Gospel Story Finder

Even though I’m 12, I still love reading the Friend. If I am worried or feel unsafe, the Friend is always there. Not long after the December 2004 tsunami, my family and I were watching the news on television. There were pictures of children who lost their parents or who were lost themselves. I began to feel sick and shaky. I asked my brother to read the Friend to me. The Friend helped me stop shaking that night, and it has also helped me with other things. THANKS!Jessica C., age 12, Washington

I’d like to share with you an example of the tender mercies of the Lord through an experience that occurred in my beloved home island of Puerto Rico.
It was in my hometown of Ponce that a sister in the Church, Célia Cruz Ayala, decided that she was going to give a Book of Mormon to a friend. She wrapped it and went to deliver this gift, more precious to her than diamonds or rubies, she said. On her way, a thief approached her, grabbed her purse, and ran away with the special gift inside.
When she told this story at church, her friend said, “Who knows? Maybe this was your opportunity to share the gospel!”
Well, a few days later, do you know what happened? Célia received a letter. I hold that letter, which Célia shared with me, in my hand today. It says:
“Mrs. Cruz:
“Forgive me, forgive me. You will never know how sorry I am for attacking you. But because of it, my life has changed and will continue to change.
“That book [the Book of Mormon] has helped me in my life. The dream of that man of God has shaken me. … I am returning your five [dollars,] for I can’t spend them. I want you to know that you seemed to have a radiance about you. That light seemed to stop me [from harming you, so] I ran away instead.
“I want you to know that you will see me again, but when you do, you won’t recognize me, for I will be your brother. … Here, where I live, I have to find the Lord and go to the church you belong to.
“The message you wrote in that book brought tears to my eyes. Since Wednesday night I have not been able to stop reading it. I have prayed and asked God to forgive me [and] I ask you to forgive me. … I thought your wrapped gift was something I could sell. [Instead,] it has made me want to [change] my life. … Forgive me, forgive me, I beg you.
“Your absent friend.”
As for the unintended recipient of Célia’s gift, the Book of Mormon, this brother went on to witness more of the Lord’s mercy. Although it took time for this brother to forgive himself, he found joy in repentance. What a miracle! One faithful sister, one Book of Mormon, sincere repentance, and the Savior’s power led to the enjoyment of the fulness of blessings of the gospel and sacred covenants in the house of the Lord. Other family members followed and accepted sacred responsibilities in the Lord’s vineyard, including full-time missionary service.

“Three days?” Dad asked, sitting with me across the desk from Ed Flores, Coronado High’s assistant principal. “I hate to see him get behind.”
Mr. Flores adjusted his glasses and studied the suspension referral so he wouldn’t have to look at Dad or me. “If he was so worried about his studies,” Mr. Flores answered tersely, “he shouldn’t have picked a fight with Tanner Briggs. Tanner has a broken nose and a lower lip that will take a couple of stitches.”
Dad twisted nervously in the chair. “JD usually doesn’t pick fights. Now he’s not gonna let somebody push him,” Dad added quickly. “But he’s …”
“Dad, he’s not changing his mind,” I muttered, leaning forward in my chair. I hated dragging Dad in here. He was self-conscious around teachers and principals because he had dropped out of high school when he was 16 and settled for a GED a month before enlisting in the Marines.
“Is this other kid a troublemaker?” Dad questioned. “Because if he is, that would sure explain things. My boy’s a good student.”
Mr. Flores cast me a tired, impatient glance. “Joseph must be a real scholar,” he said, unable to keep the bite of sarcasm from his tone.
“JD,” I corrected warmly. I had already explained three times that I didn’t use Joseph Dale, my first and middle names.
Mr. Flores ignored my correction and studied my clothes—faded jeans, a sweatshirt with a rip under the left arm, and tan suede-laced boots. I wasn’t exactly the picture of preppy scholarship. What Mr. Flores obviously didn’t understand was that I was a good student and that I carried a 3.84 GPA. “Perhaps when you return Monday, you can hit the books rather than the first guy who bumps into you in the hall.”
Dad and I didn’t speak again until we were in the car. “Do you want to talk about it?” Dad questioned, keeping his eyes on the road as he lit a cigarette and opened the window a few inches. He knew I didn’t like his smoking, and he usually didn’t smoke while I was in the car. But he was nervous after his encounter with Mr. Flores. Mom had tried to get Dad to stop smoking, but all he committed to do was not bring it into the house. When Mom died, even that changed.
Slumping down in the front seat, I gazed out the window. “It was the regular ‘new kid’ stuff,” I answered tiredly. “If it hadn’t been today, it would’ve been tomorrow or next week. He tried to start something yesterday in P.E. I couldn’t tuck tail and crawl out.”
Dad looked over at me. “Your mom didn’t ever like you fighting. Maybe I shouldn’t have taught you to fight.”
“Then I’d have the broken nose and sewed-up lip.”
I knew Dad was having second thoughts, wondering if we should have moved from Mesa, Arizona, to Albuquerque, New Mexico. An old buddy from his Vietnam days had invited him to work in his machine shop here, so we had picked up and moved. “It’s no big deal, Dad. Now I’ll be home to help you finish moving in.”
“I wish you had a friend or two. Just somebody to hang around with. Since your mom died, you’ve been too much of a loner.” He rubbed his chin with the back of his hand. “Are there Mormon kids here?”
I laughed and shook my head. “If there are, they make themselves scarce. I don’t need anybody to hang around with, Dad. Like you said, I’m a loner. That suits me fine.”
“Maybe we should find a Mormon church,” Dad said. “You could make friends there. Your mother always wanted that. I should’ve done that much for her.”
“Dad, the Mormon kids aren’t interested in me. I’m not one of them.”
I stared out the window. The last time we were in a church was at my mother’s funeral, two weeks after I turned 13. Mom had always been active, and I’d gone with her. But after she died we moved from our old ward, and I never went back. I knew I should go to church—that Mom would want me to—but I’d grown accustomed to being alone. It was easier that way.
Monday at lunch I wandered by myself to the cafeteria, found an empty table, and ate my lunch while I finished a geometry assignment.
“There’s a corner spot on the patio,” someone spoke to me. I looked up to face a guy about my height but 20 pounds lighter. His blond hair was shaved to the skin around his ears and was thick and straight on top. He had three gold studs in his right ear. “I’m Bo Kramer. Some of us hang out there.”
I wiped my mouth with a napkin and nodded down at my open geometry book. “I have some homework to do.”
“I heard about your trouble with Tanner Briggs. He needed someone to rearrange his face.” Bo looked me over and raised his brow. “I didn’t take you for a brain, Chugg.” He smiled. “Sure you don’t want to join us?”
I considered the offer and shook my head. Bo frowned, turned and walked away. I watched him go, knowing that I didn’t belong to Bo Kramer’s crowd any more than I belonged with the Mormons. I’d face Coronado High on my own.
A week later I stepped into one of the rest rooms. Bo and a group of his buddies were there hanging out. Ignoring the sullen glares, I began washing my hands as Bo and a friend opened a can of snuff.
As I was getting ready to leave, a young freshman kid charged through the door. He was inside before he realized who was in there. Startled, Bo hid his can of dip. The kid froze a few steps inside the rest room. He gulped and wet his lips.
“I just needed to …” He nervously cleared his throat. “I just needed to, uh, um, wash my hands. But I’ll, you know, come back later.”
“Don’t run off, big guy,” Bo said, walking over to him and putting his arm over his shoulder. “We were wondering when you’d show. What’s your name?”
“Tyler,” he answered, his voice breaking as I snatched a paper towel and began drying my hands. Tyler glanced in my direction. To him I was one more of them.
Bo laughed, holding the tobacco. “Tyler came in for his noon-hour buzz,” he announced. “Have a pinch, Tyler. It’ll grow hair on your chest.”
Tyler’s face paled as he stared down at the open can. “I don’t use it.” His protest was a mere whisper.
“What’s that?” Bo blared. “Speak up, big guy.”
Tyler shook his head and tried again. “I don’t use it.”
Bo mocked surprise, looking about the group with his mouth hanging open. Jabbing a thumb in Tyler’s direction, he gasped, “The kid don’t use the stuff.” Turning on Tyler, he growled, “Take some, kid, before I stuff the whole can in your mouth.”
Tyler looked sick, his face ashen and his thin, tight lips pressed together. He shook his head. Bo wasn’t smiling anymore. “One pinch won’t kill you.”
“It’s against my religion,” Tyler managed to squeak. “I’m a Mormon.” His breath came in short, anxious wheezes.
Bo snorted dryly while the others laughed. “I don’t care if you’re Mormon. They ain’t gonna kick you out of church for one little pinch.”
“He said he didn’t chew,” I spoke for the first time, still holding my wadded-up paper towel.
Genuinely surprised that I had spoken, Bo and his friends turned their gazes from Tyler to me. Bo studied me for a moment and then took a step away from Tyler in my direction. “Are you a good little Mormon too, Chugg?”
I couldn’t remember the last time I had ever admitted being LDS. I hadn’t exactly denied it, but I certainly hadn’t looked or acted so that anyone would ever accuse me of being one. “Maybe not such a good one, but I’m Mormon,” I answered evenly. “And I don’t use the stinkin’ stuff, either.”
I turned to Tyler and said, “Wash your hands.”
I knew Tyler didn’t want to wash his hands just then, but he did. Too flustered and nervous to grab a paper towel, he charged for the door, his hands still dripping soapy water. I followed him out, but he disappeared down the hall without saying a word to me.
The next day in the cafeteria I was eating when someone stopped at my table. I looked up to see Tyler. He pointed at the empty chair across the table from me. “You saving that for somebody?”
I hesitated a moment. “Nobody’s fighting over it.” Tyler set his tray on the table and sat down.
“I want to thank you.” He grinned. “I was in a bit of a hurry yesterday. I thought it was all over for me.”
We both started eating without speaking. “Are you really Mormon?” Tyler asked after a moment’s lull. I looked across the table at him. He was staring at me intently. “Or was that just something you said as a joke? I mean, I guess I just wasn’t …” He didn’t finish his sentence.
I rolled my tongue around in my mouth. “You don’t think I look Mormon?” I asked, keeping my face stony serious.
He flinched slightly. His mouth twitched and he permitted himself a reluctant, worried smile. “Well, you don’t exactly look like you’re expecting your mission call.”
I stuffed the last quarter of my hamburger in my mouth and chewed slowly without taking my eyes from Tyler. “Why should I kid? I’m not 19 yet.”
It was as though I’d told the funniest joke in the world because Tyler busted out laughing. “You are Mormon, aren’t you?”
His laugh was comfortably contagious. I could feel my face muscles loosen, and in a moment I was smiling. “Don’t expect me in sacrament meeting next Sunday, though.”
“Maybe we’re in the same ward. Which ward are you in?”
“How would I know? I haven’t been to church for years.”
Tyler and I were as different as a house cat and a junkyard dog, but we talked. I told him about our move from Arizona. He talked to me about his dad, how he worked on old cars as a hobby. He had fixed up a ’49 Buick Roadmaster and entered it in car shows. He was working on a ’51 Mercury now. Although I preferred being alone, Tyler was so unassuming and so uninhibited in his conversation that I really didn’t mind him hanging around.
The following day at lunch he spotted me as I was coming out of line and waved me over to his table. He had a couple of friends with him, and he invited me to sit down and join them.
“This is JD,” he said, introducing me. He turned to me a bit embarrassed. “I don’t know your last name.”
“Chugg.”
“This is Mick and Tyson,” Tyler went on. “They’re in my ward.” Turning to Mick and Tyson, he added, “JD’s waiting for his mission call.” While Mick and Tyson’s mouths dropped open, Tyler looked across the table at me, winked, and then grinned.
I couldn’t pass up joining in the joke. “Yeah,” I sighed, raking my fingers through my long hair,”it should be here any day now. That’s why I shaved and cut my hair. You should have seen me before.”
Lunch with Tyler became a regular thing. Sometimes he had other friends there. Sometimes he didn’t. It didn’t make any difference to him. Since he was a freshman and I was a junior, we didn’t have classes together. But he discovered that he lived three blocks past me, so we started walking home together.
About three weeks after the confrontation with Bo, Tyler was absent from school a day. I ate in the cafeteria alone. I had done that hundreds of times in Mesa, but for the first time in a long time I felt a tinge of loneliness. Of course, I didn’t admit that to myself right then, but I knew it was different not having Tyler’s friendly chatter.
“Were you ditching school yesterday?” I accused Tyler the next day.
“My dad let me go over to Santa Fe with him to look at an old Dodge truck he might buy. Did you miss me?” He grinned.
“I barely made it through the day,” I retorted sarcastically. “I almost had to leave school early just because you weren’t around.”
Tyler was suddenly serious. “I was going to invite you to go with us. I think you would have liked it. And I’d like Dad to meet you.”
“It’s nice to invite me now that you’re back,” I grumbled playfully. “Some friend you are. Why didn’t you invite me two days ago when I could have at least turned you down?”
“You’re pretty studious. I didn’t figure you’d want to leave school.”
He was serious. I could feel it. He really had wanted me to be with him. And he really had worried about my studies so he hadn’t asked. I continued to joke with Tyler, trying to make him feel like a jerk for not inviting me. But it was a cover-up on my part.
The following Sunday I came down with a good case of the flu. For the next couple of days I stayed in bed, aching, shaking, and coughing.
On Tuesday afternoon there was a knock at the door, which I ignored. But whoever was there was persistent. The longer they knocked, the more stubborn I became. I was not going to answer that door. Finally the knocking stopped, and I assumed they had given up. A moment later, I heard the door knob turn and the front door creak open.
“JD, are you awake?” Tyler called.
“I wondered who was banging on the door,” I said. “Can’t you take a hint?”
“I knew you were in here. What, did your dad tell you not to let strangers in while he was away?”
“Yeah, and you’re as strange as they come.”
“I brought you something.”
“Well, you’ve already woke me up. This better be good.”
Tyler came down the hall to my bedroom with a brown paper sack in one arm and his other one loaded with books. He dropped the books on the floor.
“Where’d they come from?”
“I got them out of your locker. I checked with each of your teachers and collected your homework.”
“Some pal you are,” I joked, rolling my eyes. “I stayed here to get away from the work, and you drag it home to me.”
“I didn’t want you to get behind. But I did bring some other stuff.” He opened the sack, pulled out three oranges, a carton of milk, and a bag of corn chips. “I wasn’t sure what you wanted.”
I laughed. “Well, I guess if you’ll leave the food I’ll let you leave the books too.”
He then reached over and rubbed the week’s growth of beard on my chin. “How long you been growing this?”
“Almost a week.”
“You look a little on the rough side. You know the bishop’s going to make you shave before your mission.”
“You and your mission,” I grumbled. “One of these days I ought to show up at church, walk up to your bishop and say, ‘Hi, bishop. I’m the new prospective missionary Tyler’s been telling you about.’”
Tyler smiled. “I’d like that, JD. I’d like that a lot.”
After he left, I thought of what he’d said, and I knew he really wanted me to be there in church. Just like he had wanted me to be in Santa Fe with him and his dad.
Wednesday afternoon I shaved. That evening Dad trimmed my hair. When I returned to school Thursday I found Tyler sitting with Mick and Tyson in the cafeteria. I took a chair across the table from them.
“Gosh,” Tyler gasped. “JD really must have gotten his mission call! They probably called him to the Coronado High Student Gang Mission. When do you report, JD?”
I felt my cheeks color.
I sighed. “The bishop told me I couldn’t accept.”
“Why? Are they closing down the mission because there’s too much violence at Coronado?”
Feigning disappointment, I shook my head. “The bishop said I’d have to return the call because I’ve missed church one too many times.”
“Man, I should have picked you up Sunday.”
“I knew it was your fault,” I accused, smiling all the time. “When you see the bishop, tell him you’re the reason I had to pass this mission call up.”
Tyler’s smile slowly disappeared. He became serious. “Maybe you’d better go to church and tell the bishop yourself.” He shrugged, and the faint traces of a smile flickered across his lips. “I’d like that, JD.”
After years of being a loner, I realized that Tyler, in his kind, innocent way, had shown me what it was like to belong. Ever since Mom died, I had thought off and on about returning to church. But this was the first time I felt as though I really wanted to be there. I shrugged.
“Well, Tyler, maybe I’ll show up one of these first Sundays. Now keep in mind I only said maybe.”
Tyler’s face exploded into a genuine grin of triumph. “Maybe is good enough for me. I guess that means I’ll see you Sunday, JD?”
I tried to scowl, but deep down I knew I was going to be there. And when I arrived, I knew Tyler would be there with me.

Counseling with my bishop. I came to appreciate my bishop’s guidance in helping me make a number of sound decisions. He checked on our family often and made sure I was all right and my family was well cared for. He was my support both temporally and spiritually.
One day the bishop called me into his office and discussed with me each of my children, one by one, to see how they were doing. We came up with a plan to make sure each of my boys received priesthood support through their quorum and auxiliary leaders. He also discussed my financial situation and made sure we had food in the house, and when Christmas came he checked again to be sure we had something to go under our tree.
Besides helping my children, he gave me priesthood blessings and helped me explore my new role as a single sister. What a comfort it was to know I had his backing.

President Hinckley has enjoyed marvelous support from his family, none of whom take themselves too seriously—a trait fostered by both father and mother, who have stayed remarkably unaffected by years in the spotlight. Sister Hinckley has filled long absences away from children and grandchildren with letters postmarked from around the world. Virginia says, “The way we came to appreciate Dad’s callings was through Mother, because she made it a shared experience and told us every detail. When they went to the Seoul Korea Temple dedication and told us about the beautiful women in their Korean dresses who lined the halls as they came out of the dedication, we could picture what they’d seen. Dad, on the other hand, said, ‘Dresses? What dresses?’”

Yet while letters filled some gaps, Sister Hinckley longed to share more with their family. When President Hinckley asked her how she would like to celebrate their 50th wedding anniversary, she responded immediately, “I would like to walk the streets of Hong Kong with my children.” The request seemed far-fetched, but their children determined to save the money such a trip would require. Says Kathy, “I had heard Mother describe the streets of Hong Kong in such detail that when I stepped out into them I felt like I had come home. To finally be in Hong Kong was like stepping into Mother and Dad’s other world.”

Virginia says, “Because we were so certain about what Mother and Dad stood for, none of us had to worry about impressing others or appearing to be more than we are. That is just not Dad’s style. He refuses to take himself too seriously on things that don’t matter—simply because he is so sure of the things that do matter.”

One day the sister missionaries knocked on my door and my mother answered. I remember her telling them, “Well, I am not interested, but my daughter would be. Wait, I will get her.”
When I started to talk to them, I could feel the Spirit telling me to listen. After a few months of listening and learning, I knew that this was what I had been looking for. Even though it didn’t feel like it to begin with, my decision to be baptized helped me to come not only closer to the Lord and but also closer to ending my ongoing battle against loneliness.

After Primary was over, I walked down the hall to the bishop’s office to wait for my dad, who’s in the bishopric. I noticed how clean the walls were. I didn’t see any stains on the carpet, or cobwebs in the hallway. The cultural hall was spotless, with all the tables put away and the chairs lined up neatly against the walls. The curtains on the stage looked perfectly fine.
As I passed the chapel, I stopped short. Sticking up behind the hymnbooks were sacrament meeting programs. The picture Sister Gentry described popped into my mind, and I quickly collected all the programs and papers that had been left there. I felt bad for those people who didn’t understand how special the Lord’s house is.
My arms were full, and I was looking for the nearest trash can, when I spotted my dad with a quizzical look on his face. I looked back at the clean chapel, and a happy feeling came into my heart. “I’m just doing my part to keep the church clean,” I told him.
Dad gave me a quick squeeze, and we both knew that the Lord’s spirit was there that day in our beautiful building.

As I grew older, I learned not only the value of hard work but also about the blessings of doing things that at the time you don’t realize are important and good for you. During World War II, when I was very little, I came down with a lung disease, but no one knew it at the time. I knew that I was easily out of breath when I rode the delivery bicycle. I thought that it was because the cart was heavy. Later, when I joined the air force, I learned that because of that hard work, somehow my body had healed itself. I had built up endurance. I had built up immunity to disease. I had built up strength. When the doctors saw those spots on my lungs, they asked me about them. They said that the disease took care of itself and that I passed my physical. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have been able to become a pilot. I have been a pilot for thirty-five years, and I was a chief pilot for Lufthansa German Air Lines.

Some years ago, while living in Arizona, the company that I worked for gave me the responsibility to organize and direct a week-long high school youth tour of Washington, D.C. This became an annual event that required months of planning and organization. It was no small task to bring 30 to 40 students and chaperones to our nation's capital for a week-long tour.
The hard part was to make all the preliminary arrangements for flights, hotel rooms, tour busses and other accommodations. Once that was accomplished, the actual trip itself was always enjoyable and rewarding. Many of the students had never been to Washington, D.C. before and it was a real pleasure to take them there and enjoy the wonderful and interesting sights the capital city has to offer.
One of the highlights of the tour was to visit the impressive monuments located along the National Mall. It was always an inspiring sight to see the Washington, Jefferson and Lincoln Memorials and to reflect on the remarkable accomplishments of these men. There were many other monuments to visit. All of them brought deep feelings of gratitude and veneration for the founders and protectors of our nation.
Out of all the monuments, one in particular stood out to me. This was the Vietnam Veteran's memorial which honors the men and women who served in the Vietnam War. The Memorial is made up of two massive rock walls more than 200 feet long. The smooth, black, stone walls have been polished to the point that they appear as giant mirrors sunk into the ground with the earth behind them. Engraved on these reflective walls are the names of fellow Americans who gave their lives in service to their country. More than 58,200 names are permanently chiseled in the gleaming stone.
When I visited this memorial for the first time, I noticed a distinctive change in the way the tourists approached it and viewed it. The normal chatter from visitors diminished and the whole area seemed to invoke a quiet reverence as each visitor began to move down the slightly sloping path along this wall.
Some of the visitors left notes, flowers and other sentimental items near this wall. Others placed small pieces of paper over specific names and with the use of pencils carefully produced rubbings of the names of loved ones and friends. Although the wall was designed in a simplistic style, it seemed to have a remarkable capacity to beckoned each visitor to stop, reflect and examine it closely. I have never forgotten my first visit to the Vietnam Memorial. I have been privileged to return many times over the years. Each time I visit, it always invokes the same attitude of reverence, honor and gratitude.
A question came to my mind. Why? Why did this particular memorial invoke such powerful feelings of respect and veneration from the visitors? Certainly it was because these were common ordinary people who were willing to do uncommon things and lay down their lives in valor and service for their country. But perhaps it was something else. The Wall gives tribute to each name individually. For me the names became more powerful than the artwork or canvas they were written on. There is a reverence that comes when each individual name is distinguished, respected and valued.

Sybil heaved a sigh of relief as she tucked her youngest brother between the clean homespun sheets and kissed him good night. As the oldest of eight children, she worked hard helping her mother care for the little ones. Usually she enjoyed getting them ready for bed, but tonight Sybil was bored. She paced back and forth before the open door of their home in Fredericksburg, New York.
“What’s the matter, Sybil?” her father asked, looking up from his work at his cluttered desk. “You seem restless.”
“I don’t know, Father,” she answered truthfully, “I just have a feeling … I want to do something—something important for a change.”
Her father smiled. “Spring fever,” he consoled her. “You’re a young girl, and you’re impatient. That’s understandable. And as for doing something important, why don’t you go help your mother with the mending?”
“I don’t want to do mending. I’m always doing mending. And besides, Father, I’m not a young girl. Mother was already married to you at fifteen, and I’m sixteen!”
Colonel Ludington smiled again sympathetically and turned back to his work. When Sybil was in one of her headstrong moods, it was hard for her to patiently do ordinary, but needed, tasks.
Suddenly they were both startled by the sound of pounding hooves in the cool spring night. Seconds later an exhausted messenger burst through the door, dripping with perspiration and barely able to stand. Sybil could see his lathered horse tethered outside.
“The British!” the man gasped. “They’re raiding Danbury! They’re burning the town and sacking our supply center. The Continentals can’t hold out. You’ve got to muster your militia, Colonel, and drive the British back!”
Colonel Ludington leaped to his feet. Rural New York was sparsely settled in 1777, and his volunteer militiamen were scattered in farms and villages over a wide area. Someone would have to rouse the men and tell them to meet at the Ludington home prepared to defend their young country against the British. But who could go? This messenger and his horse were too tired to go any farther, Colonel Ludington knew, and he himself had to remain to organize the men as they gathered there.
“Father, I’m going to go,” Sybil spoke up determinedly.
The messenger looked at her in surprise as her father sputtered, “Y-You? I won’t allow it! It’s late, and the roads are narrow and dangerous.”
Sybil’s eyes flashed as she grabbed her coat and declared, “I can do it, Father. Star is a good horse, and I know the way. My country needs me.”
There was little time for argument. Colonel Ludington looked hard at his oldest child and said softly, “All right, Sybil”—she was halfway to the barn to saddle Star before he could finish the sentence—“but be careful!”
Grabbing a stick to pound on the doors of the sleeping soldiers, she was off. The night was dark, and a chilly breeze whipped through her hair as she and Star sped on their desperate mission. As the girl passed each militiaman’s house, she pounded on the door with her stick and shouted, “Wake up! The British are burning Danbury! Go to the colonel’s prepared to fight!”
Sybil stayed only long enough at each house to insure that the militiaman was awake. Then she was gone.
She rode to Carmel, past Mahopac Falls, over the treacherous rocky path to Kent Cliffs. At times the moon’s faint light was obscured by drifting clouds, and the path was plunged into eerie darkness. Once Star tripped on an outcropping of rock and fell to his knees, but Sybil clung to the saddle and urged him up and onward through the night. Finally a very weary Sybil reached the last tiny settlement, Stormville, and rapped with her stick on the doors there.
Her job was finished.
Star was limping as they returned to the brightly lit Ludington home, and Sybil was slumped in the saddle with fatigue. The courageous ride had taken hours. The first gauzy rays of the sun were just visible over the horizon as she groomed the exhausted horse and brought it fresh water and feed.
“You did a fine job, Star,” she praised him before she went into the house.
Most of the volunteer militiamen were already there, and the small parlor was strewn with muskets and horns and flasks of gunpowder. Sybil caught her father’s eye, and the room became silent.
“This young woman,” Colonel Ludington said, his eyes shining with pride, “has proven herself a patriot!”
The soldiers stood in a silent tribute to the courage and gallantry Sybil had shown by calling them out in the dead of the night.
Colonel Ludington’s forces were able to join General Wooster at Ridgefield, a town near Danbury, in time to drive the British back to their ships in Long Island Sound. Sybil’s “spring fever” had brought success to the Continental Army. A statue of her astride Star stands by Gleneida Lake in Carmel, New York, not far from the very path she rode on that desperate night over two hundred years ago.

As the time to leave Nauvoo drew near, the Brethren redoubled their efforts to endow as many Saints as possible in the temple. Brigham Young wrote, “Such has been the anxiety manifested by the saints to receive the ordinances (of the Temple), and such the anxiety on our part to administer to them, that I have given myself up entirely to the work of the Lord in the Temple night and day, not taking more than four hours sleep, upon an average, per day, and going home but once a week.”
But it was not just the Apostles who were working hard. Many faithful Saints gave freely of their time by washing the temple clothing each night so that the temple work could continue the next morning.
The Brethren planned to stop the ordinance work on February 3, 1846, before leaving for the west the next day. President Young left the temple to make final preparations to leave Nauvoo, but upon seeing a large crowd gathered to receive their endowments, he returned. This delayed his departure for another two weeks, but it meant that 5,615 Saints were endowed before they left Nauvoo.

Is it true that “with God nothing shall be impossible”? (Luke 1:37). José Javier Alarcón, 16, of Maracaibo, has tested this scriptural promise.
“When I was eight or nine years old, my parents divorced. Later a friend invited me to church, and eventually I wanted to be baptized. But my mother, who had been baptized but hadn’t been active for many years, wouldn’t let me. When I was 12, she finally allowed me to be baptized. As I grew in the gospel, I started to pray that my mom would come back to the Church. A couple of years later, she did!”
José Javier’s mother, Miriam, admits that she had been apart from the Church for eight years and “didn’t ever intend to come back. But when my son began praying with great faith for me … something started to happen inside me. I began to feel a strong desire to pray and read the scriptures. One night the Lord changed my heart, and from that night I changed completely. So I owe it to my son. I thank the Father for giving me such a wonderful son!”
“It’s a gift from God,” says José Javier. “I had to do part of it. But it was actually God who did all of these things.”
Now José Javier, his mother, and his younger brother, Jesús David, 10, have visited the temple. José Javier has been baptized for the dead, and their mother has received her endowment.

I’ll tell you a little story about a young man. When he was about 12 years of age, he started to take and work - clean, neat, handsome, bright, took after his mom, worked 15-20 hours a week while he was going to school. Summertime, 40, 50, 60 hours a week. But he just had to read, he had to study. It didn’t seem like he had enough time to get everything done that he wanted to do. He loved books, and read and read and read. He ended up with over 13,000 books - not 1,300, but 13,000, primarily church books, church related books. If he found one he really liked, he’d buy a dozen of them and then he’d give them to certain people. He loved to read. He was a peacemaker. Everyone but one person loved this young man. When he was 14 he was writing talks for all of his friends, church talks, whatever. When he was a junior in high school, he loved to debate. He was a great debater, but he was a little different than most debaters. He didn’t go for the jugular. When he was through debating someone, they were still friends. He won the debate meet at Stanford University as a junior in high school. As a senior in high school, most of you are too young to remember this, but we had draft boards. He was called to be on the draft board for the county that he lived in. He went on a mission to Australia, one of the first Italian speaking missionaries to go down. I think there were 12 that went down. Loved those people, worked with the Italians. He was an assistant to the president. He came home and he had a burning desire to work in the temple. He was a temple worker right after he got home, which was unusual then. He was called to a church writing committee in his early 20s, and then he was called to be the chairman of that writing committee. He had a brilliant mind. His stake president went to get him cleared from that committee. He wanted to call him as a bishop. They wouldn’t clear him. Stake president was tenacious. The stake president’s wife used to be the Relief Society president - her last name was Smoot. His name was Stan. He went back a year later and had the boy released, and was a bishop. Of course, married in the temple, three little boys. Loved to give firesides about the church. Here’s what this one thought, here’s what this one thought, here’s what this one thought, just a clean, handsome young man.

Most of you weren’t born, probably, in 1985. On a Sunday evening, October, this young man was called by his stake presidency to come into the stake presidency. He was still serving as a bishop. He was never set apart in that stake presidency. On Tuesday morning, he went to work. The front of his office, right in the front door, as he got ready to open his door, he picked up this packed that had his name on it, and he lost his life. It was a bomb. That was our son, Sister Christensen’s and my son, Steven Christensen. Most of you are too young to remember the Hoffman case. He was a forger. He blew two people up with bombs, trying basically to protect himself. I remember that day. I remember the Chaplin from the police department coming over to my store and telling me that we’d lost a son. I remember going home, not knowing what had happened. A friend took me home, thinking, Why couldn’t it have been me? This boy had so much to offer. What has happened? I go home, his wife comes up. Three little boys, she’s pregnant, just so happened the fourth son was born on January the 9th that following year. Four sons. I remember the funeral. The funeral was in his ward. Police dogs all around the funeral. Just later the day we lost this boy, another person had picked up a box and lost their life. No one knew, really, what was going on. The person who set these bombs off just about killed himself accidently with a bomb. When we found out who it really was, and the police were very, very good to us and kept us informed. It was a long process to really pin this thing down, but when we really found out, I said to myself, “If the authorities don’t take care of this person, I will.” I had so much hatred. Can you imagine losing - this is your oldest son, one of your pride and joys. I don’t think he ever had a bad thought. And then you take his dad, and I’ve been an aggressive person all my life. I was sixth man on a five-man basketball team. When the coach would finally put me in, he’d always say, “Mac, shoot yourself out of the game.” If someone fouled me the next time down the court, the kid was in the bleachers and I had to fight the kid and his dad. I was a very aggressive young man. An eye for an eye, you know, if someone looked cross-eyed at you.

I remember there was a pre-trial and in it, they had this person nailed. I remember coming out one day, we had our three sons (we had five sons - lost the first one, the youngest one was in Bolivia on a mission) and our oldest daughter. We came out and the news media all around, and they are very aggressive and the one son, they had the camera right up against him. Obnoxious. This boy took after him. And something hit me and said, “Mac, you have to forgive.” Now how do you forgive someone who has taken your son? How do you really, seriously? It’s easy to say, but how do you do it? How does an aversive individual do it? But I could see what it could do to our family. The boy that took after the media, very aggressive boy, in fact our whole family, thank goodness they have their mother - sweet and gentle, but then there’s that other side.

Well, just to give you a couple of thoughts. You have to forgive. We have the greatest family. We never bring up what happened. In our home we have a picture of the boy, a big picture, we have a picture in the main store, but it’s a happy picture. If this person that took these two lives is in jail for life, and sometime he could be released, but if I had to write a letter and say don’t release him, I wouldn’t do that. Later on I met his dad and mother. His dad was a temple worker, very sweet man. Can you imagine what they went through?

Homes are also private places, so unfortunately, we often let down. In our homes and with our families we sometimes become our worst selves with the people who matter the most in our lives. I distinctly remember one morning when I was 14 years old. Before I left for school, I was cross and unkind with my parents and my brothers. After I left the house, I was polite with the bus driver and friendly to my peers. I felt the discrepancy of my actions, and a huge feeling of remorse came over me. I asked the teacher if I could be excused for a few minutes to call home. I apologized to my mother for my behavior and told her how much I loved and appreciated her and promised to do better at showing it.

In the spring of 1950, he began to worry more about an annoying hoarseness. Cancer was diagnosed, and he was operated on. Doctors removed all of one and part of the other vocal cord, which would leave him with a raspy voice.
Under total anesthesia after having been operated on, he was being wheeled back to his room. Still drugged, Spencer sensed his table stop by an elevator and heard the orderly, angry at something, profaning the Lord’s name. Half-conscious, he managed to say, “Please don’t say that. I love Him more than anything in this world.” The orderly answered softly, “I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.”

As I mentioned in the beginning, we now are writing chapter 1997 in our journals. Just like the scripture in Thessalonians, many personal journal accounts speak of work, labor, and patience. Because this is a year of celebrating the pioneers who crossed the plains, I want to draw an example from the journal of Ruth May, a young teenage convert who boarded a ship in Britain bound for America in 1867. Her story weaves in a “patience of hope in our Lord Jesus Christ” with the effort to gather in Zion (see Ruth May Fox, “From England to Salt Lake Valley in 1867,” Improvement Era 37, no. 8 [July 1935]: 406–9, 450).

Ruth wrote of the excitement at the dock as the huge steamer slipped out to sea. It was an exhilarating moment filled with thoughts of the future and how good it would be. You’ve had such moments when the world was before you, when you felt the energy of something new and challenging. Yet there were also many days when the immigrant ship Louisiana dipped dangerously low with the swells of the sea.

“The old ship rolled and tossed,” Ruth wrote of an inevitable storm. “But fear—I had none. We were Mormons, our family at least, going to Zion, and no ship would think of going down with such a precious cargo” (Fox, “From England,” p. 407). Did she not have hope in Jesus Christ?

When they reached America, Ruth’s father joined his family of five and their newly acquired one yoke of oxen with a certain brother who had a wagon but was short a yoke of oxen. Ruth May wrote, “There were fourteen persons with all their worldly possessions in that one wagon. . . . My father bought a small tent, just large enough for the five of us to lie down side by side like sardines in a can” (Fox, “From England,” p. 408).

Ruth’s company of Mormons was one of many who made their way west with few incidents. “Other than one birth and an accidental death by a bullet when men were shooting sage-hens, our journey across the plains seems to have been rather lacking in perilous adventure but was always interesting,” she recalled (Fox, “From England,” p. 409).

We know Brigham Young’s first response when from the canyon crest he gazed over the valley he had seen in a dream: “This is the right place” (The Utah Pioneers [Salt Lake City: Deseret News Printing and Publishing Establishment, 1880], p. 23; quoted in B. H. Roberts, A Comprehensive History of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, Century One [Salt Lake City: The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, 1930], 3:224).

Twenty years later Ruth May reached a similar summit and gazed out upon the desert valley below. Let me read her account:
Our last pull was through Parley’s [Canyon] and up to the top of the hill. This was accomplished at twilight and here we got our first glimpse of the little city of Salt Lake.
I have to admit some disappointment as I exclaimed: “Oh, have we come all this way for that?” [Fox, “From England,” p. 450]

She expected so much. After all, this was Zion. Perhaps after a significant effort or contribution you have made, you, too, have felt like you’ve walked more than 1,300 miles, climbed mountains, slept out of doors, and “come all this way for that.” This is when patience plays a central role: “Remembering without ceasing your work of faith, and labour of love, and patience of hope in our Lord Jesus Christ.” Ruth hadn’t come for the valley; she had come to Christ.

There were no crowds lining the streets to welcome the travelers to Zion. No brass bands met the party. No one announced their arrival with fanfare. They arrived on Saturday, Ruth remembered, and they got up the next morning, washed in a basin, and put on their “best clothes and went to the tabernacle services. . . . All was well in Zion” (Fox, “From England,” p. 450).

What does Ruth’s experience teach us of patience? Often we expect that our righteousness, our willingness to stand firm, and our efforts to be faithful are to be rewarded here—now. But patience born of hope in Jesus Christ reminds us otherwise. Luke said it so well with these words: “In your patience possess ye your souls” (Luke 21:19). Ruth May initially was disappointed by the stark physical realities of her new desert home. Soon, her hunger for spiritual purpose supplanted that momentary disillusionment.

“It sure will be neat to have a holiday,” Stephanie mumbled, swallowing a bite of cupcake. “Thanksgiving’s almost my favorite holiday—after Christmas, of course, and may be Halloween. What could be better than no school and having all that good stuff to eat?”
Brushing a stray crumb of peanut butter sandwich from her cheek and crunching on a carrot stick, Winona declared, “This’ll be our first Thanksgiving here in Loganport.”
“Well, I’m sure glad you moved here, Winnie. Lunchtime is more fun with somebody like you to talk to. You should see our turkey,” she sighed blissfully, thinking of food again. “Mom says it weighs almost twenty pounds! How big is your family’s turkey?”
“We’re not getting one this year,” Winnie replied.
“Oh, sorry,” Stephanie said softly. “C’mon. There’s the bell. Just two and a half more hours and we’ll be free from school for four days!”
The crisp November air seemed to push Winnie along the sidewalk as she headed home after school. “Hi, Mom,” Winnie called as she closed the door to their apartment.
“I’m in the kitchen, dear,” Mother replied. “How was school? Glad to have vacation for a few days?”
“Uh-huh,” Winnie answered, coming into the kitchen. “Mom, what are we having for Thanksgiving dinner? Stephanie’s family has a twenty-pound turkey.”
“Well, dear, you know we can’t afford to buy a turkey this year. Moving to Loganport took a lot of money. But it’ll be worth it if your father’s work here holds out. It’s a shame the old hotel in Greensburg closed, but we should be glad that Dad likes his new job and that we have a nice place to live.”
“Nice place? This apartment is so plain, Mom. It’s awful! I’d be ashamed to bring anybody here.”
“Your friend Stephanie doesn’t seem to mind.”
“Stephanie understands, I guess. But the other girls at school wouldn’t.”
“Sure they would. Now, how about stirring the soup and setting the table while I put the corn bread into the oven. Dad will be home soon.”
Fifteen minutes later Dad came through the door. “Whew! What a busy day,” he said, hugging his wife. “That kitchen was really hopping today so that everything for the big Thanksgiving buffet tomorrow will be just right. I stuffed so many turkeys I’m going to dream about those birds all night.”
“I wish we were having turkey,” said Winnie.
“We are,” said Mother. “I have a can of turkey noodle soup that I’m going to make into the best turkey corn chowder you ever tasted.”
On Thanksgiving Day Winnie had to admit that the chowder tasted very good. Mom had even splurged and made a pumpkin pie.
Thanksgiving wasn’t bad after all, Winnie thought as she helped her mother with the dishes.
Dad came up behind them and gave them both a squeeze. “Happy Thanksgiving to my two lovely ladies,” he said with a smile. “You know, Mother, our Winona is really turning into quite a good-looking young lady.”
“She’s going to be a teenager before we know it!” Mother declared. She turned and smiled at her daughter. “In less than two weeks you’ll be thirteen years old, Winnie. I can’t believe it.”
“I’d say that calls for a party,” said Dad. “How would you like that, Winnie? You could invite some friends over.”
“A party,” Winnie gasped. “Oh, Dad, that would be super! But—I mean, can we afford it?”
“You and Mother work things out. You’re both pretty good budget balancers.”
The next afternoon Winnie and Stephanie sat at the kitchen table making invitations from colored paper. “Stephanie,” Winnie said after a long silence, “I’m worried. I want to ask the other girls to the party and at the same time I don’t want to. I wish we had a fancier home.”
“Hey, don’t be silly! Anybody dumb enough to worry about what your house looks like doesn’t deserve to be your friend. Besides, everybody likes parties.”
That evening Winnie heard her dad calling as soon as he entered the apartment.
“Where’s Winnie? I have a surprise for her.”
Winnie sprang up and ran to meet him.
“I don’t do this for just any lady friend,” Dad teased, “only good-looking women turning thirteen years old.” He held out a lump of aluminum foil.
Winnie carefully opened the foil. Inside lay ten wishbones.
“From the turkeys at the hotel kitchen,” Dad explained. “You can clean them up and use them for your party.”
“Neat, Dad!” Winnie exclaimed. She soaked the bones and pulled off any traces of meat. Then she put them on a sunny windowsill to dry.
The following week seemed like a blur to Winnie. “They sure have been piling on the homework since we got back,” she remarked to Stephanie at lunch.
“I’ll say! I’m stopping at the library on the way home. Want to come?”
Winnie shook her head. “I have to finish my book report before supper so I can help clean the house for the party. I still can’t believe everybody’s really coming.”
That night, tired but happy, Winnie snuggled under her patchwork quilt. It seemed like only minutes until she heard her mother’s voice. “Time to get up, teenager.”
Winnie scrambled out of bed and got dressed. Today was the big day. Almost before she knew it, she heard giggles on the stairs below. The girls were arriving for the party. Does everything look all right? she wondered. She whirled around and checked out the room: a plate of sandwiches, a bowl of chips, and a lovely cake with pink frosting. Mom’s old tablecloth looked elegant with paper flowers pinned to it. A knock sent her skipping to the door.
The girls bustled inside the apartment and began taking off their coats. “Well, what’s this?” asked Janice Jones, just about the classiest girl in the whole school. She sauntered over to the table. There, suspended on tiny threads above the birthday cake, hung ten wishbones, each tied with a slim pink bow.
“Wishbones,” said Winnie, thinking it was the dumbest thing she’d ever said. Her heart sank. She should have known Janice would think …
“That is absolutely the neatest thing I ever saw,” Janice announced. She made a quick count. “There’s one for each of us.”
“So nobody gets stuck with the short end,” explained Winnie.
“Everyone gets a wish come true today,” Stephanie chimed in.
Winnie knew Stephanie was right. Wishing for a turkey, wishing for a fancy house, wishing for friends—a girl could waste her whole life just wishing. A person thirteen years old ought to get out and do something and be happy about who she is. Reaching up with her scissors, she snipped off a wishbone and handed it to Janice. “Make a wish,” she said with a smile.

The Toit Rouge Stake Presidency of Abidjan, Cote D’Ivoire, launched a cultural event known as Culturama in August 2018 at the Toit Rouge Stake Center. The organizing committee comprised the stake presidency, bishoprics and stake officers.
Elder Dekaye, Area Seventy, was present and presided over the launch of the ceremony. In his opening remarks, Brother Konan Amani Aime Christian, second counselor in the stake presidency and president of the organising committee said the objective is to “bring all members together on one hand and unite members and leaders on the other hand.”
A member of the organizing staff, Brother Zoh Didier, said that Culturama is a set of wholesome games and entertainment that includes cultural activities, sports, board games and Scripture knowledge and Church History Competition. He added that this program will take place throughout the vacations and will bring together all seven wards in the stake.
Elder Dekaye congratulated the initiative and organization of such a cultural event within a stake. He also helped the congregation to see the link between Moses 1:39 and Culturama. He then encouraged everyone not to procrastinate what we can do now, but rather to take actions like these and rejoice, because that is the purpose of life. He said that we can do this by using the “five-­second” technique, that is, counting to five and getting up to do what we have to do. “In this way, we will overcome everything in life and accomplish greater things.” After that, he asked the whole congregation to stand up and practice this right away. Everyone got up and shouted for joy as they jumped after five seconds. Finally, he encouraged everyone to continue to socialize in Zion, after which he officially opened the event.
To close the ceremony, there was a parade of all the seven wards on the podium, each with its own flag and logo and the presentation of the different trophies and medals.
The first competitions began on the same August 4 after the opening ceremony and continued every Wednesday and Saturday until September 15, 2018, the day of the final contests and the closing ceremony of the first Culturama.
On that day, both members and investigators in the stake, as well as members of other stakes, rushed to the stake center at 8 a.m. to attend the final contests in the various disciplines.
Before starting the competitions, the stake president took the opportunity to congratulate all the members for their mobilization in the first edition of Culturama. He then encouraged the ward leaders and everyone to be more involved for the upcoming year. He pleaded for fair play and tolerance during the competitions.
There was joy and enthusiasm on everyone’s face. There were all age groups: children, youth and adults as well as the elderly. Some were dancing, while others came to support their various wards that qualified for the final. The first competitions of the day were basketball, athletics, and football.
At the end of the ceremony, everyone was really happy to meet again, and we could see the unity and closeness the Toit Rouge Stake Presidency had hoped for.
Finalists and winners of the various Culturama 2018 competitions:
Basketball (Nouveau Quartier 1st Vs Attecoube): winner ? Attecoube
Athletics 4 x 100 m relays (Nouveau Quartier 2nd, Attecoube, Sante, Abobodoume): winner ? Nouveau Quartier 2nd
Athletics 100 m sprint (Sante, Attecoube, Toit Rouge 1st, Nouveau Quartier 2) : winner ? Sante
Football ( Nouveau Quartier 2nd Vs Kote): winner ? Kote
Scrabble (Attecoube Vs Sante): winner ? Attecoube
Draughts (Toit Rouge 1st Vs Sante): winner ? Sante
Awale (Attecoube Vs Sante): winner ? Sante
Scripture and Church History (Toit Rouge 1st Vs Attecoube): winner ? Toit Rouge 1st
Choir Competition (All Wards): winner ? Toit Rouge 1st

Sometimes, it’s difficult to find the time to talk. If that’s the case, try some creative approaches. One young missionary told me, “I always wanted to talk to my mom. Oh, we talked about lots of things but never about anything serious or personal. We had a good relationship—we got along well—but we never really talked.
“There was so much that I wanted to tell her, so many questions I wanted to ask her before I went on my mission, but I just couldn’t do it.
“So I wrote her a letter, a long letter, and left it on her dresser. That really opened things up for us, and we had a couple of great talks before I left.”

In my young years growing up in Logan, Utah, I was part of a musical family. My grandfather, Francis H. Baugh Jr., affectionately known in the community as Frank Baugh, was the director of music for nearly thirty years in the Logan City School District, where he directed the high school choral groups and musical productions in addition to supervising music education in the junior high and elementary schools. He was Logan’s own music man.
By the time I was in elementary school he had retired from teaching in the public system, leaving him time to teach my siblings and me the piano. Not too many people can say they took piano lessons from their grandfather, but I did—he was my one and only teacher.
Every piano lesson included playing hymns from the LDS hymnal. Grandfather would have me go over each hymn several times while he pointed out fingering and dynamics and told me to “make the long notes longer and the short notes shorter.” And since Grandfather was a choral director and a singer—a beautiful tenor, I might add—he would sing the hymns, every verse, as I would play them. By the time I was a teenager I could play many of the hymns, but surprisingly I could also sing the words of those hymns by heart because I had heard my grandfather sing them so many times.
Around the time I was in junior high school, my grandfather must have felt I was ready to take on the longest hymn in the hymnal: number 296, which was titled “The Seer, Joseph, the Seer,” a poem written by John Taylor and later set to music by Ebenezer Beesley. Fortunately for me it was in the key of C, but it was four pages long, not to mention it was a choir number.
Looking back, I think I can say that it was while I was learning to play that number and hearing my Grandfather Baugh sing the words that I felt the first feelings of a testimony in my heart concerning the life and mission of Joseph Smith. However, for many years I was puzzled as to why the text referred to Joseph Smith as a seer, a title I was not altogether familiar with. It was not until I read the Book of Mormon that I learned that perhaps the greatest designation Joseph Smith could have been given was that of a seer.