Gospel Story Finder

The John Johnson farm was the location of one of the more dramatic stories in Church history. It was here that a mob dragged the Prophet from his room, tarred and feathered him, and returned him to his terrified wife, Emma, who mistakenly thought he was covered in blood. They both spent the rest of the night trying to remove the tar. The next morning, sore and in pain, he stood on the front porch and preached to a crowd.

Standing on the front steps of the Johnson home, in the very spot where the Prophet Joseph stood before the gathered crowd the morning after the mob attack, Paul says, “After all he went through, the Prophet Joseph was provided the strength from the Lord to get up and preach.”

“And,” adds Jessica Seipert, also from the Hiram Ward, “Joseph and Emma also had to deal with one of their twins dying after being exposed to the cold that night.” Joseph, an adopted son of Joseph and Emma, died from exposure in March 1832.

Jessica walks inside the home to stand in the room that Joseph and Emma used as their bedroom. The furniture is arranged as it might have been that night. She tries to imagine the chaos and fear that would have been in that room that night.

For many years I had a less than enthusiastic view of school. Not until my junior year of high school did I begin to realize the power which knowledge could have on my life. Learning now became exciting to me. It started to influence my whole life. School became enjoyable, and I studied to learn. I started reading for fun. I read mostly about scientific topics. I began to see the world and religion in a new light.
The core of this internal change was revealed in my advanced-placement chemistry class, along with a few other influences in my life at that time.
During one discussion about the molecular orbital theory and the particle wave theory of electrons, I asked my chemistry teacher how scientists knew what they claimed. I wanted proof. Mr. Steed, my teacher, finally admitted that he didn’t know, and neither did anyone else. He explained that scientists only knew that the theory fit their current understanding.
I began to realize that much of what I had been taught in science could not be proven. I had relied on science to be pure and free from opinions, but I came to realize that it was not. Science involved studies and theories based on a limited knowledge.
At the same time I lost my faith in science, I began to lose my faith in mankind. I took a class in which beliefs, truths, ethics, and morals were discussed. Many students in the class believed that there was no such thing as absolute truth, a God, or morality. They did not believe in personal responsibility and accountability for their actions. These people symbolized the world to me, so I began to lose my faith in mankind when I lost my faith in them.
I realized that much of what I had been taught as fact was not. This changed my perspective on everything in my life. I no longer saw teachers as sources of truth. I began to question all that I had been taught and had believed in. I wanted everything to be proven to me.
I began to question whether an absolute truth could exist. Yet I knew that certain things must exist. My lack of ability to comprehend God caused me to question his existence. I would say to myself, “God exists and his laws are absolute.” Then I would quickly think of something else to avoid questioning God’s existence.
Yet as I learned more, I tried to understand and explain God. Although I disliked my thinking, I could not deny what I felt. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to believe in that which I had always believed. My life was becoming depressing and insecure.
As the desire for stability and truth grew in my life, this great desire caused me to turn to the scriptures. It was then that I found a new meaning in Moroni 10:4 [Moro. 10:4]:
“And when ye shall receive these things, I would ask God, the eternal Father in the name of Christ, if these things are not true; and if ye shall ask with a sincere heart, with real intent, having faith in Christ, he will manifest the truth of it unto you, by the power of the Holy Ghost.”
These were words of hope and comfort to me. I began to read the Book of Mormon with a new purpose. The writings of the prophets found a new place in my heart. I read with the desire to learn and know.
I longed for the comfort, purpose, and perspective that the gospel had always given to my life. Each night before I read, I would pray with a great desire to know the truth. I felt that the scriptures were true, but I wanted to know. When I read, I often found scriptures that gave me inspiration on how to live my life better. Many tears were shed as I felt the power and truth of the Book of Mormon.
I began to regard prayer more seriously. My relationship with my Father in Heaven became much closer. I prayed to him with a new enthusiasm. I desired to know if he was there. I prayed for a remission of my sins. I prayed for forgiveness because of my lack of faith.
After reading the Book of Mormon, I knelt in prayer. I had a great desire to know of its truth. I hoped it was true, knowing what joy this would bring me. That night I prayed for hours desiring to know. The following nights I continued in my prayers and began to wonder if I would receive a witness.
My determination in waiting for a witness was a trial of my faith. After many days I came to the realization that I knew the Book of Mormon was true. It came not as a sign or a voice. I knew because in the center of my being I could not deny that it was true. I also knew that God existed and that he is my Heavenly Father, that Jesus Christ is the only begotten son of God.
This came to me, not as new knowledge, but as a peaceful remembrance of that which I already knew. I did not need a further witness. I had always known the truth. My pride in my own knowledge had caused me to forget my testimony.
With this new understanding my life received meaning and peace. Although I still question some of what I hear, I do it for my own good and a desire to learn the truth.

As a brand-new missionary in England, I was assigned to the southern coast for my first area. One Sunday afternoon my companion and I decided to go tracting in the small town of Sandwich, located just a few miles north of the white cliffs of Dover. After a few hours of knocking on doors, feeling like we must have talked to every living person in the place—and without any success at all—we sat down dejectedly on a nearby bench.
Although it was summertime, it was a rather cold and damp day, as sometimes happens in England. Feeling downcast due to the lack of response to our efforts to share the gospel, my companion tried to lighten the mood by remarking, “It’s okay, Elder. It could be worse: it could be one degree colder right now.”
His comment was well received and hit home. Life really wasn’t bad. We were in a beautiful country. We had the gospel. We were missionaries on the Lord’s errand. In fact, I had more blessings than problems. I felt much better knocking on doors the rest of the afternoon, armed with an enlightened attitude and a purer perspective—although I was still cold and damp and I still wished someone would listen.

Several years ago I spoke at a meeting for members and investigators in the Peru Lima South Mission. I don’t know why I started talking about revelation and the importance of having a prophet. But as I did, I noticed two young men on the first row listening attentively and taking notes. After the meeting, those two young men came to me and said, “You talk about prophets and about revelation. We thought that there weren’t any prophets after John the Baptist.” The young men had been sent by the local priest to find out what I said. I had to leave on an airplane soon and didn’t have time to explain more about prophets and revelation. However, I did tell them that if they wanted to have personal revelation, they should read the Book of Mormon and follow the counsel in Moroni 10. I gave them each a Book of Mormon and marked Moroni 10:4–5 [Moro. 10:4–5]. Three months later, I received a letter from those young men telling me that they had been baptized. One year later, I received another letter saying that they were both preparing to go on missions. The Book of Mormon was what converted them.

“Blast that girl!” said Arnie to himself. “Blast me, too! And blast everything that has to do with that stupid art show.”
He glanced upward towards heaven. “Why?” he asked. “Why on the day before the biggest art show of my life does she have to come to my school? What did I do wrong? What did I do to deserve this?”
Not receiving any answer, Arnie looked down at the pad he held in his hand. The beginnings of a little boy playing in the sand were sketched lightly in blue. Oh, yes, the picture would be a good one, one of his best. It would make a nice finale to his entry in the contest. But it was nothing compared to Jana Lee Smithy’s paintings in oil!
Arnie grimaced. If only she had arrived two days later! Then the judging would have been over and the art student-of-the-year award would have been his. After that Miss Jana Lee could have been the best art student in the school; it wouldn’t have mattered. But no. There she was. And she was brilliant.
Arnie threw down his pencil and groaned audibly. He glanced around the small park where he drew many of his sketches and collected ideas. What a waste of a beautiful day! But how could he be content to turn in just four drawings? Jana Lee Smithy was going to show four completed oil paintings, each a vision of color and light. When her paintings were unveiled in the morning and the school compared hers to his slight “sketches,” Arnie knew how his classmates would react. “Well,” they would say, “Arnie’s not quite as good as he makes out to be, is he?” And people would nod in assent and then never stop talking about what a genius Jana Lee was.
Arnie looked at the small boy who was unknowingly modeling for his sketch. Hurriedly and quietly the boy was building himself a castle. Tiny hands moved quickly and knowingly through the granules of yellow dirt. Wary of sand too dry or sand too wet, the boy’s small fingers gathered piles of sand together and molded them into turrets and walls. Broken twigs served as posts and pillars and flags for the castle.
Arnie wasn’t sure what everything the boy made was, but it was certainly immense. When Arnie began his drawing, the little fellow had just begun the main building. Now stables, dogs’ houses, an armory, and finally a great wall had been formed. The child was amazing. Or, thought Arnie, he would be until something better came along. Then the castle would be merely a trifle, something to be forgotten—like Arnie would be after tomorrow.
Arnie frowned and looked at his drawing. Despite its unfinished quality, he felt tempted to just leave it as it was. Nothing could help him now. Numbers of drawings couldn’t change the quality of Jana Lee’s work. Finally, discipline got the better of him. He picked up the blue pencil and finished the final details of the picture.
After another 45 minutes the picture was finished. Arnie smiled at the little figure in the drawing. The contentment on the child’s face was contagious, and Arnie grinned. It was a futile effort, he knew, like the sand castle whose immortality would lie in the little boy’s heart rather than in the park. But, like the child, Arnie felt a glow at having done a good job. The glow wasn’t big enough to fill the emptiness he felt at being a failure, but it was nice nonetheless. He gathered up his pencils and put them in their case. Carefully, he stood and, with a nod to the little boy, headed for home.
By the time Arnie reached his street, the slight high that finishing the drawing had given him was gone. Even the coziness of the familiar, flower-lined path that led to his front door had no effect. There’s not much that can make a failure happy, he reflected. The sounds of family that echoed in the air didn’t help, either. In fact, the thought of seeing his hopeful mother, proud father, and admiring sister made him want to hide. They’d all had such high hopes for him. And now he was letting them down. Arnie stood on the doorstep for a second trying to decide whether or not to tell them that he’d seen the winning entries, halfway hidden behind Mr. Olsen’s desk, and they weren’t his. Arnie shook his head. He didn’t want their sympathy. He opened the door.
“I’m home,” he called.
Sheryll, his sister, bounded past him on her way to the kitchen. “You don’t say?” she laughed over her shoulder. “I never would have guessed.”
Arnie grimaced at her. Sisters. Freshmen. Two deadly ingredients when combined. He put his supplies down on the floor and headed for the stairs. His mother’s voice caught him two steps up.
“You’re not going to leave your things here in the hall, are you?” He turned around and looked into his mother’s warning brown eyes. Arnie grinned sheepishly.
“Me?”
She nodded. “My visiting teachers are coming over tonight.” Arnie looked knowingly at her. “Not,” she said, raising her voice as well as her eyebrows, “that that should make any difference.”
“Of course not, Mom,” Arnie replied. He gathered his things up and took them with him to his room. Carefully, he put the drawing on his desk and his kit on the floor. Shutting his door carefully behind him, he made his way to the bathroom where he washed his hands. As he did so, he tried to smile in the mirror. It didn’t do any good. His brown hair looked unruly, his eyes dim, and his face ruddy. What a depressing sight! If my eyes looked any redder … He shrugged off the thought. What had he to complain about? He wasn’t hoping to make a living with his face, just his hands.
“Which,” he said to the face in the mirror, “are proving to be betraying assets.” Arnie went down to dinner.
As the family took their places after the prayer, Arnie’s father looked over the mashed potatoes at his son.
“So, are you ready for tomorrow, Arnie?” he asked. Arnie choked on a pea.
When his coughing had subsided he replied, “About as ready as I’m going to get, Dad.”
“Then you should be plenty ready,” said his mother.
“What were you doing this afternoon?” asked Sheryll.
“I was drawing at the park.” Arnie looked down at his plate. “I thought one more piece might help me in the contest.”
“That smacks of overkill,” said his father.
“I wouldn’t worry about that,” said Arnie.
“Besides,” said Sheryll, “everybody in school knows how good he is. All my friends like his stuff. One more drawing will be …”
“One more drawing,” interrupted Arnie. “Enough. Isn’t there anything else to talk about?”
His mother looked at him with concern. “Are you feeling all right, Arnie?”
“Just nerves, dear,” said his father. But still, even as he spoke, Mr. Wells looked at his son with a searching look.
Arnie ducked his father’s gaze and stuck his fork into his mouth. Oops, he thought as his father’s look changed to one of amazement. I should have put something on the fork first.
“Arnie, if there’s anything …”
Frustrated, Arnie stood up. “May I be excused? I’m finished. And I’ve got to mount this last drawing.”
He could see by the surprised looks on the faces of his family that they were amazed by the sudden outburst. He continued, “I’ll be in my room.” Arnie backed out of the room and fled up the stairs.
“Well, at least they only doubted my sanity,” Arnie said to himself as he shut and locked the door behind him. “They don’t have to doubt my abilities until tomorrow.”
He looked forlornly at the drawing on his desk. “Ah, friend, if you only knew what humiliation you will face tomorrow, you wouldn’t smile so much.”
The little boy grinned at him happily. The scripture in 2 Nephi flashed into Arnie’s mind. “And men are, that they might have joy” (2 Ne. 2:25). Arnie frowned. Well, he thought, joy certainly hasn’t been my cellmate these last few hours! What’s there to be joyful about? Instead of a talent made out of silk, I get one made of a sow’s ear. And I’m supposed to be happy! He shrugged and set about making the results of his poor talent presentable.
When he finished, Arnie put his five entries on his bed and looked at them one at a time. Each of them was pleasant to look at. The laughter and light in them was enough to make any viewer smile. Each drawing represented a lot of effort. It was a pity that they would go to waste. Arnie shook his head and readied himself for bed.
After placing the five drawings and his books near the door, Arnie knelt to say his nightly prayer. “Heavenly Father,” he began. But his mind went numb. Arnie had always trusted his Father in Heaven, but this night he found it difficult to bare his soul. Before, he’d always known of his worth as a child of God. He’d never had any reason to doubt. But now, Arnie wasn’t everything that he thought he was. It was a little difficult to explain to Heavenly Father that things were different and that Arnie wasn’t quite the person he thought he had been.
Finally, after many minutes of silence, only one thing came to his mind. “I don’t understand,” he said softly, “why I am what I am. But I must be of some importance, despite my faults. Help me be happy.”
Arnie paused, then closed his prayer. He climbed slowly into bed, and after tossing and turning for a long while, drifted into sleep.
The next morning dawned much too early for Arnie’s likes. I’m not any happier, he thought, than I was last night. But he did feel a little more distanced from the despair than he had felt the night before. His drawings, as he looked at them one more time before leaving the house, didn’t look quite as inelegant as they had seemed. Still, they weren’t going to win any awards. Arnie still wasn’t quite good enough to be what was expected.
Despite Sheryll’s chatter in the car, Arnie maintained a stony silence on the way to school. Luckily, his lively sister was so excited about the competition, the weather, and her best friend’s new boyfriend, that it would have been impossible for him to have said anything had he wanted to. Finally, the ride was over. He said good-bye to his father and sister and escaped down the hall to the art department.
Voices could be heard behind the wood door as Arnie approached. He really didn’t want to see anybody just yet and was about to turn away when the door opened.
“Ah, Arnie,” said Mr. Olsen. “I’m glad you’re here.”
Arnie smiled weakly.
Mr. Olsen beamed at him. “I was just going to take Jana Lee down to where she’ll be hanging her paintings. But maybe you can show her.”
Great, thought Arnie, now I’m a glorified hall monitor.
Mr. Olsen continued. “Since you and Jana will be hanging your works next to each other, that should I make things easier for all of us. That’ll be all right, won’t it?”
Arnie nodded.
“Good.”
Arnie sighed and turned around. He heard the sound of Jana Lee’s feet behind him.
“Wait a second, Arnie,” she said as she reached his side. Arnie turned to give her one of his pained looks. But when he saw her he stopped.
Jana Lee smiled and adjusted the paintings which had started to slip. But that wasn’t what stopped him. It wasn’t the paintings either, though they were as magnificent as ever. It was something that he saw in her eye, something that he recognized. Her eyes were as red-rimmed as his own.
Why? he thought. What had she to worry about? When she was ready, they headed towards the library. Neither said another word, though Arnie saw her looking at him once as he glanced at her.
As Arnie thought about what he had seen and what it meant, something occurred to him that he had never thought of before. In the parable of the talents, different talents were given to the servants: five talents, two talents, and one talent. Arnie had always just assumed that some people were five-talent people and some people were two-talent people. But what he knew when the image of Jana Lee’s overworked eyes sank deep into his heart was that most people started out with both talents and potential for talents. Just because you didn’t have five talents the first day didn’t mean you couldn’t have them—if you worked. Didn’t the Lord say, “Well done, thou good and faithful servant” to the man who began with two talents? He had started with two and had come away with four. He had done good work.
Arnie was also a worker. Perhaps, today, Arnie had two talents. But, as he thought back, he’d only begun with one. Perhaps next time, at the next competition, Arnie would have a five-talent art like Jana Lee. She, as he saw in her eyes, had worked for hers. He, as he knew in his heart, could work for his. And with that revelation, being pleased with his own work, Arnie was, for the first time in a long time, content.
He and Jana Lee reached the wall where they would hang up their works. After he helped her with the paintings, Jana Lee helped him with his drawings. When they reached the last one, that of the boy in the sand, Jana Lee smiled.
“This one’s really good,” she said. “Who was the model? He’s got such a knowing look on his face.”
“I don’t know who he was,” replied Arnie. “But he was a smart kid. And he built a great sand castle.”

Several decades ago I was serving as a bishop. Over an extended period I met with a man in our ward who was many years my senior. This brother had a troubled relationship with his wife and was estranged from their children. He struggled to keep employment, had no close friends, and found interaction with ward members so difficult he finally was unwilling to serve in the Church. During one intense discussion about the challenges in his life, he leaned toward me—as his conclusion to our numerous talks—and said, “Bishop, I have a bad temper, and that’s just the way I am!”

That statement stunned me that night and has haunted me ever since. Once this man decided—once any of us conclude—“That’s just the way I am,” we give up our ability to change. We might as well raise the white flag, put down our weapons, concede the battle, and just surrender—any prospect of winning is lost. While some of us may think that does not describe us, perhaps every one of us demonstrates by at least one or two bad habits, “That’s just the way I am.”

Like Jim, as a young man I was privileged to have “goodly parents” (1 Nephi 1:1). They taught gospel principles and values to our family by precept and example. As a young boy I thought I had a testimony. I believed! Then came some personal spiritual experiences through faith, prayer, scripture study, and especially father’s blessings in our home that caused me to think more seriously about the principles I had been taught and believed—but even more deeply about what I was beginning to feel. I will be forever grateful to parents who helped coach me through those precious spiritual experiences. They have had a lasting impact on me and on the strength of my testimony.

Micky was sitting on the curb when his friend John came and sat down beside him. “What can we do on such a hot day?” John asked.
“Let’s go for a walk,” Micky suggested. “We might find adventure.”
“Adventure? What’s that?” John asked.
“Grandfather said it’s finding new and happy things to do,” Micky explained.
“Let’s go then!” said John.
They walked to the end of the block and turned the corner. “My mother told me not to cross the street,” Micky cautioned.
“Mine too,” said John as they continued up the street.
A dog was sitting on the grass wagging its tail in front of a house. “Hello, doggy,” Micky called.
“Hello, doggy,” John echoed.
The dog followed them wagging his tail. Soon they turned another corner and saw a boy bouncing a ball.
“Hi!” said the boy. “My name’s Steve and we just moved here. Where do you live?”
“Way back there. I’m Micky and this is my friend John. We’re taking a walk. Would you like to come too?”
“Sure,” said the boy. “Mother says I can take a walk but I mustn’t cross the street.”
“Me neither,” said Micky.
“Same here,” said John.
The friendly dog was still following them wagging his tail. When they came to the end of that block, they saw a low stone wall that went all the way around the corner. Micky stepped up onto the wall. Arms held wide, he balanced himself carefully. “Look, I’m a tightrope walker,” he boasted, putting one foot down right in front of the other.
John climbed up on the wall, too, and followed Micky around the corner, arms held wide. “Zoom! I’m an airplane,” he said and laughed.
Steve tagged along behind John. “Chug, chug, chug. I’m a train,” he pretended. The dog followed along on the sidewalk.
When the wall came to an end, the boys jumped down.
“What’s that on the sidewalk?” Micky suddenly asked, pointing at something sparkling.
Micky ran and picked it up. “It’s a rock,” he said, turning it around and around in his hand. It felt warm. “I think I’ll keep this for my collection.”
As John reached for the rock to inspect it, a yellow butterfly fluttered down and settled on his hand. He held his hand very still, hardly breathing. “Wow!” the boys said when the butterfly fluttered on its way again.
Micky put the rock in his pocket and the boys started walking again.
“Is that your dog?” Steve asked.
“No,” Micky answered, his eyes laughing, “he lives around the corner from us and likes to walk too!”
“It would be fun to play ball there sometime,” Micky said, pointing to an empty lot.
“Or build a clubhouse,” John suggested.
“Or have a picnic,” added Steve.
As Micky, John, Steve, and the dog walked around another corner, Micky shouted, “There’s my house.”
John shouted, “Mine too!”
“I live just around the alley from you. That’s my house by the flag. See you later,” Steve said as he hurried home.
“We really found adventure,” Micky said. “And it was fun.”
“And we found two new friends,” said John, as he waved at Steve and then watched the dog turn in at its own house down the street.

I love fast and testimony meetings! February 5, 1984—my first experience attending The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was a dramatic turning point in my life. I felt the Spirit and did not even recognize it, because I did not know the Spirit. The Savior speaking to his disciples about this precious gift of a member of the Godhead said, “Even the Spirit of truth; whom the world cannot receive, because it seeth him not, neither knoweth him: but ye know him; for he dwelleth with you and shall be in you” (John 14:17). The Lord in his tender mercies reached out to me through President Allen and the two other members who bore pure, heartfelt testimonies about the Savior Jesus Christ and the Book of Mormon. I felt the still, small voice assuring me that I was in good company and those people were my brothers and sisters regardless of our diversity. The feeling of being in a servant relationship, which almost took me out of the chapel, vanished. I made up my mind that day, that this was the church I wanted to belong to.

When I was six, my dad took me and my older sister to play basketball. It was my first time playing at a real gym. The basketball felt heavy in my small hands and the hoop—even at its lowest setting—seemed overwhelmingly high.
“Don’t worry, just take a shot,” my dad said.
I turned to my dad. “But what if I miss?” I asked.
More than two decades later, I don’t remember if I made that shot or not. But I do remember the fear I felt: “What if I miss? What if my best efforts fall short? What should I do if I fail?”
That same fear of failure has plagued me throughout my life. For a long time, I was naturally skilled in enough activities to cover that fear. But it still manifested itself in small ways. I didn’t try a sport until I knew I was good at it. I avoided school subjects that did not correlate with my strengths. When I did try new activities that I was not immediately successful in, my solution was to quickly quit and move on to something I was more skilled in.
Then I went on my mission. For the first time, I was forced into an environment where my weaknesses were blaringly evident and I couldn’t easily back out. I had a hard time initiating conversations. I struggled teaching in a new language. I faced rejection multiple times a day. I was constantly failing—taking shots and missing—and there were days when I considered following my usual pattern for failure: giving up and going home.
During this time, I received much-needed inspiration and correction from the story of Oliver Cowdery trying to translate the plates. After a few weeks of scribing for Joseph Smith, Oliver began to wonder if he could also translate the plates.
Joseph asked the Lord and received an answer that Oliver would be allowed to translate. However, the Lord also gave Oliver a few cautions, two of which were to “be patient” and “fear not” (D&C 6:19, 34).
Translating was not as simple as Oliver imagined. When the words didn’t come easily, he became frustrated and soon gave up.
As I studied the story, I recognized that Oliver’s problem was similar to my own. He had expected to master translating quickly, and when it became evident that he would not be immediately successful—that he would fail many times as he worked to develop the gift—he went back to scribing, something he was comfortable with. The Lord’s cautions were accurate: Oliver was not patient with himself or with God, and he feared. So God took the opportunity away from him (see D&C 9:3).
I realized how often my fear of failure had stopped me. I had been so afraid of “missing shots” that I hadn’t even taken them or had given up after a few attempts. In trying to avoid failure, I had missed opportunities at future success. I hadn’t been patient with myself or God, and I had feared.
Oliver Cowdery’s story also gave me hope. Although the Lord told Oliver that he would not be able to translate then, He also promised, “Other records have I, that I will give unto you power that you may assist to translate” (D&C 9:2). Oliver’s opportunity to translate was not lost, just delayed. Likewise, opportunities I had missed were not lost. The Lord would provide more, if I was willing to be patient and not allow fear of failure prevent me from trying.
I resolved to work through my fear of failure. Even though I still felt anxious talking to strangers or teaching in a foreign language, I improved at both. These skills have helped me in my life, even after my mission.
There are still times that I hesitate to try something new or do something I’m not particularly good at. But I’ve learned to be more patient. I’ve learned to keep taking shots and not be afraid to miss.

Young Edward eagerly climbed up the apple tree. The higher he went the more the branches swayed. But Edward wasn’t concerned about the swaying branches. He didn’t notice the blue jays or the nervous twittering of the sparrows. His thoughts were centered on apples—the sweetest, juiciest apples that could be found only near the very top of the tree. And only the best apples would do for their special guest—the Prophet Joseph Smith.
The Prophet Joseph! Edward could hardly believe that right now the Prophet was sitting in their house, talking with his mother, and complimenting her on the wonderful meal she had just served.
Ever since he had heard the news that the Prophet Joseph was coming to Pontiac, Michigan, Edward had been excited. And when he later learned that the Prophet was going to have a meal in their home, his excitement was almost unbearable.
Earlier that morning Edward had helped his mother take out the rug and beat it. He cleaned out the fireplace, polished his mother’s prized mirror, and dusted the bookcase. When the work was done, he began strutting about and looking very pleased with himself.
“Edward Stevenson,” his mother said. “I know you’re excited, but you shouldn’t give in to pride.”
“But, Mother, it isn’t every day that we get a visit from the Prophet.”
“True enough. Still, you must think of the Prophet’s visit as more of a blessing than an honor.”
“All right, Mother. I’ll try.”
Edward kept looking at the clock and wishing time would go by faster. Finally, the Prophet appeared at the door. Edward, who was small for his thirteen years, looked up in awe at their six-foot-tall guest. A local church leader who was with the Prophet introduced him to the “Widow Stevenson” and Edward. Joseph bent down, offered Edward a robust handshake and said, “Hello there, Bub.”
Edward had never been called anything but his given name, so the casual nickname startled him. But when he thought about who had given it to him, he cherished it.
As they enjoyed a meal of roast duck, pork, potatoes, and beans, the Prophet held everyone—especially Edward—spellbound as he told stories about the Church and the Book of Mormon. Then Edward excused himself, dashed outside, and hurried up the apple tree with a tin pail in hand. When the branches became so thin they could barely support his weight, Edward plucked large golden apples until the pail was full. Then he climbed down and ran back into the house.
“These are for you, President Smith,” Edward said, presenting the pail to the Prophet.
“Thanks, Bub. I’ll take a couple, then we’ll pass them around for everyone.”
Soon the house was filled with the happy crunching sound of apples. “Bub, this is one of the finest apples I’ve ever had the pleasure of eating,” the Prophet said.
Later, Edward wrote in his journal, “Oh! how my heart swelled with delightful emotions of heavenly love, as I selected and presented to him [the Prophet] some of our choice apples in exchange for the golden nuggets of celestial truth.”

I love the story told by President Hinckley of the time he learned about having the courage to make his own decisions and not “follow the crowd.” The year that he started junior high school, the building was not large enough to accommodate all the students, and his class had to return to the elementary school. He and his friends were not very happy, so the boys decided that they would go on strike and not attend school the next day—and they didn’t. They had no place to go, so they just wandered around wasting time.

The next morning, the principal, Mr. Stearns, met the boys at the front door and told them that they had to have a note from their parents to be able to return to school. Young Gordon went home and reluctantly approached his mother, who knew something was wrong. He told her the situation.

She did write him a note, which read, “Dear Mr. Sterns, Please excuse Gordon’s absence yesterday. His action was simply an impulse to follow the crowd.”5 President Hinckley stated, “I determined then and there that I would make my own decisions on the basis of their merits and my standards and not be pushed in one direction or another by those around me. That decision has blessed my life many times.”6

In Charles Dickens’s timeless classic A Christmas Carol, Bob Cratchit hoped to spend Christmas Day with his family. “‘If quite convenient, Sir,’” he asked his employer, Mr. Scrooge.
“‘It’s not convenient,’ said Scrooge, ‘and it’s not fair. If I was to stop half-a-crown for it, you’d think yourself ill used.’ …
“‘And yet,’ said Scrooge, ‘you don’t think me ill-used, when I pay a day’s wages for no work.’
“The clerk observed that it was only once a year.
“‘A poor excuse for picking a man’s pocket every twenty-fifth of December!’ said Scrooge.”
For Scrooge—as with any selfish, or “natural,” man—sacrifice is never convenient.

In A Christmas Carol, Mr. Scrooge changed his ways—he was not the man he had been. Likewise, this is the gospel of repentance. If the Spirit is prompting us to more fully obey the law of sacrifice in our lives, may we begin making that change today.

After about a year of working on my mission application, I gave it to my bishop to submit it to the stake president. To my utter surprise, my bishop lost the file containing my passport and medical records. This was a huge ordeal for me. That night, I got on my knees and cried my heart out, pleading with God to make it possible for us to find the file. After my prayer, I told Heavenly Father that if we did not find the file, I would work on another application no matter how long it would take.
A few weeks later, a miracle happened: my file was found at the premises of my stake president’s company. The security guard had been keeping the file all this while since he did not know the owner.
This experience strengthened my faith in Christ, that He is mighty to save.

We had the rare privilege of serving our mission in New England, which included the birthplace of the Prophet Joseph Smith tucked away in the hills of Vermont. It was, and still is, a sacred place to our family. A granite shaft 38 & 1/2 feet had been raised on a hill to remember each year of the prophet's life. Often missionaries met with us there. Can you imagine a testimony meeting of missionaries who regularly witnessed Joseph Smith's seeing the Father and the Son to the people of New England, sharing with each other that witness in the very spot where the Prophet was born?
I remember distinctly walking silently with about 150 missionaries to a shady glen only a few feet from where he was born. A witness of his goodness, his sacred calling, his reality, came down on me that day with a power that I can never forget.
Perhaps one of the most eloquent testimonies I heard during those years was our eight-year-old daughter, Emily, who took the opportunity to walk to the monument alone each time we visited the place. I remember her saying, one late afternoon as we were about to pull ourselves away, "I wish I could hug the monument!" And then, "I love you, Joseph Smith!"
Emily, now 49, and seven children later, recently wrote: "As a child, newly baptized, I remember how I loved being at the Prophet's birthplace in Vermont. When my father spoke of his beloved 'Joseph' I had a sense of the Prophet so vivid that it was as if he were there. I loved him and I knew he was a prophet. That testimony burned in me then and is undeniable now. It floods over me again whenever I go to South Royalton.

I was sitting with Brigham Young in the depot in the city of Boston at the time when the two prophets [Joseph Smith and his brother Hyrum] were martyred. Of course we had no telegraphs and no fast reports as we have today to give communication over the land. During that period Brother Young was waiting there for a train of cars to go to Peterborough. Whilst sitting there we were overshadowed by a cloud of darkness and gloom as great as I ever witnessed in my life. … Neither of us knew or understood the cause until after the report of the death of the prophets was manifested to us. Brother Brigham left; I remained in Boston, and the next day took passage for Fox Islands, a place I had visited some years before, and baptized numbers of people and organized branches upon both those islands. My father-in-law, Ezra Carter, carried me on a wagon from Scarborough to Portland. I there engaged passage on board of a steamer. I had put my trunk on board and was just bidding my father-in-law farewell, when a man came out from a shop—a shoemaker—holding a newspaper in his hand. He said, “Father Carter, Joseph and Hyrum Smith have been martyred—they have been murdered in Carthage Jail!”

As soon as I looked at the paper, the Spirit said to me that it was true. I had no time for consultation, the steamer’s bell was ringing, so I stepped on board and took my trunk back to land. As I drew it off, the plank was drawn in. I told Father Carter to drive me back to Scarborough. I there took the car for Boston. …

Next day I met Brigham Young in the streets of Boston, he having just returned, opposite to Sister Voce’s house. We reached out our hands, but neither of us was able to speak a word. We walked into Sister Voce’s house. We each took a seat and [covered] our faces. We were overwhelmed with grief and our faces were soon bathed in a flood of tears. … After we had done weeping we began to converse together concerning the death of the prophets. In the course of the conversation, he smote his hand upon his thigh and said, “Thank God, the keys of the kingdom are here.” …

Digging footings meant long, hot hours, and I have to admit, I didn’t always have a good attitude about it. Whenever my mother caught me complaining about having to work, she would say, “Watch out. You’re going to lose your blessing, and you have to work anyway!” (See D&C 58:28–29.) She was right. Complaining never took away the job; it just took away the satisfaction and many of the blessings of doing it.
I found that when I chose to listen to my mother and to do the work with a cheerful heart, the time passed much faster, the work itself was done better, and I was a whole lot happier than I had been when I was complaining. Attitude affects everything.

When the day finally came to return to the hill, Joseph went alone. Without Alvin, he was unsure if the Lord would trust him with the plates. But he thought he could keep every commandment the Lord had given him, as his brother had counseled. Moroni’s instructions for retrieving the plates were clear. “You must take them into your hands and go straight to the house without delay,” the angel had said, “and lock them up.”30

At the hill, Joseph pried up the rock, reached into the stone box, and lifted out the plates. A thought then crossed his mind: the other items in the box were valuable and ought to be hidden before he went home. He set the plates down and turned to cover the box. But when he returned to the plates, they were gone. Alarmed, he fell to his knees and pleaded to know where they were.

Moroni appeared and told Joseph that he had failed to follow directions again. Not only had he set the plates down before safely securing them, he had also let them out of his sight. As willing as the young seer was to do the Lord’s work, he was not yet able to protect the ancient record.

Joseph was disappointed in himself, but Moroni instructed him to return for the plates the following year. He also taught him more about the Lord’s plan for the kingdom of God and the great work beginning to roll forth.

Still, after the angel left, Joseph slunk down the hill, worried what his family would think when he came home empty handed.31 When he stepped inside the house, they were waiting for him. His father asked at once if he had the plates.

“No,” he said. “I could not get them.”

“Did you see them?”

“I saw them but could not take them.”

“I would have taken them,” Joseph Sr. said, “if I had been in your place.”

“You do not know what you say,” Joseph said. “I could not get them, for the angel of the Lord would not let me.”32

Jaslyn Simpson took a leap of faith in a Beehive class of only two girls in Wellington, New Zealand. The Beehive teacher of the Crofton Downs Ward challenged the girls, as part of their lesson on missionary work, to invite a friend to church. And Jaslyn decided she’d do it.
“I knew there was something missing in Amy’s life,” Jaslyn says, “so I knew I should introduce her to the gospel.” Jaslyn’s small action of love caused a major reaction in the life of her best friend, Amy Valentine. Amy came to church with Jaslyn at the first invitation and then kept coming to Sunday meetings and youth activities for the next two months, until Jaslyn and her family moved to Sydney, Australia.
“I’ve never really had a Christian background. I had no idea how to pray or anything,” Amy says. “But before they left, I decided I was going to keep going to church without them. By then, I sort of knew some other people at church.”
One of those people was Michelle Broczek, the other Beehive in the Crofton Downs Ward. Michelle invited Amy to take the discussions in her home and, with her parents’ approval, Amy was baptized when she was 13.
But Amy’s transition into the Church wasn’t easy. “Even when I was leading up to it and for a while after my baptism, it was hard to adjust,” she says. Michelle’s friendship and love helped Amy stay close to the gospel, even though none of her family or other friends were members. “Michelle’s an amazing example. That was one of the biggest differences for me.”
“I’ve always done those things,” Michelle says. “I didn’t just change because Amy was joining the Church.” She says it’s important to be an example, especially to strengthen investigators and new members in the Church. “Keep on working on your testimony and yourself and just be aware of the little things you do.”
Amy and Michelle gain a lot of strength from each other, and they have strong individual testimonies, too. They frequently give away copies of the Book of Mormon with their testimonies written inside.
Even with a strong testimony of the gospel, being the only member in the family is not easy. Although she’s been able to share the gospel with her friends at school, it’s more difficult with her family. “They’re the hardest, especially because I look to my parents as an example. It’s kind of a switch when I try to teach them more about the gospel.”
Not having other members of the Church in her family makes the goal of a temple marriage very important to Amy. She wants to have a family that is strong in the gospel and be able to do all the things she doesn’t get a chance to do now, like family scripture study and family home evening.
Amy keeps trying to share the gospel with her family and hopes her example and activity in the Church will finally have an effect on them. She stays active by praying a lot and drawing strength from Young Women.
A value project Amy has chosen also helps her to come closer to Christ. “This year, I’m really concentrating on getting to know Jesus Christ better,” she says. And the way to know Him better is to be more like Him. So Amy made a list of all the attributes of Christ she could think of, with help from the scriptures. She came up with things like faith, charity, love, and generosity, and she works on trying to be each of the things on her list for a few days at a time.
To others who are in her situation, Amy has some words of advice: “Really, really study,” she emphasizes. “Gain a testimony and an understanding of the gospel for yourself. Don’t rely on others because it is up to you. Always rely on Heavenly Father. He will give you the understanding and the blessings you need.”
The young women in her ward all agree: Amy’s life is a labor of love. “Everyone should want to have a friend who’s as into the gospel as she is. She loves the gospel,” says Kelly Butters, who just left the Laurels for the Relief Society. Since the gift of the gospel was shared with her, Amy feels she needs to share it with others too. She and Michelle have fellowshipped many of the other young women in their stake, and they continue to share the gospel and their testimonies. Jaslyn’s small leap of faith, nearly five years ago, has rippled through Amy’s life and continues to bless the lives of others through her example and testimony.
Sister Margaret D. Nadauld, general president of the Young Women, made this special request of all the young women in the Church at the last general Young Women meeting:
“Will you reach out and bring one other young woman into full activity in the Church this coming year? Surely each one of you knows of a girl who is less active or a recent convert or who is not a member. We are asking you to reach out and share the gospel of Jesus Christ with one other young woman, so that she can also enjoy the sweet blessings of heaven. …
“Just think, if each one of you will accept this invitation to reach out and bring in just one, next year there will be twice as many active young women! Let the Holy Spirit guide you in your effort. Your parents and leaders will also help you know what to do and how to do it” (Ensign, May 2001, 92).

I was 20 years old and had spent most of my life as a member of my parents’ church. But for three years I had not gone to church because I was considering other religious and moral philosophies—although none of them felt right to me.
One day when I arrived at my parents’ house, my brother and my best friend were there. They said some young women had come to visit and had left a book with my brother. My brother had asked my best friend to be at the house when they came back. He wanted him to be the one to tell them not to come anymore.
But when the missionaries returned, my friend said, “Come back in three days because I want to hear the discussions.”
My brother was furious. I asked my friend what he had been thinking, and he just said, “Well, they are very beautiful, and they have a nice way of talking about Jesus Christ.”
“Well, I will get rid of them,” I replied arrogantly.
Two weeks went by without my being able to do so. They were now visiting my brother and my sister and many of my friends. They were surrounding me on all sides, and I didn’t even know who was responsible for what felt like an ambush.
The following week, my brother told me that two of my friends had already been baptized and that another was going to be baptized that Sunday. I agreed to go to church on Sunday just to see my friend’s baptism. “But this is crazy,” I said to myself.
That Sunday I finally met the two missionaries who had been giving me so many headaches. At the end of the baptismal service they came up to me, gave me a Book of Mormon, and invited me to hear the first discussion. On the inside I was resisting and shouting, “No!” But on the outside I was crying, and I said, “Yes,” to all their invitations.
A week later, there I was watching another of my friends be baptized. And on the following Sunday, my best friend and I also entered the waters of baptism.
Almost a month went by. I felt a need not just to believe, but to know for sure that these things were true. One Sunday morning I decided not to go to church but to go somewhere else and pray. I headed toward a hill about six miles (9 km) from the city. When I got there I found a place off the beaten path where I could be at peace. After almost an hour of reading the Book of Mormon, pondering, praying for an answer, and intending to stay there until I received one, something strange started happening. I felt a desire to go to church. My heart was beating rapidly. That was my answer.
Almost in spite of myself, I got on my bicycle, returned to the city, and got to the meetinghouse as quickly as I could. To my great surprise, the meetings were just starting.
Ever since then I have known that this is the true gospel of Jesus Christ and that this is His Church. It’s a message I shared as a full-time missionary, trying to be the same kind of missionary as those sisters I couldn’t get rid of.