Gospel Story Finder

Jacob E. watches general conference on TV at home with his family in Layton, Utah. But today he’s excited to be visiting the Conference Center in person. That’s because he gets to help show Friend readers what happens behind the scenes at general conference.
“The auditorium is awesome!” Jake said. Actually, it’s the biggest auditorium of its kind in the world. It can hold 21,000 people—7,000 on each of its three levels.
It was an amazing experience to stand at the same pulpit where President Monson stands. He can read his talk from these screens, which are invisible to the camera. He can check the time on a clock on the pulpit.
When it’s time for President Monson to begin the conference session, this sign lights up.
When someone else is giving a talk, President Monson can watch him or her on one of the TV screens.
Jacob visited the video control room, where the director of the general conference TV broadcast does his job. Jacob wore the headset that the director uses to tell the camera operators when to switch to a different camera. The director also tells the lighting designer when to turn lights on and off.
In the light booth, the auditorium’s 6,000 lights are controlled. A lighting designer showed Jacob how to dim the lights and turn them up. Jacob got to try out the spotlight and also to shine colored lights on the organ pipes.
What’s he doing behind the pipes? Each one of the organ’s 7,667 pipes has to be tuned. Brother Lamont Anderson showed Jacob how he taps a pipe to make the sound go higher or lower. The pipes are made either of zinc or wood. The biggest one, which is 43 feet tall, has the lowest sound.
Jacob was surprised to learn that conference talks are translated into 92 different languages! Before conference, a translator translates the written talks. Then during conference, interpreters for each language sit in little rooms like this one and translate any added or changed words they hear.
Now Jacob knows more about what it takes to bring the prophet’s words to people all around the world. The one thing he would like to tell Friend readers is, “Follow the prophet!”

One night my friend saw my scriptures and asked, “What book is that?” I said, “It is the Book of Mormon, the Bible, the Doctrine and Covenants, and the Pearl of Great Price.” I read to him from the Book of Mormon. I showed him all the pictures, and we talked about them. I said, “Come with me.” I took him to our basket with copies of the Book of Mormon and gave him one. It felt good inside to share the gospel with my friend.

Brother Obando Vindas, Area planning manager in the Frankfurt Area Office, said that the personnel department announced that young service missionaries were going to be called to service in Europe and some would serve in Europe Area offices.
A request was placed for a service missionary to help Area planning manage its statistical data. That is how Elder Ammon Hutchinson from the Merthyr Tydfil Stake, Wales became part of the team. He inquired about the scope of his assignment, and the tools and training available for him to be able to carry out his expected duties. He took online Excel training that prepared him for his service.
Elder Hutchinson has had various assignments over the last nine months, including working for the Europe Area offices. One project involves the data entry of statistical information, such as the number of members in Europe. He is finding it interesting to see the growth patterns throughout Europe, and how the Church has been changing over time. What has assisted him in the work for these projects is access to software and other types of training courses. He has learned so much from the courses and has been able to complete the tasks to a high standard and in a manner suited to his pace. He is grateful for the support he has received from Brother Vindas, with his insights and ability to improve the presentation of the data.
He has been a great help and a joyful person to work with! He continues to learn and to improve his skills; the next step is getting specific online training to allow interactive data analyses for managers and leaders in the area office.

After her eligibility for college competition was up, she decided to go on a national professional tour. It was a tour that involved Kurt Thomas and other well-known gymnasts, and Diane would get paid $5,000 just to go. She says she knew her gymnastics career was mostly over, but she just wanted to hold on to the thrill of the spotlight and the fun of the sport for as long as she could.
During training for the tour Diane was practicing a vault she’d done thousands of times. She ran toward the vault just like she had done every other time. She jumped on the springboard like all the other times and flew into the air—just like all the other times. This time was different though. This time she rotated just a little too much. This time when she landed, she broke her neck. The accident put her in the hospital for almost half a year and in a wheelchair for the rest of her life.

We must come to think of our obligation rather than our convenience. The time, I think, is here when sacrifice must become an even more important element in the Church. Remember the story of how Brigham Young and Heber C. Kimball went on their missions to England. They were both ill and poverty stricken, but they accepted the call to serve, The day they were to leave, Brigham Young was so ill that he fell down and could not get up. Heber C. Kimball went over and tried to lift him up but could not because he was so weak. So he called across the street to another brother and said, “Come on over here and help me get Brother Brigham up!” The next day both of them were on the way to their missions.

Lydia’s birthday was coming.
“What do you want for your birthday, Lydia?” Mom asked.
Lydia thought for a few minutes. Did she want a new toy? Did she want a book to read? Then Lydia knew what she wanted the very most.
“I want to visit the temple,” Lydia said. She wanted to be with her family. She wanted to go somewhere happy. And what place was happier than the temple?
On Lydia’s birthday, Mom, Dad, Lydia, and her sisters got ready to drive to the temple. Lydia even got to invite her friend Grant.
It was a long drive. But that was OK. Lydia told jokes with Grant and her sister Lucy. She told a story to her little sisters, Eliza and Ellie.
And finally, Lydia could see the temple. They had made it!
“Look at the angel Moroni!” Lydia said. She pointed up at the temple.
As soon as she got out of the car, Lydia raced to the temple gates.
There were beautiful trees around the temple. The trees had bright orange and yellow leaves. The leaves on the ground crunched as Lydia and her family walked around the temple.
A big gust of wind blew through the trees. Lydia watched the leaves fly through the air. She ran to catch a leaf before it hit the ground. It was beautiful! She put it in her pocket.
Dad read the sign on the temple. It said, “Holiness to the Lord: The House of the Lord.”
“That means we can feel close to Jesus here,” Mom said.
Lydia felt peaceful. This was a very happy place!
As they drove away, Lydia pulled out her leaf. When she got home she would put it in her special box. That way she could always remember this wonderful day!

Fifteen-year-old Andy Tuitupou’s feet left the court long enough to grab the rebound during basketball practice. Gliding through the air, Andy was confident—he was good-looking, popular, active in his teachers quorum in our Utah ward, and a member of the school basketball team. But when his feet touched the ground again, his life changed. His strong body crashed to the floor—never to walk again.
Surgeons pinned and cast Andy’s broken leg. Pain became his constant companion. Long days, determination, and patience seemed to bring only more suffering. Although Andy gave it his all, physical therapists weren’t able to help him learn to walk again.
In desperation Paul and Carolyn Tuitupou, Andy’s parents, took him to a hospital where skilled surgeons operated and found the source of Andy’s intense pain: bone cancer. Andy made the difficult decision to have the doctors amputate his leg. Whatever the price, he wanted to beat the cancer.
Several days after the amputation, Andy asked me—his bishop—if he could receive his patriarchal blessing. I wondered what a blessing would hold for a young man facing possible death. I rushed to my office to get a patriarchal blessing recommend. Then I jumped in my car and headed for Andy’s bedside, where I found him waiting patiently for his interview. I asked Andy where he was getting his obvious strength and peace. “From the things I learned in family home evening,” he answered without hesitation. Andy was worthy to receive a patriarchal blessing.
As I visited with him throughout the next few months, I saw him as a brother who loved his family, friends, the gospel, and life. Although his spiritual health was strong, his physical well-being seemed only to worsen. Chemotherapy treatments left him violently nauseated for four or five days each week.
All hopes of a cure were dashed when a tumor in Andy’s hip erupted. His lungs began failing as cancerous tumors started their deadly invasion. But Andy wasn’t content to watch life pass him by. With the help of a devoted Scout leader, Andy soon fulfilled the requirements for his Eagle Award.
During one of my routine visits with this young member of my ward, I felt prompted to set up a formal appointment for his annual priesthood interview on the next Sunday.
On Sunday I headed for the hospital and found Andy in agony with his eyes closed. Not wanting to disturb him, I quietly sat by his bedside. After several minutes of listening to Andy’s labored breathing, I heard him whisper, “Bishop, are you going to interview me?”
After a tender prayer, I began the interview.
“Andy, are you morally clean?”
“Yes.”
“Do you honor your priesthood?”
“Yes.”
Our interview was a spiritual feast. After I asked him all my questions, he had one for me: “Bishop, how many priesthood blessings can I have?”
“As many as you want,” I said.
A few days later, I awoke to a ringing telephone.
“Andy is pretty bad. Can you come over?” Carolyn Tuitupou asked.
When I reached my friend, he asked for a blessing and then said, “I want to go home.”
As his humbled bishop, I placed my hands on my young friend’s head and knew Andy was nearing the end of his mission on earth. I asked the Lord to please take Andy home if it was His will.
After the blessing, I held Andy’s hand and said to him, “It’s okay to go home, little brother; it’s okay to go home.”
Before he went home, though, he had a few things to finish. Andy’s pain subsided, and breathing became easier, enabling him to talk to each of his brothers and his sister privately. He expressed his love to each of them and challenged his brothers to serve missions.
When I talked to him again, I asked him what he wanted me to tell the youth in the ward.
“Tell them you don’t have to be ‘cool’ for your friends; real friends don’t care if you’re ‘cool,’” he said.
Andy called several special people on the phone to say good-bye. He called an aunt he was close to and wanted to challenge her to become active in the Church again. Afraid of offending her, he didn’t quite have the courage to do it.
I looked at Andy and knew I had one last calling for him.
“Andy, will you serve as a ward missionary?”
Andy smiled. “Yes.”
I once again placed my hands on his head. After I set him apart, I gave him his first assignment: “Andy, I want you to get on the phone and bear your testimony to your aunt.”
I left the room, and he went to work—an honorable missionary.
Throughout the day, friends and neighbors dropped by to see Andy. Because it is traditional in the Tongan culture to sing in front of the home of someone who is dying, a member of the ward organized a group to come later that evening and honor Andy by singing on the Tuitupous’ front lawn.
Midafternoon, Andy’s breathing became very labored. His father and I laid our hands on his head. Brother Tuitupou pleaded with Heavenly Father to allow his son to return home. Andy died in his mother’s arms.
Their front yard was soon full of ward members singing Andy’s favorite hymn, “Because I Have Been Given Much” (Hymns, number 219). Music surrounded the home, and the family wept as love filled their hearts.
Although the Tuitupou family said an early good-bye to their son and brother, they knew they had been given much: the chance to love and learn from Andy.

This was my first year at a new high school. I thought I’d been getting along all right, making friends and fitting in. Then one day in history class I overheard a group of people talking—right in front of me—about something they were going to do. They were talking about going to an activity that all the Mormons wouldn’t be able to come to because it was on a Sunday and because of the things they were going to be doing. I was friends with them, but they didn’t invite me.
It got me thinking. At first I was hurt that I wasn’t even considered to be part of the group, but then I thought about it. Did I really want to be invited when they would be doing something “Mormons” wouldn’t do? And after thinking about it for a bit more, I decided they unintentionally gave me a compliment. I’ve been living my life in such a way that I’m an example, and they knew—without my verbalizing it—what I stood for.

When the sun was directly overhead, Red Fawn spread her lunch of frybread, venison, and some berries she had picked. The spot she selected was a flat boulder, warmed by the sun. She had tied fishing lines to the lower branches of the willow trees growing close to the water. When the boughs began to shake violently, she would know a fish was on the line.
Red Fawn stiffened suddenly as she heard metal strike rock. Horses! she thought, and shod ones, so they are not Indian ponies! She swept her food into a rock crevice and darted away into the willow trees to hide. The Indian girl hugged the ground and watched a small group of white men dismount and lead their horses to the river to drink. One man, an old Indian, remained on his horse, hands tied behind his back. Red Fawn muffled a gasp as the horse turned toward her. The captive was Lone Tree, her father’s uncle!
Lone Tree was an elder of her tribe, a wise, honest, and highly respected brave. The men are not soldiers or settlers. Why have they taken him and bound him like a criminal? she wondered. Red Fawn winced as Lone Tree was pushed from his horse and sent sprawling. The old Indian struggled to a sitting position, his face impassive. There was laughter as the leader teased the Indian with water, then splashed it to the ground.
Red Fawn felt like weeping. How could these renegades have so little respect for Lone Tree’s dignity and gray braids? The girl watched as the men cooked and ate their supper and then relaxed around the fire. No food was offered to Lone Tree.
Suddenly Red Fawn sensed a change in him. The Indian had not moved, but his muscles had tensed; and his eyes glowed like live coals as he stared at the boulder where she had started to eat. Red Fawn looked and saw two crushed berries and a few telltale crumbs she had not swept away! Lone Tree’s eyes darted to the dangling fishing lines, then searched among the willows.
Red Fawn did not dare move, but she signaled with the chirp of a brown thrush. A slight smile rippled across the weathered face of Lone Tree. Friendly eyes were watching, although he did not know who it was. He was not alone. There was hope.
He would not feel so optimistic if he knew it was only me, Red Fawn thought sadly, wishing her brothers were with her. How can I free Lone Tree from six armed men? All she had were her skinning knife and strips of rawhide line. The situation seemed hopeless.
The leader of the men got up and approached the bound Indian. He dangled a cut thong with a gleaming gold nugget attached that Lone Tree always wore around his neck. He shouted harsh questions that Lone Tree answered truthfully, as he had many times before.
The men had attacked and taken him prisoner three days ago when he had approached their camp in friendship. He told them again, “I do not know where the nugget of yellow metal came from. My father wore it, and his father before him. It was theirs and now it is mine, until it passes on to my eldest son.”
“He’s still lying!” another man shouted, lunging toward the helpless man. “There’s got to be more nuggets where this one came from. Probably a whole mountain of the stuff. Beat the truth out of him!”
A younger man, who had done the cooking, stepped forward and pulled the angry man back. “You won’t get truth from this man by beating him nor by starving or thirsting him to death either. And if you kill him, we’ll never find the lode. So don’t touch him again!” he threatened. “I intend to get my share of that gold. The stuff has no value to these Indians, so I’ll see that he’s given food and water until he decides to talk. He will, sooner or later, when he sees that he can’t return to his kin until he gives us the information.”
“So it’s only the yellow metal they want,” Red Fawn whispered, relieved to know that Lone Tree had not innocently broken some law of the white man. If he had done no wrong and was not being taken to the soldiers, then she would break no law by freeing him—if she could. She considered the thought of showing herself and leading the captors to a stream where she had seen tiny flakes of the yellow stuff in the sand. But, instinctively, she realized that it would not be enough to satisfy their greed or gain Lone Tree’s freedom. It would only give them another hostage and possibly seal Lone Tree’s fate unless he lied and pretended to know where many gold nuggets were. She did not want to cause Lone Tree to lie.
Red Fawn’s cramped muscles cried out for relief, but she stayed motionless as the men quarreled and finally agreed to set up camp for the night. At dark Lone Tree was tied to a stake with his back toward her hiding place. The other men slept close to the fire, but their leader, to Red Fawn’s despair, spread his bedroll close to the old man.
The girl waited until the restless men sank into deep sleep before inching her way backward to a clearing where the hobbled horses were grazing. She cut them free and used Lone Tree’s pony to quietly herd them away from the camp. At a safe distance, she flicked slapping branches to send them loping northward.
The weakened Lone Tree had not dozed off. Certain that his unknown rescuer would come, he waited patiently. A small hand touched his shoulder, then his numbed hands were cut free. His eyes widened in surprise when he saw Red Fawn’s face in the flickering firelight. He had assumed that the reassuring signal had come not from this slip of a girl but from some young brave out hunting alone.
Standing before Red Fawn on trembling legs that threatened to buckle, the old brave was ashamed of his weakness and stiffened joints. He tried not to lean too heavily on his young rescuer as they slipped toward the hidden pony, but he could never have made the short distance alone. His hands and feet were tortured, and felt as though pierced by many hot needles when the blood returned to them.
“Stretch your muscles and be ready to ride fast when I return,” Red Fawn whispered, turning back.
Lone Tree feared for her safety and was curious about her determination to return to the white man’s camp, but he kept silent. She has done the impossible by rescuing me alone, he thought. Still, I wonder what it is that she feels she must do. Whatever it is, I will trust her and wait.
Red Fawn soon raced back, flung herself up behind Lone Tree, and sent the spotted pony into a gallop. They were well on their way when they heard angry shouts and gunshots from the camp. “Indians! Indians!” the thrashing leader bellowed, when the wad of dry grass was removed from his mouth and the rawhide loops cut from his wrists and ankles.
“You have nothing of ours. We have nothing of yours,” Red Fawn shouted back, dangling the broken thong with its swinging yellow nugget that she had removed from the leader’s saddlebag.
A look of awe was on Lone Tree’s face, as Red Fawn placed in his wrinkled hand the necklace passed down from his father and from his father’s father.

Videos showing community or family projects can often demonstrate the blessings of the gospel in our lives. For example, when we lived in Houston, Texas, a member of our ward posted a short video about volunteering at the Church’s peanut butter canning project. He commented that one day each month all of the Church-produced peanut butter was donated to the Houston Food Bank.
One of his colleagues from work was looking for ways to volunteer. He saw the online video and realized he knew the ward member. So, he called him and asked if they could go together the next time there was an opportunity to volunteer. They volunteered together several times over the ensuing years, and each time they talked about Church programs and beliefs as they worked side by side.
During casual conversations, share how the gospel helps you.

I met a young man, and we became friends. For the next ten months we shared our ideas and thoughts about many things, but never religion. One day I found that my friend traveled with a Bible, so I asked him if he went to church and what the name of his church was. It was some long name—The Church of Jesus Christ of something something Saints. I wasn’t the least bit interested—it sounded like just another church to me.
My friend later told me he was going to serve the Lord for two years in another country. I figured he was going to be a pastor. When he left, I began to wonder what his church was like, and I began to search for their meeting place.
I found it a few months later, but I also found something more. As I walked through the doors of the meetinghouse, I felt a feeling impossible to describe; it was joy, peace, comfort, certainty, and happiness all in one. It was like coming home. My questions had now been answered.
The members of the church welcomed me with open arms. At first, I was reluctant to accept these welcomes because it was a little too much. I wasn’t used to so many people. They welcomed me whether they knew me or not. At the end of the meeting, a calm feeling came over me, and I heard these words in my mind: “Debbie, this is the place, and these are the people you have been searching for.”
Looking back, I see that my life in the ghetto was difficult and that a person could make it harder by making wrong choices. There was little opportunity for progression. But I wanted something worth living for. When the opportunity came to leave the ghetto with part of my family, I decided this was my chance.
Many of the girls I grew up with never left the ghetto. I could not have made it without following the desires of my heart and trusting in my Father above to lead me. I was blessed with the chance to leave the ghetto, be baptized a member of this church, gain an education, and fulfill a mission. I know Heavenly Father loves us all and is mindful of our circumstances, no matter where we are. He desires above all things that we find true happiness.

As I was reading the April New Era, the Missionary Focus “A Question of Service” caught my eye. My father wanted me to finish my work toward dental school rather than serve a mission. Nevertheless, I too felt the promptings of the Holy Ghost, and I chose to fulfill a mission.
I am grateful for having made that decision, because my father passed away recently when I had been in the mission field for 16 months. During those 16 months we grew closer together, and he gained a knowledge of the restoration of the gospel through my letters. I am grateful for my knowledge of the plan of salvation and await anxiously my opportunity to do his work in the temple. Thanks for the wonderful articles. They make rainy preparation days in Virginia a joy!
Elder Gordon WallinVirginia Roanoke Mission

White, white, nothing but white—a foot and a half of white! Laura peered out the front window at the depressing blanket of snow that had shut down the city. Not a snowplow in sight, nor a person. Not even the letter carrier would make it today.
“Laura,” her mother called. “Come here, dear, please.” Laura gave a deep sigh and moped into the kitchen where her mother was taking fresh bread from the oven. “I want you to take this over to our new neighbors while it’s still warm. I heard that their boy has been ill. Perhaps your company would be appreciated.”
Laura plopped down at the table. “Oh, Mom, you don’t know him. He’s really stuck up.”
“Come on, you know that you’re going crazy couped up in here. He hasn’t been in our country for long. I bet he’s just shy. Anyway, I do want you to take the bread over.”
Grumbling as she donned her coat, Laura took the still-warm loaf and, kicking through the drifts, fought her way to the neighbors’ front door. Shivering against the biting wind, she poked the doorbell with her mittened hand. After what seemed like at least an hour, the door opened and a tall, thin woman smiled down at her.
“Why, you must be the Scott girl from next door. Do come in.”
Laura nodded and stepped in. Unwinding the scarf from her face, she handed the bread to the woman. “Mom said you might like some. It’s real fresh.”
“Oh, you are a dear to come out in this weather,” the woman replied, taking the package. “Now you must say hello to Thomas. The poor lad has been all alone with his eyes bandaged for three days now, and the wrap doesn’t come off till Saturday. I’m afraid he’s quite weary of my company and hasn’t really had time to make any friends at school yet.”
She’s talking so fast, she must be desperate, Laura thought. Before she could get out, “I really should get back,” Thomas’s mother had hung up her coat and was leading her into the front room, where the boy sat on the sofa, a huge blue and white afghan tucked over his lap. What Laura could see of his face was red and puffy with what might have been tears slipping from under the large white bandages.
“Someone to say hi, Thomas.”
As his mother quickly slipped out of the room, Laura wished that she could disappear too. After all, what do you say to a miserable kid you don’t even like.
“Who’s there?” he called out loudly.
“You really don’t have to shout,” Laura replied. “I’m not deaf. I’m Laura Scott. I’m in your class at school. Mom had me bring some fresh bread over. I guess you’re kind of lonesome, huh?”
“Not lonesome, just angry. I hate being stuck in the dark. You would too. It’s beastly. I want to go back and see the London parks. I just want to get out and walk anywhere!”
Laura looked closely at the unhappy boy in front of her. “I don’t know if your mom told you or not, but it snowed like crazy last night. There’s no place you could walk to, even without the bandages.”
“I just want to get out,” he muttered again. He sniffed, rubbing his nose on the back of his sleeve.
Laura sat down next to him. “I have an idea—have you ever been in the country, like to a lake in the summer?”
Thomas felt about for a tissue, then blew his nose. “I don’t … know what the country’s like here. I’ve seen little ponds in the parks, though. Why?”
“Well, do you think you’d like to go for a pretend walk with me. I know a super little path at the lake we go to in the summer, and since your eyes are already closed, it might be pretty easy for you to see in your mind the things I’ll describe. What do you say?”
Thomas sniffed again and leaned back. “I guess I could give it a go. Do you really want to bother?”
“Sure. I’ll close my eyes too. I’d love to take a summer walk myself right about now.” She leaned back against the sofa and tightly shut her eyes. “Ready?”
“Go for it!”
“This part may be a bit hard, but I think we’ll just make you the main character, even though I was the real one,” Laura began. “It’s real early. You’re on a small cot inside a one-room log cabin. You open your eyes and see your mom pushing sticks of wood into the stove top, then plunking the heavy metal cover over the hole. ‘Breakfast in ten minutes,’ she says. You jump out of bed onto the wooden floor, splash a bit of cold water on your face, and jump into shorts and a T-shirt.
“After a quick breakfast of cereal and cold juice, you run out onto the front porch and look down to the lake. It’s a wonderful, sunny, clear morning. The air is humming with insects, and the blue water has just a slight ripple from the breeze. The grass feels pleasantly damp under your feet as you run down to the lake and dip your fingers into the water. A very small frog jumps away and hides in the reeds growing close to the shore.
“A young boy in blue swim trunks runs up to you. He’s crying. You ask him what the matter is, and he says he’s been playing with a cat all week. It’s come around every day and spent all day with him, but it hasn’t come for two days now, and he’s afraid something has happened to it.”
“I do say I’ll help, don’t I?” Thomas broke in.
Laura smiled to herself. “Of course you do. You put your arm around his shoulders and ask where the cat usually can be found. He tells you that it likes to wander in the woods and around the boathouse. You take his hand and start down the trail along the water’s edge toward the creaky old dock, where the rowboats are tied. The sun is very hot now, and you grab a long tassel of grass, slip it from its stalk, and put it between your teeth.
“The boy takes you to the boathouse entrance, and you both go in. It’s dark and cool. Old boats with their white paint peeling are leaning against the walls. You notice a small stain on the floor in the corner. The boy sees it too. ‘It’s blood, isn’t it?’ he says. You say it might be—it’s the right color and is fairly fresh.”
“I bet the poor chappy is even more worried now,” said Thomas. “Actually I guess I am, too, aren’t I?”
“Yes. Before you’d thought there wasn’t really a problem, but now you’re not so sure. You take his hand again and start down the path into the woods. The path gets narrow, and the ferns brush against your legs. In some places you have to push the brambles away, and one snags your arm, leaving a nasty scratch.”
“But I don’t let it bother me, do I, Laura?”
“Of course not; you’re much too concerned with the boy and the lost cat. When you see an old building off the trail and up on a hill, you push through the underbrush to get to it. It looks like it had been some kind of storage place. There’s no door on the rusted hinges, so you can see inside.
“Because of the woods, it’s really dark inside. The boy calls out, ‘Here Muffin,’ and a low mew is heard from a corner. He rushes over. ‘Look,’ he cries, ‘she’s not hurt at all!’ And sure enough, there lies a cat with four tiny kittens snuggled against her. Off to the side you see a dead mouse she must have caught at the boathouse and brought here to eat before the births. ‘That mouse explains the stain,’ you say.”
“I’ll be bound the lad is really happy,” Thomas prodded.
Laura opened her eyes and saw him leaning back on the pillows, a smile on his face. “You bet,” she said, “for it turns out that the guy who runs the boathouse owns the cat. He promises the boy one of the kittens when it’s big enough, and asks you if you want one.”
“What do I say?” Thomas asked, turning eagerly toward Laura.
“Actually,” Laura answered with a little laugh, “you, or rather I, said, ‘sure,’ and Mom said it was OK, so now I have a super little gray kitten named Smoky. I could bring him over if you’d like me to.”
“Oh, that would be smashing. Might you come this afternoon? Mum will fix us a lovely tea with biscuits (cookies) and hot chocolate.” Thomas then added shyly, “If you wanted, I could take you on a walk … in London. Would you like that?”
Laura could think of nothing she’d like better.

While there, I had the opportunity to perform ordinances on behalf of my uncle who had died of cancer. When I was being baptized for him, I thought about the blessings he would receive through this temple ordinance. I was so happy, and I recognized what the temple president told me when I had come to the temple for the first time and had been a little bit confused. He told me, “Brother, you may not understand all of what you are doing right now, but a day will come when you will feel you have done great things here.”
I got my answer. It has taken me four years to understand by visiting the temple for the second time.

“I found you!” shouted Ellen* as she discovered me behind the shower curtain. Then she tagged me on the shoulder and ran off. I got up from where I was crouched and went downstairs. I was at my friend Ellen’s party. About six other fourth-grade girls were also there.
“I found everyone!” Ellen exclaimed from the family room.
“Dinner,” her mother called.
Soon all the girls and Ellen’s four-year-old brother, Kyle*, sat around the big oak table, eating pepperoni pizza.
“Who wants to watch a movie?” Ellen’s mother cheerfully asked when we were all done eating.
“Me!” all the girls chorused—except me.
“I picked it out, Ellen,” Kyle cried with excitement. “Remember? It’s the one where the guy sings in the bathroom.”
As Ellen’s mother put in the video, I asked quietly, “What’s it rated?”
“PG,” she said absently, sitting down.
“Well, I’m only allowed to watch G-rated movies,” I said.
“It’s OK,” Ellen’s mother reassured me. “It’s only rated PG because parts of it are kind of difficult for children Kyle’s age to understand.”
I turned away. I knew my parents did not want me to watch a PG movie. Ever since I could remember, we’ve had this rule in our family: We watch only G movies. Even my parents watch only G movies. We know that all PG movies have some bad words in them, or other things that don’t fit gospel standards.
My parents had also told me that even if I said I wasn’t going to say the bad words, the more I heard them, the more my mind would be filled with them until I said one by accident. But this was the first time I’ve ever had to make a choice about watching a PG movie with a bunch of friends around.
I left and went into another room. In a few minutes Ellen and three other girls joined me and asked me if I wanted to play a game. I shook my head and answered, “Not right now.” After thinking a little bit more, I decided I should play the game with them. I realized that making the decision to not watch the movie hadn’t really been very hard for me. I also found out that I had really made the decision to follow the family rules long ago.

“Soldier!”
Meltiar Hatch leaped to his feet and saluted the man on horseback. The Mormon Battalion had been on the march since dawn. Meltiar had taken advantage of a break to bring his 16-year-old brother, Orin, to rest in the shade of a tree. He hadn’t heard the officer’s horse until it was right next to him.
Lieutenant Smith returned Meltiar’s salute. “At ease, soldier.” He looked down at Orin, who lay unmoving, his eyes closed. “Your companion looks to be very ill.”
“Yes, sir,” Meltiar said sadly. “He contracted the fever at Fort Leavenworth, but I know that in time—”
“Time? Time?” Lieutenant Smith loudly interrupted. “This troop has no time. The untimely death of our former commanding officer has set us back two weeks. We cannot defer to the sick and the weary. Leave him.”
Meltiar’s protests were ignored as Lieutenant Smith turned and gave the order to assemble. As the drums sounded, men began to scramble to collect their provisions and line up. Meltiar sat down heavily and put his head in his hands.
“Meltiar,” Orin’s voice was barely audible. “Forgive me. I joined up only because I wanted to finally be useful, like you were in Nauvoo. I never imagined it would end like this.”
“Well, none of us imagined we’d ever be led by Lieutenant Smith, either. Few of the non-Mormon leaders have been unkind; he’s just the worst of the lot. Let’s not forget the promises given by Brigham Young and the Twelve,” Meltiar said with conviction. “If we conduct ourselves properly on this march, our lives will be spared.” He put his pack and canteen in Orin’s hands. “Here is some extra food and some water. I must go now, but I’ll be back, I promise.” He got to his feet.
“I never meant to be a burden.”
“Brothers can never be burdens.”
When the battalion made camp for the night, Meltiar quietly slipped away and began his journey back to the place where Orin waited. Much in need of rest, he sat down by a tree and quickly fell asleep. Later, he awoke with a start. He couldn’t remember why he was alone in the woods in the middle of the night, but sensed that someone’s life depended on him. Meltiar shook his head to clear his jumbled thoughts.
His first thought was that he was still a messenger in the Nauvoo Legion.
He spoke aloud to himself. “The Prophet Joseph is dead. I couldn’t have prevented his assassination. However, I should have found help when my horse went lame, instead of trying to walk to Carthage. Then I might have been able to deliver the last message from his loved ones before he died.” He shook his head sadly. “But I was young and full of pride, just as Orin is now.”
At the thought of his brother, Meltiar stumbled to his feet. That’s whose life depended on him now! Weary as he was, he had to keep walking. The two previous nights, Meltiar had another soldier help him bring Orin back to camp on horseback. Each morning, when Lieutenant Smith discovered what had happened, he angrily ordered that Orin be left behind again. Last night Lieutenant Smith had informed Meltiar that if he wanted to keep up his “foolhardy venture,” he could no longer disturb the sleep of other men or beasts. That was why he was now alone and on foot. And he knew that he must be only about a third of the way back to where he’d left his brother.
Meltiar had prayed fervently for help when he’d set out. He knew he had an impossible task. Even if he had not been exhausted from lack of sleep, it would take him most of the night just to reach Orin on foot. Although Orin was much improved and could probably walk, he couldn’t travel very fast in his weakened condition. Meltiar knew that if he didn’t get back to the battalion before it pulled out at dawn, it would leave them both behind. But he also knew that he could never leave Orin.
Several times on these night trips, Meltiar had had the uneasy feeling that he was being watched. Now he was certain he saw movement by a large rock up ahead. He stopped walking and slowly reached for his pistol. But the pistol was gone! He must have dropped it back where he had fallen asleep. He started to reach for his knife but froze when an Indian stepped out of the shadows. In the light of the moon something glinted in the Indian’s hand. It was Meltiar’s pistol!
As Meltiar stood wondering what to do, he heard the sound of a horse approaching. Could someone from the battalion be following me? he wondered. Or could it be another Indian? The Indian appeared not to have heard the sound, but stood unmoving, the gun down at his side.
When the horse came into the clearing, Meltiar’s heart sank when he saw that it was an Indian pony with two riders. Meltiar closed his eyes and prayed for help.
“Meltiar?” a familiar voice said.
Startled, Meltiar opened his eyes to see that one of the riders had dismounted and was approaching him cautiously.
“Meltiar?” the voice repeated. “Is that you?”
“Orin?”
The two brothers rushed together in a brief, fierce hug, then turned to face the waiting Indians. The Indians had both mounted the pony, leaving the brothers’ guns and packs on the ground. One Indian slowly raised his hand in a salute. “Brothers,” he said before they turned and rode off into the shadows.
“That’s what he said when he came and got me,” Orin said. “I thought he meant that something had happened to you, so I went with him, even though I was scared. How did they know we were brothers?”
“They’ve been watching us these past few nights,” Meltiar said with sudden realization. “And maybe they could see how much we cared for each other. They could also see how much we needed their aid, so they helped us! Or—” he smiled at Orin— “maybe he meant that we are all brothers.”
“I’m grateful for their help,” Orin said softly, “but sometimes it isn’t easy to accept help from others.”
“I know what you mean.” Meltiar leaned on Orin. “But if you are as strong as you look, now it’s time for you to be useful. I need your help to walk back to camp. I hate to be a burden, but I am very tired!”
“I am much stronger now, Meltiar. Don’t worry,” Orin told him with a smile. “Brothers can never be burdens.”

We heard of the passing away of sister Rebecca’s father at their native place, Tiruchi. Members of the ward visited to offer their condolences to them and to their extended family.
As ministering brethren, Brother Raja Ganapathy and I were able to offer a small prayer of comfort and safe travel for their family who were traveling to Trichy. During the same day, Brother Karthikeyan, and Brother Raja Ganapathi, and I decided to travel to Trichy to represent our ward and offer our silent comfort to the family. This sudden travel arrangement had to be made without any bus or train reservations. We made our way to reach Trichy by travelling in various trains and buses. After many hours of travel, we joined their family around midnight.
This travel was purely to give moral support to their family members at their time of need. The next day in the early morning, even much before their family made their traditional funeral service at an Roman Catholic Church, we members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-­day Saints gathered together and were able to comfort Sister Rebecca’s family by singing our Church hymns, and a wonderful prayer was offered in Tamil by Brother Raja Ganapathy.
“Ministering is always needed. We may not know when, but we must always be prepared to minister to others.”

At that time, our town had only one barbershop, and it had a shoeshine stand in it. When I was 10 and 11, I reigned supreme as the best shoe shiner in town. Some Saturday nights, I got as much as 50 cents for shining a pair of shoes, although most of the time I received a quarter. I was elated with the feelings I experienced in earning my own money for spending and saving.
One lesson I learned from that barber in the town of Moro, Oregon, I have never forgotten. I came in late one day, and I started making up an excuse for my lateness. He got my attention and said, “Look, I’ve been in the army, and I’ve heard every possible excuse. Just tell me the truth, and we’ll get along fine.”
That counsel has stuck with me ever since. Every time I start to make an excuse for a mistake, I remember that nothing is gained with the excuse process. As a result, one of my mottoes is “Don’t make excuses. Either do the job or don’t do the job. When appropriate, express sorrow for not doing the job—but don’t make excuses.”

The winter of 1848 was difficult and challenging for the pioneer settlers in the Salt Lake Valley. During the summer of 1847, Brigham Young had declared that the Saints had finally reached their destination. “This is the right place,” said Brigham Young, who had been shown in a vision where the Saints were to be established. The early members of the Church had endured tremendous adversity as the Restoration of the gospel unfurled. They had been driven from their homes, persecuted, and hounded. They had suffered untold hardships as they crossed the plains. But now they were at last in “the right place.”
And yet the winter of 1848 had been extremely harsh. The winter had been so cold that some people’s feet had been badly frozen. A spirit of uneasiness began to descend upon the Saints. Some Church members declared that they would not build their homes in the valley. They wanted to remain in their wagons, for they were sure that Church leadership would herald them on to some better location. They had brought seeds and fruit plants, but they dared not waste them by planting in the barren desert wasteland. Jim Bridger, a well-known explorer of the time, told Brigham Young he would give a thousand dollars for the first bushel of corn raised in the Salt Lake Valley because, he said, it could not be done.
To complicate matters, gold had just been discovered in California. Some Church members envisioned that life would be simpler and more abundant if they were to move on to California in search of riches and a better climate.
Under this cloud of discontent, Brigham Young addressed the members of the Church. He declared:
“[This valley] is the place God has appointed for His people.
“We have been kicked out of the frying-pan into the fire, out of the fire into the middle of the floor, and here we are and here we will stay. God has shown me that this is the spot to locate His people, and here is where they will prosper; He will temper the elements for the good of His Saints; He will rebuke the frost and the sterility of the soil, and the land shall become fruitful. Brethren, go, now, and plant … your … seeds.”
In addition to promising these blessings, President Young declared that the Salt Lake Valley would become known as a highway to the nations. Kings and emperors would visit the land. Best of all, a temple to the Lord would be erected.
These were remarkable promises. Many Church members had faith in Brigham Young’s prophecies, while others remained skeptical and left for what they assumed would be a better life. Yet history has shown that every prophecy Brigham Young declared has come to pass. The valley did blossom and produce. The Saints prospered. The winter of 1848 was a great catalyst for the Lord to teach His people a valuable lesson. They learned—as we all must learn—that the only sure and secure road to protection in this life comes through trusting in and obeying the counsel from the prophets of God.
With frozen feet and a barren wasteland, those early Saints surely needed faith to trust their prophet. Their very survival and lives were at stake. Yet the Lord rewarded their obedience and blessed and prospered those who followed His mouthpiece.

One of the bishop’s duties was to send to every serviceman a subscription to the Church News and to the Improvement Era and to write a personal letter to him each month. Since President Monson had served in the navy in World War II, he appreciated the importance of a letter from home. He had 23 ward members serving in the military, so he called a sister in the ward to handle the details of mailing these letters. One evening he handed her the monthly stack of 23 letters.
“Bishop, don’t you ever get discouraged?” she asked. “Here is another letter to Brother Bryson. This is the 17th letter you have sent to him without a reply.”
“Well, maybe this will be the month,” he said. It was. The reply from Brother Bryson read: “Dear Bishop, I ain’t much at writin’ letters. Thank you for the Church News and magazines, but most of all thank you for the personal letters. I have turned over a new leaf. I have been ordained a priest in the Aaronic Priesthood. My heart is full. I am a happy man.”
President Monson saw in that letter the practical application of the adage “Do your duty, that is best. Leave unto the Lord the rest.” Years later, while attending a stake conference, he spoke of his experience of writing to the servicemen. After the meeting, a young man came up to him and asked, “Bishop, do you remember me?”
Without a pause President Monson replied, “Brother Bryson! How are you? What are you doing in the Church?”
The former serviceman replied with great pleasure that he was fine and serving in his elders quorum presidency. “Thank you again for your concern for me and the personal letters which you sent and which I treasure.”5