete the pressing matters before me.”

On his return, Enoch taught at the Accra Missionary Training Centre for a couple of years as he contemplated his future. He had loved accounting in high school and had studied it with the intent of entering that profession. But about three years after his mission, he completed a data analytics certificate program from Coursera, offered by Google. That experience allowed him to see the critical role data plays in today’s economy in anticipating and solving problems. That vision motivated him to begin thinking of attending university to pursue a degree in data science. He applied for and got the sponsorship necessary to pursue a university education. Unfortunately, the global COVID-19 pandemic interrupted his plans, and he lost his sponsorship. Again, he endured his disappointment by casting his burdens upon the Lord.
Without the ability to continue his education at that time, Enoch pursued other interests. From the time he had mastered the piano, he had wanted to teach it, so he began doing so. In addition, he resumed his service to the Lord by working for FamilySearch out of the offices of the Africa West Area in Accra, Ghana. While working there, he met a senior sister missionary who was teaching a ukulele class. He had become acquainted and enamoured with the ukulele on his mission where his general love of music had drawn him towards it, so he joined with the class. Through his association with members of the class, they became aware of his desire to continue his education, so they helped him find new sponsors for attending university. Again, his love of music and his service to, and trust in, the Lord had brought him to the next step in his personal progress. With his sponsorship now secure, Enoch applied to, and was accepted at, BYU-Idaho where he is now studying data science.
Enoch reflects on his personal journey of perseverance and growth, and he gratefully acknowledges the value of that difficult period of his life when he struggled with questions that challenged his faith. Just as his ability to play his musical instruments came through perseverance, hard work, and struggles, learning here a little and there a little, so did his testimony grow line upon line, precept on precept. It was by persevering through his struggles that he discovered the joy of a personal relationship with his Saviour, and it is that relationship that has helped Enoch get to where he is today.

When I did construction work in Oman from 1979 to 1986, I worked for the ministry of defense. The ministry gave me projects located in the most inaccessible section of the country, and most of the time I was the only supervisor looking after the projects. I was also the only member of the Church working for the ministry.
One day at our company headquarters, I ran into an electrical engineer who, as he had in the past, made negative comments about the Church. I tolerated his comments because I was usually at headquarters for only a short time before I was away on another project.
Later, however, this man was assigned to inspect electrical work at projects being constructed along Oman’s border with Yemen. We were scheduled to spend about an hour together before he flew back to headquarters.
When he arrived, he inspected the work and found everything to his satisfaction. During our time together, I centered our conversation on work and then drove him to the landing strip to see him off.
It was monsoon season, and the landing strip, located on a mountain plateau 6,000 feet (1,830 m) above the Indian Ocean, was covered with clouds. My co-worker’s flight would be delayed.
My heart was pounding as I realized that I would have to wait in the car with this man. After I said a silent prayer, a thought came into my mind to ask the man about his family, especially his wife.
I did so, and the engineer suddenly burst into tears, saying that he had just received word that his wife was seeking a divorce. The word love immediately came into my mind, and for the next two hours we talked about the love we should have for others and the love the Lord Jesus Christ has for all of us. Before I knew it, we had become friends. As we ended our conversation, the clouds cleared and the engineer boarded his flight. Soon I heard that he had resigned his position and returned home.
A few years later while on an outing with Aaronic Priesthood young men in Plymouth, a city on England’s southern coast, I noticed a man making his way toward me. As he approached, he said, “I thought it was you, Neil.”
It was the electrical engineer from Oman. The next words he spoke have remained in my heart: “Thank you for talking to me about love that day on the mountain. You saved my marriage, and I will be forever grateful.”
We shared a few more words, and he left. I haven’t seen him since.
I will always be grateful for the inspiration I received in Oman. It blessed the engineer and gave me strength to maintain my Church beliefs when I was alone and far from home.

Eric Ault, Ryan Warner, and Jeff Olsen, of Highland, Utah, have been laying down a lot lately—a lot of sod, that is.
When Eric and Ryan’s grandfather, Howard Ault, who is also Jeff’s uncle, decided he wanted to donate more than seven acres of sod from his sod farm to be used at the new Mount Timpanogos Temple, he decided to get his family involved. Eric, Ryan, and Jeff decided that helping to lay the sod was a perfect opportunity to participate in a family project and complete their Eagle Scout projects at the same time.
“Doing this project meant a lot of commitment. I spent lots of time calling people and getting things organized,” says 13-year-old Eric.
After laying more than 10,000 squares of sod for only one section of the temple grounds, all the boys agree that they have developed a special feeling for the temple.
“I think that everybody who came and helped—we had volunteers from all over the place come lay sod with us—will feel like a little piece of the temple is theirs,” says 17-year-old Jeff.

When I was baptized, I was very excited to be a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. At the same time, I remember being extremely anxious about joining a church where I didn’t know anyone besides the missionaries who had taken their time to teach me about the restored Church and the Book of Mormon. I was living in Austria at the time. I got to know a few members in the Church but at that time I had not really made strong connections with anyone. My first Sunday as a new convert was truly blessed as the young missionary who had convinced to come to church sat by my side translating what was being said as my German was still poor. The sacrament meeting left me with so much peace in my heart as I felt an understanding of the message of the day. I was introduced to Sister Toni who smiled and sat next to me during Sunday School and Relief Society meetings.
After church she invited me to her home for lunch and I met with the rest of her family. This family became my first friends in the church, they always picked me up for church activities. Through them I began to know more and more about the gospel and every Sunday I looked forward to going to church. Other Church members were equally friendly.

What kind of thanks?
There sits a young man here today in whose home I was a guest at a stake conference. Since he had recently left for the Y, I was to sleep in his room Saturday night. As his gracious mother showed me the room, she opened his closet where I saw a handwritten letter taped to the rod in the closet. It read:
Mom,
Thanks for all you’ve done to make this a “special summer.” You are a very “special mother” and I thank the Lord for the blessing of being your son.
I love you and appreciate all you do in my behalf. See you in November.
Paul.
As she paused while I read it, she said, “Hope you don’t mind hanging your clothes out here. This note is still kind of precious. You know, every time I open this closet I read it again, and I would like to leave it there a little longer.”
Well, Paul, you are probably leaving for home tomorrow. May I suggest that when you get home you take that sweet little mother of yours in those strong young arms and give her a squeeze so that she’ll know you are home—and thankful.
A. Theodore Tuttle“What Kind of Thanks,”BYU Speeches of the Year, November 26, 1968, p. 5.

At the rooster’s first call, Juan Carlos opened his eyes and peeked through the cracks in the wooden wall just above his head. The darkness was fading. Today was his first day to help Sister Fuentes make tortillas. Time to get ready, he thought. He slipped from his hammock to the dirt floor below and went outside to wash himself in the cool water from the pump.
Stake conference would be in two months, and last week President Garcia, his branch president, had announced that a General Authority would be coming. That was fantastic, except for one thing—the city boys would all be wearing either fine Panama shirts or white shirts and ties. Even Juan’s father had a Sunday shirt. One of the North American missionaries who’d completed his mission and gone home had given it to him.
Juan Carlos had only one shirt. His mother had stitched it from a flour sack. He wore it every day of the week, even to church on Sundays. It embarrassed Juan to wear a flour-sack shirt to church, even though they met in a one-room home, and he’d told his father so. His father had just said, “Remember, son, the Lord looks on the inside of a person, not the outside.” But last conference, Juan had felt so uncomfortable about his shirt that afterward he hadn’t waited in line to shake anyone’s hand and he couldn’t even remember what the speakers had said. This conference would be different, however—thanks to the tortillas.
Juan loved Sister Fuentes, the Primary teacher—their little branch had only four families and six children. She was also the village tortilla maker. It was hard work to soak and grind the corn, haul buckets of water, and search for firewood in the forest up the hill. Tortillas had to be made early, for before breakfast nearly every family in the village would send a child to her with a small coin to buy some of the steaming, thick, pale, perfectly even circles of dough that she had patted out. Before they left to work in the fields, the men wanted hot tortillas. And later, for lunch, they would eat them cold, folded over some beans.
Saturday Sister Fuentes had come to his home. “Juan Carlos,” she said, “I am looking for someone to help me. So many want tortillas in the mornings! I have tried, but I just can’t make enough for everyone by myself. I was wondering if you would help me. It is very hard work, but I will pay you two lempiras every week.”
Two lempiras! That was a lot of money—why, he could earn enough before conference came to buy a white shirt, if he saved carefully!
Sister Fuentes was already working when Juan Carlos arrived on Monday. The morning passed quickly. He built the fire, hauled water, and ground corn between two stones. He was amazed to see how fast her hands could fly as she worked with the masa (tortilla dough). After the tortillas were sold, there were pots to scrub and wood to gather for the next day.
Day after day he spent his mornings working. Sometimes it was hard to leave his hammock while others in his family still slept, but he just imagined wearing a new white shirt to conference and shaking a General Authority’s hand, and it became easy. Every Saturday he tied two more little silver coins into his handkerchief and hid them under a rock in the corner of his home.
Nearly every week President Garcia traveled by bus to the big city on business. On his last trip to town before conference, after his usual errands, he had a special purchase to make, for in his pocket was Juan’s money, still tied in the handkerchief.
The shirt was beautiful! It was sparkling white, with four pleats down the front and shiny buttons. Juan had never seen such a beautiful shirt. Carefully he folded it and put it back in its crinkly sack. In just a few more days, he, Juan Carlos, would wear it to conference. He certainly wouldn’t be embarrassed then.
The next morning, Juan, anxious to tell Sister Fuentes about the shirt, ran all the way to her home. He was surprised to find her still lying on her cot. That wasn’t like her at all. Then his eyes shifted to her ankle, and a cold chill ran down his spine. It was swollen to twice its usual size, and the purple and black colors told him the injury was serious.
“The clinic nurse thinks that it is broken,” Sister Fuentes said. “She has no way to treat broken bones, so I must go to the city to the hospital if I want it fixed. Otherwise, I must stay in bed for a very long time.”
Traveling to the city and then to the hospital by taxi would be very expensive. Juan knew that few people from the country could afford it. Several villagers limped from poorly healed bones, and Juan remembered how his grandmother’s hand had hurt her for many years after she broke it. As he began making the morning tortillas alone, he promised in his heart to help Sister Fuentes get to the hospital—no matter what! A plan had already formed in his mind when he hurried home that day. …
A soft breeze blew the scent of flowers through the louvered windows and over to the church bench where Juan Carlos sat. How very warm he felt inside. His sister, Lizeta, was on his lap as usual. Sister Fuentes was on one side, her ankle and foot covered with thick white plaster. His father and mother sat on his other side. He listened carefully to the speakers and was sure that this was the best stake conference ever. The closing prayer was said, and a few minutes later—it was a million times better than he had imagined—he was shaking hands with the General Authority.
“Juan Carlos,” the General Authority said, “I would like you to know that the Lord loves you and is proud of you.”
Juan Carlos’s heart was flooded with joy. His father was right—the Lord did look on the inside, not the outside. No one had even noticed his flour-sack shirt. Not even Juan Carlos.

As a recently returned missionary, Brother Viwe Xozwa’s schedule was exhausting. The education-driven convert in Port Elizabeth, South Africa, attended school from 8 a.m. to noon, worked from 1 p.m. to 6 p.m., then studied until 8 or 9 p.m. on a regular basis.

Brother Xozwa was never bothered or upset by the busy schedule he maintained, though. In fact, he was grateful just for the opportunity he had to study and learn, which was made possible by others’ generosity.

Brother Xozwa is a recipient of a Perpetual Education Fund (PEF) loan, which made obtaining an education a more realistic possibility than it otherwise would have been. Now a 27-year-old computer engineer and the executive secretary in his stake, he attributes many of his blessings to the PEF.

“I would not be where I am right now in my life if that inspired program was not established,” he said.

While he always planned to attend college, Brother Xozwa and his mother lacked the funds to pay for school. A conventional bank loan was a possibility, though higher interest rates would have made it very costly and would have taken a long time to pay off. Instead, Brother Xozwa heard about the PEF from a Church Educational System couple in his area. He applied for and received a $1,150 PEF loan and enrolled in computer engineering classes at Damelin College in Port Elizabeth.

After about a year of study, Brother Xozwa was offered a job at an IT consulting firm. The company waited for him to finish up the school year and supported him in his continued studies. Because of his employment, he was able to pay off his loan the following year, and the company has sponsored his further studies for the past four years in disciplines such as labor relations, corporate governance, business administration and management, and advanced project management.

“The PEF program gave me the initial kick-start that I needed, and the rest I could do on my own,” he said. “It gave me an initial boost; everything else just opened up.”

Knowing where his loan came from made Brother Xozwa dedicate himself completely to doing well in school and paying off his loan. He wanted to use the generous donations the best way he could.

“I realized these were sacred funds. Others had made a contribution to my education, so it was my responsibility to show appreciation by studying hard,” he said. “The money that was granted me was not mine to play around with. I was given the opportunity to make something of my life, to kick-start a good future, and it was my responsibility to grab that opportunity with both hands and not fail.”

Brother Xozwa understood this principle and was motivated to help others receive the same opportunities he had.

“The Lord is giving you the opportunity to progress, but also to help the next person,” he said. “It was my responsibility to repay the money as soon as possible so that the next person could have an equally good chance to study and progress. Think of how many people you can influence if you use the funds correctly. You can do wonders not just for you but for other people.”

His experience has taught him leadership skills and independence in addition to self-reliance and the ability to keep commitments.

“It’s not just education. It’s not just getting a diploma or getting a degree. It’s not just a career. It’s so much more than that. It opens doors for you to grow individually,” he said.

Brother Xozwa said he will be forever grateful for the generosity extended to him that made a world of difference in his life.

“I would love one day to meet the person or the people who contributed to the program in the initial stages just to say thank you,” he said. “Maybe it was pocket change for them, but it changed generations. It has changed my family.”

Far away from Salt Lake City, and some eighty miles from Shreveport, Louisiana, lives the Jack Methvin family. Mother, dad, and the boys are members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Until just recently there was a lovely daughter who, by her presence, graced that home. Her name was Christal. She was but ten years old when death ended her earthly sojourn.
Christal liked to run and play on the spacious ranch where her family lives. She could ride horses skillfully and excelled in 4-H work, winning awards in the local and state fairs. Her future was bright, and life was wonderful. Then there was discovered on her leg an unusual lump. The specialists in New Orleans completed their diagnosis and rendered their verdict: carcinoma. The leg must be removed.
She recovered well from the surgery, lived as buoyantly as ever and never complained. Then the doctors discovered that the cancer had spread to her tiny lungs. The Methvin family did not despair, but rather planned a flight to Salt Lake City. Christal could receive a blessing from one of the General Authorities. The Methvins knew none of the Brethren personally, so opening before Christal a picture of all the General Authorities, a chance selection was made. By sheer coincidence, my name was selected.
Christal never made the flight to Salt Lake City. Her condition deteriorated. The end drew nigh. But her faith did not waver. To her parents, she said, “Isn’t stake conference approaching? Isn’t a General Authority assigned? And why not Brother Monson? If I can’t go to him, the Lord can send him to me.”
Meanwhile in Salt Lake City, with no knowledge of the events transpiring in Shreveport, a most unusual situation developed. For the weekend of the Shreveport Louisiana Stake Conference, I had been assigned to El Paso, Texas. President Ezra Taft Benson called me to his office and explained that one of the other Brethren had done some preparatory work regarding the stake division in El Paso. He asked if I would mind were another to be assigned to El Paso and I assigned elsewhere. Of course there was no problem—anywhere would be fine with me. Then President Benson said, “Brother Monson, I feel impressed to have you visit the Shreveport Louisiana Stake.” The assignment was accepted. The day came. I arrived in Shreveport.
That Saturday afternoon was filled with meetings—one with the stake presidency, one with priesthood leaders, one with the patriarch, then yet another with the general leadership of the stake. Rather apologetically, Stake President Charles F. Cagle asked if my schedule would permit me time to provide a blessing to a ten-year-old girl afflicted with cancer. Her name: Christal Methvin. I responded that, if possible, I would do so, and then inquired if she would be at the conference, or was she in a Shreveport hospital? Knowing the time was tightly scheduled, President Cage almost whispered that Christal was confined to her home—more than eighty miles from Shreveport!
I examined the schedule of meetings for that evening and the next morning—even my return flight. There simply was no available time. An alternative suggestion came to mind. Could we not remember the little one in our public prayers at conference? Surely the Lord would understand. On this basis, we proceeded with the scheduled meetings.
When the word was communicated to the Methvin family, there was understanding but a trace of disappointment as well. Hadn’t the Lord heard their prayers? Hadn’t he provided that Brother Monson would come to Shreveport? Again the family prayed, asking for a final favor—that their precious Christal would realize her desire.
At the very moment the Methvin family knelt in prayer, the clock in the stake center showed the time to be 7:45. The leadership meeting had been inspirational. I was sorting my notes, preparing to step to the pulpit, when I heard a voice speak to my spirit. The message was brief, the words familiar: “Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of God.” (Mark 10:14.) My notes became a blur. My thoughts turned to a tiny girl in need of a blessing. The decision was made. The meeting schedule was altered. After all, people are more important than meetings. I turned to Bishop James Serra and asked that he leave the meeting and advise the Methvins.
The Methvin family had just arisen from their knees when the telephone rang and the message was relayed that early Sunday morning—the Lord’s day—in a spirit of fasting and prayer, we would journey to Christal’s bedside.
I shall ever remember and never forget that early-morning journey to a heaven the Methvin family calls home. I have been in hallowed places—even holy houses—but never have I felt more strongly the presence of the Lord than in the Methvin home. Christal looked so tiny lying peacefully on such a large bed. The room was bright and cheerful. The sunshine from the east window filled the bedroom with light as the Lord filled our hearts with love.
The family surrounded Christal’s bedside. I gazed down at a child who was too ill to rise—almost too weak to speak. Her illness had now rendered her sightless. So strong was the spirit that I fell to my knees, took her frail hand in mine, and said simply, “Christal, I am here.” She parted her lips and whispered, “Brother Monson, I just knew you would come.” I looked around the room. No one was standing. Each was on bended knee. A blessing was given. A faint smile crossed Christal’s face. Her whispered “thank you” provided an appropriate benediction. Quietly, each filed from the room.
Four days later, on Thursday, as Church members in Shreveport joined their faith with the Methvin family and Christal’s name was remembered in a special prayer to a kind and loving Heavenly Father, the pure spirit of Christal Methvin left its disease-ravaged body and entered the paradise of God.

Illustration by Petur Antonsson
I had noticed the commercial beehives before—several times, in fact. They stood out like white sentinels in a clearing off the road just outside the small town where we lived in central California, USA.
But it wasn’t until my brother, several friends, and I rode by on our bikes one Saturday that we decided to take a closer look. Honey sounded especially good that morning. But how could we “borrow” a little without getting stung?
I don’t remember who came up with the idea, but we all agreed it was a good one. One of us simply had to tuck his pants inside his socks and cover his upper body, including his hands, arms, neck, and head. Then he could approach the hives without worrying about getting stung and grab what is called a “honeycomb frame.”
It was a sweet plan. What could go wrong?
We drew lots, and as with Lehi’s sons, the lot fell to the eldest—my brother, Mark. We knew we’d picked the right boy for the job when he grabbed his leather bicycle bag, cut two small eyeholes in it, and put it over his head. The rest of us pulled off our T-shirts and layered his arms and neck for protection. When we took off our shoes and gave him our socks for his hands, he was ready for battle.
Captain Moroni would have been proud—had we not been about to use our makeshift armor to take something that wasn’t ours.
My friends and I stood what we thought was a safe distance from the hives as Mark ran up to them. He quickly grabbed a honeycomb frame from one of the beehive boxes. Then he shook it, dropped it to the ground, and hightailed it back to us. The bees were not amused, but they soon settled down.
So far, so good.
Now all Mark had to do was run back, pick up the honeycomb frame, shake it free of bees, and sprint back with it.
All went according to plan until Mark started running toward us. Turned out he had company. The bees were coming too—and they were madder than hornets!
During the next few exciting minutes, I gained valuable knowledge.
I learned that honeybees fly fast—at least, faster than barefoot boys running on rocks and stickers.
I learned that honeybees are brave—they die after they sting you. As my shirtless friends and I tried to run away, about two dozen bees sacrificed themselves on our ears, necks, backs, and arms.
I learned that when we make a choice, we also choose the consequences of that choice. As President James E. Faust (1920–2007), Second Counselor in the First Presidency, said: “When you pick up a stick you pick up both ends.”1
After the honeybees had finished teaching my friends and me these painful lessons, the surviving bees retreated to their hives. We boys—smarting, swollen, and wiser—trudged back to my brother, who had enjoyed the spectacle without getting stung and who was now enjoying the honey.
By then I had lost my appetite—for honey and for “borrowing,” which I knew in my heart was just another word for stealing. My body wasn’t the only thing that was stung. So was my conscience.
I can honestly say, however, that the lessons I learned that day from the bees and their honey have stuck with me.

Switzerland is a small country in Europe that is known for its beautiful, high mountains. Over six hundred years ago, Switzerland was not free but belonged to its larger neighbor, Austria. The Swiss people longed to be free. One patriotic man, William Tell, was a strong woodsman. He was also the best marksman with a bow and arrow in his canton (small state or province). He had a young son whom he loved dearly.
Albert Gessler was the Austrian in charge of Switzerland. To upset and anger the Swiss people, he put his hat on a pole in the town square and demanded that they bow down to it. When William Tell refused, Gessler arrested him and put him in jail. A short time later, Gessler tied Tell’s son to a tree and set an apple on his head. He had Tell brought to him and told the prisoner that if he could shoot the apple off his son’s head, he could go free.
William Tell very carefully chose the arrow he placed on his bow. Slowly he aimed. The boy, trusting his father, stood tall and still. The arrow flew, cutting the apple in half. Gessler couldn’t believe his eyes, but he let William Tell go free.
When William Tell chose his arrow, he chose a very straight one. He would never have chosen a scuffed or crooked one. He checked the shafts for balance, the heads for sharpness. It was important that the arrow went where he aimed it.
Today, the term “straight arrow” means a person who always tells the truth and follows the rules. He or she can be depended on in time of trouble and when it is important to do a job well. He doesn’t have to be watched all the time, because he obeys his leaders and never flies off at some target of his own.
When a leader or boss chooses a person for an important job, he looks at each person carefully and chooses a straight arrow. Others will have to depend on that person. The boss doesn’t want a crooked arrow, someone who might lie, or cheat, or steal, or fail to do his very best.
The person who makes arrows, called an arrowsmith, chooses good materials. Even so, sometimes an arrow can become warped or its tip might become dull. Then the arrowsmith must straighten it or sharpen the tip.
Like everyone else, we Latter-day Saints, may sometimes get “warped,” and lose our way in living the gospel. We may forget to obey Heavenly Father’s commandments. Or we may forget to listen to what He wants us to do. He and His Son, Jesus Christ, are the master arrowsmiths. They can rebuild and straighten our lives if we let them. Through Jesus Christ’s sacrifice of His life, we can be straight arrows in life, if we repent.
When Heavenly Father, like William Tell, needs an arrow for an important job, He looks for a straight arrow, a person alert and ready to do His will.
Are you one of these arrows?

Brown Fox’s scalp prickled with dread as the Indian boy cautiously picked his way over the rocky floor of Whispering Canyon. The narrow winding canyon twisted in tight turns like a coiling snake. The steep bluffs closed in on either side like walls, and in some places they met and formed short tunnels.
Brown Fox was not in Whispering Canyon by choice. He had been traveling along a forest trail that ran along the top of the forbidden canyon when a stone rolled under his moccasin. Before he could recover his footing, he had plunged into the abyss. Instinctively Brown Fox grabbed at a mass of gnarled roots and found himself suspended halfway down the cliff.
“My mother is right about my clumsiness. They should have named me Duck Foot!” Brown Fox murmured shakily, grateful for the strong roots so firmly anchored in the rocks.
Because the top of the bluff jutted outward, there was no way for Brown Fox to get back up, even if he had a rope. He trembled with dread as he stared downward. His darting black eyes saw that his only escape was to descend into Whispering Canyon. The handholds and footholds were precarious, but feeling like a fly and knowing there was no other escape, Brown Fox began his descent.
Brown Fox heard eerie moaning whispers as he stepped down onto solid ground. His heart began thudding like a war drum. According to the legends of his tribe, the gloomy place was haunted. Not even the bravest hunter would follow a deer or a buffalo into the haunted corridor where there were constant moaning whispers. Even the oldest men of his tribe could not remember a brave who had entered and survived the forbidden canyon.
The Indian youth cautiously followed a faint path, making certain no loose stone rolled under his moccasins again.
Because he could not see the sun, Brown Fox lost all track of time. He was sure he had walked for several hours, and now the chilling sounds grew louder. Several times Brown Fox started to turn back and then changed his mind. He knew that the south end of the canyon started only a few miles from his village. The north end might wind in aimless circles like a labyrinth, and he would be trapped inside forever! No. He would continue traveling southward.
Brown Fox became so weary that he grew careless. Suddenly he heard a warning rattle. Leaping straight up, Brown Fox clung to a projecting ledge. He was terrified as he watched a huge rattlesnake slither away. The fanged one would have killed Brown Fox if the ledge had not been there!
Shaken by his encounter with the snake, Brown Fox decided to camp for the night where he found a pool of clear icy water. A basin had been carved out of solid rock by the fragile threads of water falling from high up the bluffs.
How many hundreds of years has it taken to form this basin, Brown Fox wondered. He removed thin strips of dried meat from his skin pouch for his supper. Then he sought a safe place to sleep. Remembering the snake, Brown Fox finally found a large boulder with very steep sides. As the drifted off to sleep, the young Indian boy felt less frightened, for the whispering and moaning sounds had stopped.
The sounds had started again, however, when Brown Fox awakened at dawn. They were shrill now and even more frightening. The moans began to rise and fall like the mourners’ chanting when a chief dies. But Brown Fox forced himself onward, although dread slowed his steps. He expected any moment to be confronted by some horrible apparition.
Suddenly Brown Fox stood still in wonder and awe as the canyon turned again. Before him a lush green valley stretched for miles. Brown Fox could see a wide lake, blue as the sky, that sparkled like a jewel in the bright sunshine. Nearby a grassy slope was covered with a herd of fat buffalo. A sleek deer bounded into a dense growth of trees as he watched. How glad Brown Fox was that he hadn’t turned back. He felt overcome with envy as he compared the beautiful valley to the parched and barren land where his people lived.
Now Brown Fox realized that the eerie moaning wails had changed to a soft humming sound. Then the sound completely stopped. The wind ruffled his hair and the noises began again. The Indian boy laughed aloud when he saw a thin spire of rock almost as tall as the canyon walls. Like a needle, the spire had a hole at the top where a cave had once been. The rushing of the wind through this opening made the moaning sighs. They were picked up by the towering bluffs and then magnified and carried for many miles through the canyon!
There were no evil spirits after all and nothing to keep his people from moving to this rich green valley! Brown Fox had solved the riddle of the “haunted” canyon.
Excitement lent wings to his feet. The chief would believe the boy, and he would send a group of braves back with Brown Fox to explore the valley. Brown Fox’s eyes reflected his pride as he thought about the chief calling for volunteers to accompany a boy to Whispering Canyon. They would all be frightened, but each would step forward. None would dare to show terror at actually entering Whispering Canyon, and no Indian braves would be outdone by a mere youth!
As Brown Fox hurried toward home, he thought of how he would proudly return in a few weeks to the canyon with the braves of his tribe, leading the women and children into the beautiful fertile valley he had found.
Here there would be food for all, and there would be peace for his people. The haunted canyon would protect them against enemy tribes, who would fear the canyon even more when they discovered that an entire tribe had vanished into its whispering depths.

Paul and Mar Jean Lewis from Utah had already served three missions together (Palmyra New York Temple; Hong Kong China Temple; and Croatia, Serbia, and Slovenia with seminaries and institutes). They were preparing to serve another when their stake president asked, “Would you be willing to serve right here in our own stake, supporting the mission we live in?”
“We’re new here, so it was a wonderful opportunity,” Sister Lewis says. “We serve with the young elders and sisters, have a close association with the mission president, go to district and zone meetings, and work with ward mission leaders.” They also visit investigators and those who are less active.
“We have met wonderful people we would never have known otherwise,” Sister Lewis says, “including some who have drifted off the path. To see them come back, receive ordinances, and go to the temple is a wonderful blessing.”
“Many couples, when they think about serving a mission, are worried about what they’ll do with their home and their car or what they’ll miss out on with their family,” Elder Lewis says. “We’ve been able to live in our own house and drive our own car. We are encouraged to go to family activities, as long as they don’t interfere with missionary responsibilities. And we were even here for the birth of a grandchild.”

“Can you see where that smoke is coming from? It seems awfully close. I wonder what’s burning?”
“Could be just a grass fire.”
“It’s not that close. It just seems that way.”
“Yes! Could be somewhere around … our … Oh no!”
It was our 13th wedding anniversary. Because of other commitments that evening, we had decided to celebrate with a nice restaurant lunch and include our five children in the festivities. We had barely ordered our meal when one of the children had spotted the smoke and our spirit of celebration was all but ruined. We tried to tell each other that it just couldn’t be anywhere near our home and thus we somehow got through the lunch. But that was about it. Hurriedly we got into our car and started the drive home.
It was only about 16 kilometers, but what a long distance it seemed to be. The closer to the smoke we came, the more worried we got. It certainly looked like it was coming from our neighborhood. I can still remember the fear and anxiety reflected on each face during that drive.
We lived in southern California, where after a dry summer the terrible grass fires were rather commonplace. Our home was situated near the top of the hill, and the road leading to our home ran higher on top. In back of the house and down the hill were thousands of hectares of grassy undeveloped land with some clusters of trees here and there. The grass that summer had grown high and then, due to a lack of rain, had died and dried standing up. Somehow that grass had caught on fire.
As we arrived home the police and a couple of fire trucks were already positioned on the road up the hill. The wind was toward us, and the fire was advancing with unbelievable speed.
I whispered a quick prayer, “Dear God, save our home.”
It is interesting to see what a person thinks important and valuable when faced with the fact that there is just a small truck in the driveway with which to haul his prized possessions to safety. In our case, sentimentality played a bigger role than monetary value. The family records came first, and the only piece of furniture we even thought of bothering with was my great-grandparents’ untunable piano. The girls, with their selected valuables, were sent off with a ward member, but our 11-year-old twin boys stayed around placing wet blankets on the top of the roof and keeping them wet.
There were only a few houses on that hill, all some distance from one another. We started, as did all our neighbors, to clear away the dry grass and the shrubbery surrounding our property. It seemed like useless work, but we had to do something; we couldn’t just stand there waiting.
“Dear God, save our home.”
The fire was getting closer, and the place was getting hotter. And we were coming to the attention of the news media. The television cameras were aimed at us, and we were being interviewed for the evening news.
“How does it feel to wait for your home to burn down?”
“It might not burn.”
“Well, tell us how you feel right now.”
“Terrible. Scared.”
The police had long since stopped all the traffic to our area. Only the people living there and close relatives were admitted. Suddenly a car full of men from our ward arrived. They were all anxious to help, and we were grateful for their concern. Then other elders started to come. We knew about the roadblock and wondered how these good men had been able to come through.
“Brother Ellett,” I said to one of them, “how did you get past the police?”
“That was easy,” he chuckled. “I just told them that my brother lives here!” That seemed to be the way all the other brethren had come through the roadblock.
A few minutes later, while the elders were still coming through one young policeman came walking down the driveway.
“I came to see the man,” he said, “who has so many brothers.”
I went outside the house and counted all the men from our ward that I could see. I counted 39. Thirty-nine brothers!
Thirty-nine priesthood holders, I thought. There they were fighting the fire with every possible means they could lay their hands on. They fought it with shovels, with hoes, with rakes, and even with sticks. And right then and there I realized that they had even stronger power than those few helpless tools in their possession. Great feelings of peace filled my soul. I knew then as surely as I have ever known anything that no fire could get through that line of fire fighters.
Anybody who has ever seen a group of full-grown trees, or even one of them, explode with fire will know how scary such a thing is, especially when seen at close quarters. There I stood watching the flames that seemed to touch the sky, and still I knew that I and all that was mine were safe from that raging inferno. The peace and calmness that filled my being is something I will never be able to fully describe. I was so grateful, oh, so grateful for my membership in the Church and for the knowledge I had. Tears running down my cheeks, I thanked the Lord, not so much for the material things he would preserve, but for the spiritual things nothing can destroy.
Somebody had bulldozed a big gully between the burnt area and us. The television cameras were busy recording what to them was news. The bulldozed area would not have been wide enough to stop the fire if something else had not suddenly happened. The wind that had all the time blown briskly towards us turned unexpectedly and completely and began to blow now in the direction of the already burnt area. The fight was now easier, and the fire never crossed the bulldozed area to our home.
“My brother lives there,” they had said.
My brother! I felt then stronger than ever before the bond that ties us together in the Church. I felt it loving and caring for my family. We are not alone. We have one another.
Often, when I travel at night and see a light in the distance all by itself, I wonder who might live there. And then I remember, and this thought comes to me like a flash, “My brother lives there!”

Hannah sat on the train seat between her father and her sister, Bessie. Papa had let Bessie sit next to the window, but Hannah didn’t mind because that meant she could sit next to Papa. She snuggled up next to him, and he reached out to squeeze her hand.
“Today we’ll go inside the house of the Lord,” Papa said, his voice trembling a little.
“Yes, Papa,” Hannah said.
“Do you know why?”
Hannah nodded. “The Salt Lake Temple will be dedicated today. Then it will be a real temple.”
“Yes,” said Papa. “And why else do you want to go?”
“To see how beautiful it is inside,” Hannah answered.
Papa smiled. “Is that why we go to the temple?”
Hannah looked down at the pink ticket she was holding on her lap. It had President Wilford Woodruff’s own signature on it. She would show it at the door so she could go inside to see the temple dedication.
“To see President Woodruff?”
“We do love our prophet, but why else do you want to go?” Papa tilted his head and raised his eyebrows.
Hannah leaned back in her seat. What answer was Papa after?
“You think about that.” Papa patted her knee. “On the way home, you can answer again.”
The train ride went by quickly, and soon Hannah found herself staring at the Salt Lake Temple. She couldn’t take her eyes off it. Looking up at the spires made her delightfully dizzy. The angel Moroni sparkled in the morning sun. “Holiness to the Lord,” Hannah read from the inscription on the wall. She felt a powerful joy in her heart. She promised herself that someday she would be married right here in the temple.
Hannah whispered to her father, “I know why I want to go to the temple. It’s because of Charley and Grandfather Bird and the rest of our family. It’s for Holiness to the Lord and for me too.”
Papa nodded, tears pooling in his eyes. “That’s why I want to go too.”

In 1995 I was invited to give a welcome and some opening remarks at a scientific seminar in Salt Lake City on the subject of child nutrition. Ninety-six scientists from 24 countries attended. As I surveyed the audience during my remarks, I was impressed by the many nations represented, as evidenced by their dress, skin color, language, and other distinguishing features.
Three or four months later I attended a stake conference on the East Coast of the United States. As I sat on the stand in preparation for the priesthood leadership session, an African man entered the chapel and sat down by the aisle. He looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t remember where I might have seen him. I leaned over and asked the stake president who the man was. The stake president answered, “Oh, he is not a member of the Church. He is a visiting professor from Africa teaching at a prestigious university in the area. A few months ago he attended some kind of scientific seminar in Salt Lake City. He picked up a pamphlet about the Church, which led him to read everything he could find about the Church. He now attends every meeting possible.” Half in jest, the stake president then said, “I would be surprised if he were not attending Relief Society meetings.”
After the priesthood leadership meeting, I reintroduced myself to the visiting professor. He affirmed his excitement for this newly discovered source of truth. He explained that his family, still in Africa, was studying with the missionaries and would be joining him in America in about four weeks, at which time they would all be baptized together.
At the conclusion of the Saturday evening adult session, this man came rushing to the podium and, thumping his chest, excitedly declared, “My heart is throbbing just like this. I can hardly contain it in my body. I don’t know if I can wait the four weeks for my family to be baptized.” I suggested he ought to slow down his heart and wait for his wife and children so all could be baptized together.
When Elijah was fleeing for his life from the wicked Phoenician princess Jezebel, the Lord directed him to a high mountain, where he had a most unusual experience. As Elijah stood upon the mount before the Lord, he felt “a great and strong wind … ; but the Lord was not in the wind: and after the wind an earthquake; but the Lord was not in the earthquake: and after the earthquake a fire; but the Lord was not in the fire: and after the fire a still small voice” (1 Kings 19:11–12).
I am occasionally asked by those not of our faith why it is that our Church grows so rapidly, in both membership and activity, while other churches are reportedly declining in both. The answer to that question is simply a still, small voice and then a throbbing heart. In this busy, tumultuous, and noisy world, it is not like a wind, it is not like a fire, it is not like an earthquake; but it is a still, small, but a very discernible voice, and it causes a throbbing heart. It is a quiet burning within that this is the restored gospel of Jesus Christ, with all of its doctrine, priesthood, and covenants that had been lost through the many centuries of darkness and confusion. Yes, it is a still, small voice and a throbbing heart that testifies of the miracle of the Restoration.
It is a still, small voice and a throbbing heart that motivates millions of members to emulate the life of Jesus in word, deed, and service. It is a still, small voice and a throbbing heart that motivates thousands of retired couples to serve missions, usually for 18 months or longer. They put aside the comforts of life to go into the world, serving others at their own expense and at what some would consider substantial sacrifice, often serving in remote parts of the world where a hot shower and a comfortable bed are luxuries that linger only in their memories.
It is a still, small voice and a throbbing heart that causes hundreds of thousands of young men and women to leave promising professions, put off their education (sometimes leaving athletic and other scholarships), or delay romances to serve the Lord at their own expense to declare the Restoration of the gospel. It is a still, small voice and a throbbing heart that gives our young people the desire and courage to stand for purity, honesty, and principle, even at the expense of sometimes being ridiculed and rejected. It is a still, small voice and a throbbing heart that motivates one to joyfully keep God’s commandments and share the burdens of those less fortunate. Yes, there is power in a still, small voice and a throbbing heart.
Alma had his way of asking about the spiritual condition of our hearts. He asks, “Have ye spiritually been born of God?” And then: “Have ye received his image in your countenances? Have ye experienced this mighty change in your hearts?” (Alma 5:14; emphasis added). In other words, is your heart throbbing with a testimony of Jesus Christ?
May I tell you just three things of many that cause my heart to throb? First, my heart throbs with the knowledge that Jesus Christ is my personal Savior and that His love for me was sufficient that He would suffer unimaginable pain and even death. My heart throbs when, in the solitude of my deep thoughts, I realize I can be cleansed, purified, and redeemed through the blood of Jesus Christ. My heart throbs when I contemplate the price that was paid—the suffering incurred to spare me from similar personal suffering for my sins and transgressions.
Second, my heart throbs with the knowledge that a young boy only 14 years of age went into a grove of trees—and from a simple, humble prayer the heavens opened, God and Christ appeared, and angels descended. And thus the fulness of the gospel of Jesus Christ was restored with all of its priesthood, covenants, and purity of doctrine. My heart throbs when I consider what this boy prophet endured to bring about the fulness of the restored gospel. While heavenly angels were descending, Satan’s angels were also at work. The persecutions began, and like the lives of prophets of old, Joseph’s life culminated in his martyrdom. Throughout all his trials and persecutions, the young prophet remained steadfast and determined.
Because of the Prophet Joseph Smith, I understand more fully the magnitude of Christ’s Atonement. Because of the Prophet Joseph, I better understand the significance of the Garden of Gethsemane—a place of great suffering as Christ assumed our personal suffering not only for our sins but also for our pains, infirmities, trials, and tragedies. I understand the infinite and eternal nature of His great and last sacrifice. I better understand the love our Savior exemplified in His last redeeming act. Because of Joseph Smith, my love and gratitude for the Savior is magnified and my worship more meaningful. Among the many hymns in our hymnbook written by W. W. Phelps is the familiar song with the words “Praise to the man who communed with Jehovah!” (“Praise to the Man,” Hymns, no. 27). My heart throbs as I sing that song.
Yes, because we sing with enthusiasm and gusto, “Praise to the man who communed with Jehovah!” we sing about the Savior with even more reverence, emotion, and gratitude with the words “Oh, it is wonderful that he should care for me / Enough to die for me! / Oh, it is wonderful, wonderful to me!” (“I Stand All Amazed,” Hymns, no. 193). My heart throbs because of the enlightenment the Prophet Joseph brought to my life regarding the personal effect of the Atonement of my Savior.
Third, my heart throbs as I study and ponder the sacred scriptures in the Book of Mormon, as it complements the Bible and further testifies of the divinity of Jesus Christ as the Son of God, the Redeemer and Savior of the world. Because of this sacred companion to the Bible, my understanding of Christ’s doctrine is expanded; thus many of the questions left unanswered in the Bible are explained to my full satisfaction. The Book of Mormon is tangible evidence that Joseph is a prophet of God, Christ did in reality appear to him, and the gospel has been restored in its purity and its fulness.
My heart throbs just to contemplate the miracle of the Book of Mormon’s existence—the laborious job of engraving on metal plates, the careful custodianship through the centuries by God’s chosen, and the miraculous translation. Truly it fits the perfect definition of holy writ. Because of God’s majestic love for us, He provided this evidence that we can handle, we can peruse, we can study, and we can even challenge. But, most important, God loves me enough that He will give me and anyone else who sincerely seeks a personal revelation of the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon—the tangible evidence of the Restoration and that Joseph Smith was a true prophet.
In speaking of this sacred knowledge, the Book of Mormon prophet Alma testifies:
“Do ye not suppose that I know of these things myself? Behold, I testify unto you that I do know that these things whereof I have spoken are true. And how do ye suppose that I know of their surety?
“Behold, I say unto you they are made known unto me by the Holy Spirit of God. Behold, I have fasted and prayed many days that I might know these things of myself. And now I do know of myself that they are true; for the Lord God hath made them manifest unto me by his Holy Spirit; and this is the spirit of revelation” (Alma 5:45–46).
Like Alma of old, each of us, members and sincere investigators alike, can know with surety that these things are true. It is our great privilege to know. It is more than a privilege; it is our responsibility to know. It is our enormous loss to not know when such a privilege is given. The Lord has said, “Knock, and it shall be opened unto you” (Matthew 7:7). The Book of Mormon prophet Jacob says, “Come with full purpose of heart” (Jacob 6:5). We do not need to rely upon intellect or our physical senses. We study, we pray, and, like Alma of old, we may even fast, and then comes a still, small voice and a throbbing heart. Imagine a personal revelation from God that these things are true. The very thought of it makes my heart throb. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

The issue of paying tithing came up in our family when our daughter joined the Church. At the time, neither my husband nor I were members. She was earning her own money, but because she lived with my husband and me, we all shared our earnings. I could not imagine how we would manage without the 10 percent of her income that she decided to pay in tithing, but I gradually became accustomed to my daughter’s decision. Whenever she brought her paycheck home, my first question was, “Have you set aside your tithing?”
Eventually I became interested in learning about the gospel, but I decided not to join the Church because I would have to pay tithing. Two tithing payments from one family budget were just too much!
After attending church for more than a year, I began to feel dissatisfied and uneasy. As I pondered and prayed, I realized that I wanted to pay tithing. I was surprised at my desire, given my previous opposition.
The following Sunday, I asked the branch president for a tithing slip. I was disappointed to hear that until I was a member, I could not pay tithing. I could, however, make a donation. And so I donated 10 percent of my income to the Lord’s Church. Immediately I felt comfort, joy, and satisfaction. I could hardly wait for the day of my baptism so I could pay a real tithe.
I know that the temporal blessings we enjoy in our family come from paying tithing. But the greatest blessings are the incomparable feelings we have when we obey our Heavenly Father: satisfaction from being obedient, confidence that our Heavenly Father will not abandon us, and feelings of peace and happiness.

When I was in my final year of elementary school, all of the students went camping in Negros Occidental, Philippines, before our graduation. We pitched our tents at the campsite and had a good time exploring among the guava and mango trees. When night came, my parents came to check on me. They told me to be very careful, and then they left.
One of my classmates invited my friends and me to take a ride with him and his older cousin. His cousin drove us around, and we had fun until—to my surprise—my classmates brought out beer and cigarettes. We parked the car near the campsite, and they began to drink the beers and smoke in the car. They invited me to join them, but I refused.
I said I wouldn’t join in because smoking would shorten my lifespan. I also said that it is against my beliefs, because I have been taught the Word of Wisdom. I told them that the Word of Wisdom is a law that teaches that we should keep our bodies clean, because they are temples of God. I told them we must avoid smoking; drinking alcohol, tea, and coffee; and taking drugs. My best friend and I left the group and slept in our tent.
When I went home, I was happy to tell my dad that I had not joined my classmates but instead had taught them about the Word of Wisdom. I was happy the Holy Ghost was there to guide me and give me the courage to speak to my friends.
From this experience I learned that our obedience will be tested when we are on our own, without parents or others to support us. I feel grateful for the Word of Wisdom and am committed to obey it. When I am old enough, I will go on a mission and teach many people the importance of the Word of Wisdom.