Gospel Story Finder

The summer wind rustled the long grass as it gusted across the vast, rolling plains of northern Montana, whistling by the gray, unpainted, weather-worn boards of the small house. The house sat almost alone out there in that great expanse of land with the mighty Missouri River gliding by in the middle of its journey to its rendezvous with the Mississippi. Occasionally one of the loose boards on the house would rattle a bit as a particularly strong gust would hit it, and the flapping could be heard inside.
It was Sunday, but except for a few rather puny creations of man, the great, sweeping plains and grass looked much as they had for many hundreds of Sundays, and other days of the week as well. There was a certain feeling of changelessness to this immense land.
Inside the lone, sparsely furnished house, propped up on the old chipped and rusted hospital bed to which he was confined, was old Pointing Iron, once a great warrior of the proud and magnificent Sioux nation. Now he was confined by age and frailty to this small, one-room wooden shack.
His eyes wandered around the walls of the room, not noticing the pasteboard that served not only as a covering for the walls but as the wallpaper as well. It was the same in most of the Indian homes on the reservation. Instead, he would let his gaze roam around the walls, stopping to gaze upon some old, faded picture or memento out of his past, and memories of long ago events would flood back into his alert mind. Pointing Iron didn’t know how old he was, nor did anyone else who knew him, but his memory went back to many of the happy times of his people. He had seen many snows in his lifetime.
Brother Pointing Iron hadn’t forgotten what day it was, and he looked forward with anticipation to the time when the sun would approach midday. As midday drew near, he reached out his once powerful arms and attempted to straighten the blanket and the worn quilt that covered his weakened body. Then his gnarled hands went up to the two straight braids of beautiful gray hair that hung well below his shoulders. It was important that they fall neatly in place and that his head be held proud and erect, however hard it might be to hold it there.
He waited now for what he knew was to come. Shortly there was a sharp knocking, and as the door creaked open, two young men in dark suits entered, glad to be sheltered from the wind.
Brother Pointing Iron anxiously reached out his hand and warmly shook the hands of the two missionaries who had come on a special errand to his humble home. Not many words were exchanged, as Pointing Iron could speak very little English and the elders knew almost nothing of the Sioux tongue, but there was a communion of the spirit that all of them felt.
The elders did, however, have a hymn book in the Sioux language, so while one of them selected some music, the other moved an old, rough, wooden chair, held together mostly by wire, into the center of the room. He then very carefully unfolded two clean, freshly pressed handkerchiefs and laid them on the seat of the chair. A small, clean plate was produced and placed on the handkerchiefs. On the plate he put a small morsel of bread and beside it a small glass of clear well water. Now all was in readiness for the meeting to begin.
The elder had opened the hymn book to page 25, and the three of them sang, as best they could, “Sweet Hour of Prayer,” after which one of the missionaries offered the invocation. Then the senior companion knelt and repeated the blessing on the bread. As the plate was handed to Brother Pointing Iron, his trembling hand reached out and picked up the small piece of bread, which represented to him the sacrificed body of his beloved Savior, and the tears flowed slowly down his wrinkled, weather-beaten cheeks.
After the water had been blessed and given to Pointing Iron, the elders once again opened the hymn book, and they all joined in singing, “Israel, Israel, God Is Calling.” Then the junior companion offered the benediction. The chair was cleared off and put back in its place by the wall, and the meeting was over. Once again Pointing Iron’s covenants had been renewed. The elders lingered, reluctant to leave that special spirit they felt so strongly in that old wooden shack on the Montana plains.
Finally they shook the hand of their loved brother and said their good-byes. They stepped once again out into the brisk prairie wind, but somehow the wind didn’t seem to be so much of a bother to them anymore.
This was a cherished weekly Sabbath day assignment and they gladly carried it out until the brave old warrior, Pointing Iron, left this mortal life and was placed to rest in the great old Indian cemetery at Chicken Hill.

As a young 12-year-old Scout, I received a gift of a much-desired addition to my Scouting equipment. It was a hatchet with a heavy leather cover! On the next overnight hike, we arrived in camp after dark, wet and cold from the heavy snow on the trail. All I could think about was building a big roaring fire. I immediately went to work chopping a fallen tree with my new hatchet. As I chopped, I was frustrated because it didn’t seem to be cutting very well. In my frustration, I worked harder. Disappointed, I returned to camp with only a few pieces of wood. By the light of someone else’s fire, I discovered the problem. I hadn’t taken the cover off the hatchet. I can report, however, the cover was chopped to shreds. The lesson: I became distracted with other things.
Brothers and sisters, it’s time to take the cover off our hatchets and go to work. We must not sacrifice our exaltation or that of our families for less important interests.

A teacher from California, who went to Austria to study, made fun of the tales he had heard about the foehn. Years before, he had broken his leg in a skiing accident. When his old wound began to hurt, it was as though the break had just happened, and the pain was agonizing. He soon learned that the weather had changed and that a foehn had descended the mountains into the valley where he was staying. He stopped making fun of the foehn stories.

It was a hot summer day and the neighborhood boys were preparing to engage in their favorite pastime, shooting their BB guns. On the fences surrounding the fields around our neighborhood, many a tin can had met its demise as a sharp-shooting rooster-tailed boy drew aim and gently squeezed the trigger of his Daisy Red-Ryder lever-action BB gun. This day would be like many others as the boys embarked on their excursion.
Being the only five-year-old boy in the neighborhood left me with no one to play with most of the time. I needed to belong, so I would often tag along with my older brother and his friends despite their insistent pleas for me to return home. Again, this day would be no exception. Time after time I hunted them down, only to have them try to ditch me again.
As their obvious attempts to relieve themselves of my presence failed, they turned to more cunning tactics. My brother approached me. I should have known by the gleam in his eye that deception was in the wings. “Dane,” he said manipulatively, “if you will go home and make us all a peanut butter and honey sandwich, we will let you shoot our guns.” My heart leaped at the prospect of firing one of those choice weapons. I raced home. My legs had never known such speed.
At home, I noticed that my mom had company and that she wouldn’t be able to make the sandwiches for me. Too bad, I thought to myself. Another obstacle had been placed in my pathway. But I would overcome. I would not be denied the opportunity to master the Red-Ryder.
While sloppily spreading peanut butter on the tearing bread, I began to be prodded by my conscience. My mother’s words of warning echoed through my mind. “Dane, you’re too small to get the bucket of honey from the top shelf by yourself.”
As I finished with the peanut butter and dropped the sticky knife on the carpeted floor, I ignored my conscience and headed for the shelf. Opening the door and looking up, I saw the two-gallon bucket of honey looming overhead just within reach of my fingers. Reaching up and inching the bucket toward the front of the shelf, I was not at all prepared for what happened next. As the honey arrived at the edge of the shelf, the bottom of the bucket caught on the ridge at the front of the shelf, became upended, and came hurtling down, upside down, onto my head.
My first thought was, What should I do about the mess? The situation, however, quickly got serious as the sticky substance covered my eyes, leaving me unable to see. The vacuum effect the bucket had on my head made it impossible to remove. I strained and struggled, but to no avail. The honey descended, covering my mouth and nose, making breathing very difficult. Panic stricken, I staggered into the living room. Blowing honey bubbles out my nose and mouth in an effort to breathe and trying to peer through the haze that covered my eyes, I saw my mother and her friend laughing hysterically.
My mother finally gathered herself enough to show the necessary compassion. As she shoved my sticky, honey-covered head under the bathtub faucet, she said something I have never forgotten. “If you are going to do things you know you shouldn’t,” she said, “you must face the consequences that accompany your actions.”
While humorous, this experience has had a very profound effect on me, helping me realize the importance of obedience. Fortunately for us, valuable lessons can sometimes be learned through harmless incidents. Learning obedience through a childhood mishap has benefited me greatly.

Elder McKay’s horse Dandy wasn’t as wise. He could escape any pen or corral by opening the latch or chewing off the lead rope.
Elder McKay: That horse has done it again.
Dandy wandered into the street and was hit by a car. He survived but did not learn his lesson.
Elder McKay: That should teach you not to go running off, Dandy!
One day Dandy escaped again. He and another horse wandered into an old house used to store grain and started eating poisoned oats—bait for gophers.
Elder McKay was very sad to lose his favorite horse. He often told Dandy’s story to show the danger of disobeying rules.
Elder McKay: Young people, you must always know where the limits are. Keep the commandments and you will be safe.

New members say Church vocabulary often requires decoding. We chuckle at the thought that “stake house” could mean a nice beef dinner; “ward building” could indicate a hospital; “opening exercises” could invite us to do head, shoulders, knees, and toes in the church parking lot. But, please, let us be understanding and kind as we learn new languages of love together. New at church, a convert was told her skirts were too short. Instead of taking offense, she replied, in effect, “My heart is converted; please be patient as my skirts catch up.” The words we use can draw us closer to or distance us from other Christians and friends. Sometimes we speak of missionary work, temple work, humanitarian and welfare work in ways that may cause others to think we believe we work on our own. Let us always speak with warm and reverent gratitude for God’s work and glory and the merits, mercy, and grace of Jesus Christ and His atoning sacrifice.

Well respected as a leader, Brother Casablanca is the first to take his own advice. At Christmastime, he leads the high priests in his branch in a Puerto Rican tradition called parranda. The Casablancas gather several families together, along with a few guitars or other musical instruments, and sing Christmas carols outside another member’s home. They are soon invited in and spend an hour or so eating, singing, laughing, and dancing. Then the visited family joins the group, and everyone goes to another home. This progressive party goes on all night long and can end up with 50 to 100 people in the group. “We often visit less-active members so we can all join in the fun,” says Brother Casablanca.

This story happened in Denmark.
Amalie followed her parents through the church doors. The sound of the piano playing hymns filled the chapel. Amalie and her family found a bench and sat down.
Sacrament meeting started, and soon the whole branch was singing the opening hymn. While she sang, Amalie noticed their next-door neighbor, Sister Aisha, sitting nearby. But Sister Aisha wasn’t singing. She was frowning.
Sister Aisha was always so nice to Amalie. But she looked sad a lot. Amalie knew that she lived alone. Maybe she was lonely.
Amalie wished she could do something to help. But what?
The next week, Amalie went on a bike ride down a long road. She rode past big green fields. The sun warmed her skin.
Soon she came to a field of sunflowers. The bright yellow flowers waved slightly in the wind and stretched to the sun. They were so tall and so big!
A sign next to the field said, Free sunflowers! Take as many as you want.
Amalie stared at the field. The flowers looked like an ocean of yellow smiling at the sky.
She parked her bike and picked a bunch of flowers. She could give them to Mom! Mom loved flowers. But there were enough flowers that she could pick more for someone else too.
A name came to her mind: Sister Aisha. Maybe these flowers could help brighten her day.
“I hope she likes sunflowers,” Amalie said quietly to herself. But she was a little nervous. What if Sister Aisha thought it was weird?
Amalie stopped picking the flowers. She rubbed the soft petals between her fingers. Maybe she shouldn’t give flowers to Sister Aisha.
No, Amalie thought. She knew she should give them to Sister Aisha. They might not make everything better. But Amalie still wanted to help, even in a small way. She could give the flowers to Sister Aisha at church tomorrow.
Amalie spent a long time picking the best flowers. She put them together and placed them carefully in her bike basket. Then she hopped on her bike and rode home. The bright yellow of the flowers looked pretty with the deep green of the forest in the background.
When Amalie got home, she tied each bouquet with a ribbon. She gave one to Mom.
Mom smiled big when she saw it. “Thank you! They’re beautiful.” She put the flowers in a vase on the table.
The next day, Amalie took the other bouquet of sunflowers to church. She found Sister Aisha sitting alone on a bench.
“Hi,” Amalie said. “I picked some sunflowers for you.”
Amalie held the flowers out. When Sister Aisha saw them, she smiled. Amalie hadn’t seen her smile in a long time. Her eyes were filled with light.
“Thank you,” Sister Aisha said. She gave Amalie a hug. “These are my favorite flowers.”
Amalie smiled too. She hadn’t known they were Sister Aisha’s favorite flowers! But the Holy Ghost had prompted her to make a bouquet for Sister Aisha, and Amalie was grateful she had listened.

During a lunch-hour study session as a missionary, I was reviewing the fourth discussion. Silently I reviewed the questions we ask our investigators about the mission of the Savior. Suddenly, in the quiet of the moment, the roles seemed to change, and I became not the teacher, but the one being taught.
The experience was overpowering. Never before had the Savior’s Atonement been so real to me. At that moment, I knew the anguish of his sacrifice, and I felt encompassed by his love. I shall not fully comprehend in this life the marvelous gift the Savior offers us, but the power of that moment has sustained me. And I am filled with awe whenever I partake of the sacrament, the emblem of his gift of love, his gift of life.

I trudged up the cement steps of my grandparents’ white frame home. What a way to spend a summer afternoon, I thought with dismay. Without knocking, I reluctantly entered through the screen door into the cool of the shaded living room.
“Karen,” boomed a voice from the kitchen, “is that you?”
“Yes,” I answered.
“I’m ready,” said my grandfather as he entered the room and smiled a greeting to me.
My Grandpa Larsen was a big man, at least six foot two. At five feet, seven inches, I was considered tall for a girl but still felt small beside this man. When I was little, I thought of Grandpa as a gentle giant, someone who bounced us on his knee, sang silly songs, and gave us whisker shaves as we squealed our delight.
At 16 I was too old for a whisker shave, but Grandpa’s eyes twinkled with mischief when he asked, “Aren’t I a lucky fellow today, going for a drive with a pretty young lady?”
I simply nodded to him in agreement and felt my first pangs of guilt wash over me. I had not wanted to drive to my grandfather’s. What I really wanted to do was spend the afternoon with my friend Margaret Ann. In a few weeks our junior year in high school would begin, and we always had lots to visit and dream about.
However, my mother had been determined in her decision to have me pick up my grandfather. Mother had other obligations to fill, and she didn’t consider my afternoon with Margaret Ann nearly so important as my taking Grandpa to visit his only surviving brother, Amos, who was dying.
The thoughts of visiting an old and dying man whom I hardly knew seemed to me grim and depressing at best. But I loved my grandpa and knew this afternoon’s excursion held real importance for him. He tried to mask his emotions with light conversation and a little teasing, but I still felt the reality of his concern as we climbed into our family car.
After the first few minutes of travel, Grandpa fell silent and stared out the car window at the passing landscape. Once or twice, I looked over at him, but he remained unchanged and his expression seemed fixed on other days and other doings.
Watching Grandpa, I couldn’t help but smile. He sat beside me dressed in a clean shirt, his best pair of bib overalls, and a sport coat that he added as if on impulse as we left his home. At 78, Grandpa still sat tall in the seat. His hair had thinned over the years and his shoulders rounded a little.
Grandpa’s hands were what I liked best, and I stole a glance at them now as they lay relaxed and unmoving in his lap. Usually, those big, bony hands were constantly busy; and their bent fingers and calloused palms showed years of hard labor. His were massive hands made for work and for doing. They were hands that still held strength, strength of endurance and love.
We were through the town now, nearing the turn that would take us by the temple and up to Sunshine Terrace. “Grandpa,” I said softly, “we’re almost there.” He nodded silently, and I knew he had heard me.
I hadn’t wanted to accompany Grandpa into the rest home. I was young and full of life and always felt that the old people occupying its rooms were in some way a personal affront to my youth and vitality, a sharp reminder of my own mortality.
After parking the car in front of the Terrace, I waited for Grandpa to open the door, get out of the car, and go inside. He didn’t. Instead, he turned and looked at me. In that momentary glance I easily read his unspoken request that I accompany him in to see his brother. I opened my door, and we walked together into the rest home.
Even though my grandpa was old, he was independent; and I knew that though he needed me with him, he would never have asked. But I felt his hand give my shoulder an extra squeeze of thanks as he said, “This is Amos’s room.”
We stopped, and I followed Grandpa inside. Amos seemed small and fragile and gray as he lay beneath his bed sheets. For just a moment panic seized my girlish heart, and I wondered if we were too late. But then my grandpa walked across the room, drew a chair close to his brother’s bed, and bent his head down to Amos’s ear. On the other side of the room, I couldn’t hear what it was my grandpa said, but I watched as Amos’s eyes opened and he smiled.
I stayed on my chair across the room, and I never really heard any of the words exchanged by these brothers, brothers who had grown old with life’s living, brothers whose bodies were bent and gray, but brothers who remembered earlier days and better times together.
We spent nearly an hour with Uncle Amos. During that short time, I witnessed a revelation unlike any I had experienced in my young life. I watched two elderly men transcend the years to become again the boys they once were as they reminisced together for the last time.
As we left, I felt privileged to have viewed a special reunion, a gentle communion, and a touching but temporary good-bye between the kindred spirits of two good men. As we walked down the hall, I reached across the space between us and grasped my grandpa’s hand.

I received a notice from my 13-year-old son’s school announcing a special parents’ meeting to preview the new course in human sexuality. Parents could examine the curriculum and take part in a lesson presented exactly as it would be given to the students.
When I arrived at the school I was surprised to discover only a dozen or so parents there. And I was the only Latter-day Saint. As we waited for the presentation to begin, I thumbed through page after page of instruction in the prevention of pregnancy and disease. I searched for the word abstain and related words but found the idea of abstinence mentioned only briefly.
The teacher arrived shortly, accompanied by the school nurse. Before beginning the lesson, the teacher asked if there were any questions. I asked why abstinence did not play a noticeable part in the lesson material.
What happened next was shocking. I was verbally assailed by the other parents. “How stupid are you?” one sneered. There was a great deal of laughter, and someone suggested if I thought abstinence had any merit, I was out of touch with the real world.
The teacher and the nurse said nothing as I drowned in a sea of embarrassment. My mind had gone blank during the unexpected attack, and I could think of nothing to say.
When the laughter subsided, the teacher explained that the school was to teach “facts”; the home was responsible for moral training. I sat in silence for the next 20 minutes as the course was explained. The other parents seemed to give their unqualified support to the materials that would be presented to our children.
“Donuts at the back,” announced the teacher during the break. “And I’d like you to put on the name tags we have prepared and mingle with the other parents. Get to know each other.”
All the other parents moved to the back of the room. As I watched them affixing their name tags and shaking hands, I sat deep in thought. I was ashamed I had not been able to come up with an argument that would convince them to include a serious discussion of abstinence in the lesson material. I uttered a silent prayer for guidance.
My thoughts were interrupted by the teacher’s hand on my shoulder. “Won’t you join the others, Mr. Layton?”
“Thank you, no,” I replied.
“Well, then, how about a name tag? I’m sure the others would like to meet you.”
“Somehow I doubt that,” I replied.
“Won’t you please join them?” she coaxed.
Then I heard a still, small voice whisper, “Don’t go.” The instruction was unmistakable. “Don’t go!”
“I think I’ll just wait here,” I said.
When the class was called back to order, the teacher thanked everyone for putting on their name tags. She ignored me. Then she said, “Now we’re going to give you the same lesson we’ll be giving your children. Everyone please take off your name tags. On the back of one of the tags I drew a tiny flower. Who has it, please?”
The man across from me held it up. “Here it is!”
“All right,” she said. “The flower represents disease. Do you recall with whom you shook hands?”
He pointed to a couple of people. “Very good,” she replied. “The handshake in this case represents intimacy. So the two people you had contact with now have the disease.” The teacher continued, “And who did the two of you shake hands with?”
The point was well taken, and she explained how this lesson would show students how quickly disease can be spread.
“Since we all shook hands, we all have the disease; there is no escaping that fact.”
It was then I heard the still, small voice again: “Speak now, but be humble.” I recognized the importance of the latter admonition, then rose from my chair. I apologized for any upset I might have caused earlier, congratulated the teacher on an excellent lesson, and concluded by saying I had one small point I wished to make.
“Not all of us were infected,” I said simply. “One of us abstained.”

Every year, my parents and older siblings travel to Guatemala as part of a humanitarian medical team. One year, I got to go with them as a member of the nonmedical team. I was so excited! I got my passport and stashed it in a fireproof box where my parents kept other important papers.
But the night before the trip, I opened the box and couldn’t find my passport anywhere. A wave of panic came over me. If I couldn’t find my passport, I wouldn’t be able to go to Guatemala!
My family and I looked everywhere, but we couldn’t find it. Finally, my father suggested we say a prayer. We knelt together and prayed that we could find the passport soon so that we could regain calm and sleep well that night.
Right after the prayer, my mom immediately went to the desk in the corner of the room. She crawled underneath it, and wedged in the baseboard of the wall was my passport!
I was so grateful. We knelt again to thank Heavenly Father for helping my mom find my passport. I’ll never forget how glad I felt knowing that He hears and answers our prayers.
Gideon S., Texas, USA

“Why did I ever listen to those Mormon missionaries, anyway?” thought Johanna Anderson, as the boat rocked wildly beneath her feet. The voyage had been a difficult one, and today was especially rough. Just about everyone she knew on board the boat was ill, and her faith began to falter as she thought, “Why must this journey be so long and hard?”
She could, at this very moment, have been home in her beloved Sweden with her caring parents. They had been converted by Latter-day Saint missionaries in the early 1800s, and it was their greatest desire to send their family to the Salt Lake Valley. When their eldest son, Neils, earned enough money for passage to America for himself and his wife, his parents decided it would be a wonderful opportunity to send fourteen-year-old Johanna with them.
Johanna remembered the care her mother had taken in packing her trunk, and the surprise package she’d hidden in the bottom of it. “Johanna,” her mother told her, “when you are far from home, when your faith in God is low, or when you most need help, open the package in the bottom o your trunk. It will cheer your spirits and give you faith to go on to Utah.”
Well, Johanna’s spirits were certainly low at this point. Not only had they suffered because of heavy storms, but the drinking water for the three-month journey had gone stale. Many passengers were terribly sick, and some had even died and been buried at sea. Perhaps now was the time to open the package her mother had sent.
She went to where the luggage was stored on board the boat and found her trunk. She opened it and felt inside for her special package. Tears formed in her eyes when she saw what it contained. It was the most beautiful red coat she had ever seen. Her mother must have spent hours making it for her. She slipped into its warm softness and did a little dance of excitement.
She hadn’t been this happy in a long time. She wanted to show her beautiful coat to all the others on the ship, but she thought again. This was her secret. This red coat was for Utah. She would wear it again when she arrived in the new land. Carefully she returned the coat to her trunk.
The knowledge of her beautiful secret gave her courage for the rest of the journey. When no one else seemed able to eat, Johanna found herself hungry. She had become a special friend of the ship’s cook, and he would prepare her the Swedish pancakes she loved. He would place the big bowl in her lap while he added the ingredients.
Finally, after three months, the ship reached America. It took another three months for the Andersons to travel to St. Louis, Missouri. There they purchased a wagon, ox teams, and supplies for the long trek across the plains.
While Neils and his wife drove the team, Johanna walked. She was young and strong and loved the wilderness, with its birds and animals. Every day she saw some new sight that surprised and excited her. Occasionally she would see friendly Indians in the distance. And always, as she walked, she would think of the secret in her trunk—the soft, beautiful red coat—and how she would wear it when she reached her new home in Utah.
But unknown to the company of pioneers she traveled with, hostile Indians had been following behind them. Johanna sensed things were not right and felt a little frightened. Finally, when evening came, the captain of the company moved the wagons together, forming a tight circle. The cattle and oxen were driven into the center, and there was no campfire, music, or dancing as there had been on other nights. The Saints were told to go to bed and stay quiet.
Johanna, exhausted from her long walk, fell into a deep sleep. But just at daybreak, she was awakened by voices and stamping horses’ hooves. Her sister-in-law motioned for her to lay quiet. Neils was not in his bed.
The voices grew louder and nearer, and Johanna noted the language was different. Her people were talking to the Indians.
She could hear men moving around in the wagon above her. Her trunk was at the end of the wagon, and she could tell it was being opened. She heard Neils talking to the Indians.
Suddenly the voices stopped, the men jumped down from the wagon, and she could hear the Indians riding away.
Neils returned and took Johanna to the front of the wagon. He said to his sister, “Johanna, stay here. Don’t look back or go to the rear of our wagon. You have faith and the Lord will take care of all of us.”
The temptation was too great for Johanna, and she turned to look at the Indians riding away, single file and bareback on their ponies. Heading the warriors was Chief Walker, yelling and screaming and riding at top speed. Around his shoulders he wore her beautiful red coat.
Neils caught his sister in his arms. “Johanna, your coat saved your life—not only yours, but the lives of all in our company. The bright red color caught the chief’s eye. When he saw your coat, he was satisfied and then left us all unharmed.”
The Andersons soon reached Salt Lake City, and Johanna eventually married James Hansen, a Danish convert. They had ten children, and her descendants still tell the story of her red coat to their children today.

One day when I was seventeen years old, I was washing the family car in anticipation of going on a date that evening. My father came out of the house to observe what I was doing. He criticized me to the extent that I felt as if I was doing nothing right. Finally I said something like, “Dad, get off my case. Don’t you understand this is the first time I have ever been a teenager?” He looked at me and said, “Pal, don’t you know this is the first time I have ever been a father?” I grew wiser that day because I realized we all are learning together within a family. We cannot expect our parents to be perfect any more than we can expect ourselves to be all that we hoped to be.

After he received the gold plates, Joseph Smith’s life was threatened and many attempts were made to steal the plates. Joseph and Emma, his wife, moved to Harmony, Pennsylvania, and Martin Harris, a friend from Palmyra, New York, came to visit.
Mr. Harris … returned again to my house about the 12th of April, 1828, and commenced writing for me while I translated from the plates, which we continued until the 14th of June following, by which time he had written one hundred and sixteen pages of manuscript. … Mr. Harris … began to importune (beg) me to [let] him … carry the writings home and show them; and desired of me that I would inquire of the Lord … if he might not do so. I did inquire, and the answer was that he must not. However, he was not satisfied with this answer, and desired that I should inquire again. I did so, and the answer was as before. Still he … insisted that I should inquire once more. … Permission was granted … on certain conditions; which were, that he show them only to his brother, Preserved Harris, his own wife, his father and his mother, and a Mrs. Cobb, a sister to his wife. In accordance with this last answer, I required of him that he should bind himself in a covenant to me … that he would not do otherwise than had been directed. … He bound himself as I required of him, took the writings, and went his way.
Martin Harris had been gone for three weeks, and Joseph had heard nothing from him. Joseph took a stagecoach, then walked the last twenty miles in the dark to his parents’ home in Manchester, near Palmyra. He immediately sent for Martin. Several hours later, Martin arrived and explained that the manuscript pages had been lost.
Notwithstanding … the great restrictions which [Martin Harris] had been laid under, and the solemnity [seriousness] of the covenant which he had made with me, he did show [the manuscript pages] to others, and by stratagem they got them away from him, and they never have been recovered unto this day.
I should have been satisfied with the first answer which I received from the Lord; for he told me that it was not safe to let the writing go out of my possession.
I returned immediately home. Soon after my arrival, I commenced humbling myself in mighty prayer before the Lord … that if possible I might obtain mercy at his hands and be forgiven of all that I had done contrary to his will.
Both the plates and the Urim and Thummim were taken from me … ; but in a few days they were returned to me, … and the Lord said thus unto me:
“Now, behold, I say unto you, that because you delivered up those writings … into the hands of a wicked man, you have lost them.
“And you also lost your gift [of translation] at the same time, and your mind became darkened.
“Nevertheless, it is now restored unto you again; therefore see that you are faithful and continue on unto the finishing of the remainder of the work of translation as you have begun.” (D&C 10:1–3.)
The Lord told Joseph Smith that the people who stole the manuscript planned to change some of the words. If Joseph translated the same plates again, the thieves would show the pages they had altered and say that Joseph wasn’t a prophet because the two translations weren’t identical. The Lord long ago commanded the Book of Mormon prophet Nephi to prepare a second set of plates covering the same things, and He told Joseph to translate this set, instead.
(See History of the Church, vol. 1, pages 18–24; The History of Joseph Smith, Lucy Mack Smith, pages 128, 133.)

Maria, a 16-year-old from Brazil, was struggling one Christmas after losing a second beloved grandparent. A few years ago it had been her grandfather on her mother’s side, and now she had lost her other grandfather.
“I remember Christmas always being a magical and incredible experience,” Maria says. “I remember singing hymns with my family, waking up in the night to see my Christmas present, performing the play of the birth of Christ in elementary school, and many other things that marked my childhood.”
“Focusing on Jesus Christ … gives me a certainty that these feelings of sadness and longing won’t last forever.”
Maria always enjoyed time with family. But now, with her second grandfather’s passing away, some of the gladness was stolen from her at Christmastime. Her path through the grief, like David’s, involved focusing on Christ.
“Focusing on Jesus Christ, especially at Christmastime, gives me a certainty that these feelings of sadness and longing won’t last forever,” Maria says. “I know that God is with me always. Over time I have felt this hole inside me being filled with the Savior’s love.”
Maria still has one grandparent living—her grandmother on her mother’s side. “I’m enjoying all the time I have with my grandmother,” she says. “Even if my other grandparents and relatives are no longer with me, I know I will see them again one day. We have an eternity together ahead of us.”

Sister Aketzaly Llanos was an exemplary missionary with a stalwart testimony. She was originally assigned to the Costa Rica San José East Mission, but she served with my wife, Janeen, and me in the Mexico Aguascalientes Mission for a year before she received a visa to Costa Rica.
In April 2022 we waved goodbye as Sister Llanos boarded a plane for Mexico City, where she would catch a connecting flight to Costa Rica. Less than 24 hours after we said goodbye, however, police in Mexico City called us.
“We’ve arrested Aketzaly Llanos at the airport for possession of a military-grade bullet,” they said. “This is a federal crime, and she will be prosecuted.”
Immediately, I contacted the Church’s area legal office, and they hired an attorney to seek Sister Llanos’s release. This attorney was not a member of the Church. He committed to help us but expressed pessimism. He explained that mere possession of a military bullet by nonmilitary personnel is a serious crime, regardless of a person’s intent.
Later, Sister Llanos told us she had picked up the bullet off the street in her last area. She thought it was a souvenir. The bullet, after all, resembled the souvenir key chains sold outside an old silver mine in one of her previous areas. Government investigators, however, treated her like a terrorist. Within a few days, Sister Llanos was moved from the airport jail to a high-security prison where the worst female criminals were housed.
Prayers for Sister Llanos’s prompt release began immediately. Janeen and I invited the 115 missionaries serving in our mission to exercise faith that we could see a miracle, if it was the Lord’s will. I contacted the mission presidents in Mexico City, the Costa Rica San José East Mission, and the Mexico Missionary Training Center, and they invited their missionaries to join us in prayer.
A preliminary trial was quickly scheduled in Mexico City. Janeen and I went to testify in person. When we met the legal team outside the courthouse, the attorney was visibly nervous, pacing up and down the sidewalk.
I took him aside and said: “Today you are going to feel more calm and more peaceful than you have ever felt in a courtroom. Let me tell you why. More than 500 missionaries and their families are praying for you and your success today. They’re also praying that the judge will have a softened heart and that he will release Sister Llanos from prison.”
The attorney’s eyes filled with tears, and he expressed his appreciation for the faith and prayers of so many people in his behalf.
At 10:00 a.m. the trial started, but I was required to wait outside until my turn to testify. Two long hours passed. Then the courtroom guard came out and said the judge didn’t need to hear my testimony—he’d already made his decision.
Anxiously, I entered the courtroom, and the judge began to speak. He spoke about the law Sister Llanos had violated and about the serious charges she faced.
“Disregarding all that,” he continued, “I believe the evidence that has been presented about Sister Llanos’s good character.” Then he quoted an obscure part of the law that allowed him to grant mercy, and he immediately released her.
Sister Llanos with Sister Janeen Redd, into whose arms Sister Llanos collapsed upon her release from prison.
This was the miracle we had sought! Instead of being sentenced to four or more years in prison, Sister Llanos was free to go.
Twelve hours later, Sister Llanos was released, still dressed in prison clothes. She collapsed into Janeen’s arms. Once we all stopped crying enough to speak, Sister Llanos exclaimed, “President, I got some referrals in prison!”
This entire experience confirmed that “God has not ceased to be a God of miracles” (Mormon 9:15). I have no doubt that the faith and prayers of many good people helped an attorney argue his case and softened the judge’s heart.
Because Sister Llanos was arrested, several imprisoned women received hope through the gospel of Jesus Christ, an attorney sprouted a seed of faith, and we were strengthened in our conviction that God can use us to further His work no matter where we are.

When you first look at Aaron Shamy, you might think he could get lost in a crowd. At five feet, six inches tall, he has the build of a gymnast. He’s not exactly imposing, especially when you compare him with athletes who passed six feet several inches ago and can bench press more than Aaron weighs.
But believe it or not, Aaron gets compared to those sorts of people all the time. As a world-class speed climber, he caught the attention of climbing fans when he won the 1999 Extreme Games—you may know them as the X Games—speed-climbing competition against a host of climbers who were much taller, stronger, and more experienced.
Journalists, broadcasters, and other climbers quickly forget that Aaron is small when they see him climb. A sportswriter named Steve Smyth described Aaron’s climbing style at the X Games by saying, “He shot up the wall at the sound of the starting gun like a cat darting up a tree to evade an angry dog.”
But it’s what happens after Aaron wins that is truly attention getting.
“I don’t ever remember being nervous talking about my religion at all,” says Aaron, a member of the Holladay 24th Ward, Holladay Utah North Stake. “I’ve made God the center of my life, and everything just falls into place after that. If something is that important, you shouldn’t be afraid to talk about it.”
And he’s not. After his big win, Aaron was asked how he would spend his substantial winnings. Winners in other X Game sports were talking about cars and other “toys” they would spend their money on. But not Aaron.
“I told them that the money would pay for my mission. They [the newscasters at the event] really seemed to like that answer.”
It’s not surprising that Aaron, fresh from the most exciting win of his athletic career, would immediately mention a mission. He doesn’t let opportunities to talk about the gospel slip by, whether he’s on television, with a group of fellow X Gamers, or just talking one-on-one with a friend.
When people meet Aaron they always want to know more about the boy with boundless energy. They are interested in the reasons he doesn’t drink or smoke, the reasons he always seems cheerful, and the reasons people are so drawn to him. And nothing makes Aaron happier than telling them why.
“When I talked to the people at ABC Sports, I told them that the reason I do the things I do is that there are so many good things people can do that there’s no time left for all that unholy, unspiritual stuff,” says Aaron.
Aaron turned 19 just a few months before this year’s X Games, and it would have been easy to postpone his mission just long enough to compete one more time before he left for the mission field, but he says he can’t wait that long. He’s too excited about being a full-time missionary.
“One of my sponsors asked about ‘this mission thing,’” says Aaron. “He asked if my church can’t make an exception and let me leave later. I told him it’s my choice.”
So this is it. Aaron has traded in his climbing gear for a suit and tie, and he’s headed for a summit of a different kind.
When Aaron returns home, maybe he’ll be a little taller; maybe he won’t. But he knows that he’ll grow spiritually and that his testimony and his love for people will be stronger than ever. And it’s that kind of training, more than any climbing or exercise he could do, that makes Aaron easy to spot in any crowd.
Editor’s note: Aaron has received his call to the Italy Padova Mission.

Crawford’s visits to our home became more and more frequent. “I think you’re becoming the big brother he never had,” Sally observed one night. “And maybe a bit of the father he misses.”
“All that he needs now is an older sister, right?” I said.
“Are you getting at something?”
“Now that you mention it, a week from Saturday our ward is sponsoring the stake dance. It’s time Crawford went to one. He’s almost 16, and the social polish will do him good.”
“And?”
“And my guess is that part of the reason he doesn’t go to dances is that he doesn’t know how to dance. Typical male teenager.”
“You want me to teach him how to dance? But his feet are so big! And there’s not much time before the dance. And …”
“And?”
“And when would you like me to start?”
That’s why, two days later, our family room became a dance studio. I was in charge of music, Sally in charge of instruction, and Crawford in charge—well sort of in charge—of his two huge feet.
“I can’t do this!” he lamented.
“Yes you can. Two steps forward, one step back. If you can count, you can dance,” I cheered him on. Sally kept an eye on his feet.
“To the beat, Crawford,” Sally said, looking at me. “You’re doing quite well. You’re already much better than my husband.”
“Two ahead, one back … Two ahead, one back. …” Crawford muttered dutifully. “Are you sure I can do this?”
Two hours later, Crawford had the two-step down cold and a little bit of the swing memorized. Miraculously, Sally’s feet were neither bruised nor broken.
“We’ll be chaperoning at the dance Saturday,” Sally said as he left. “You’re ready, and you’ll have a great time. See you there.”
“I’ll be there,” he pledged.
And so he was.
He walked in the door about 20 minutes late, wearing a new sports coat and slacks. The tape on his glasses was gone. In fact, his glasses were gone.
“Oh Crawford, you look so handsome,” Sally said.
“My mother talked me into spending some of my money on a new coat,” he said. “I objected, but she insisted. And I’ve had contact lenses for a couple of years, but I’ve seldom worn them. Mom says when I take my glasses off I look like my father.”
Music was playing. A spotlight shone on a revolving mirrored ball, flashing patterns of light across the floor. A few dancers were making their way to the center of the cultural hall. Crawford gazed at them.
Sally whispered in my ear. “Look at him. Can you believe it?”
Crawford ambled over to the refreshment table and picked up a cup of punch. He sipped it and chatted with some of the boys from our ward.
“When will he dance?”
“Soon enough. My guess is that he’ll wait for a slow one. You know, two steps forward, one step back.”
Ten minutes passed, then 20, then half an hour. A slow song came on. Crawford put down the cup of punch and walked across the floor. Slowly he moved toward a small group of girls. One had her back to Crawford.
“That’s the one, Sally. He’s going to ask the girl in the blue-and-white dress for a dance.”
“Oh, she’s cute,” Sally whispered. “His very first dance. I’m so excited.”
“Go, Crawford.” I almost wanted to shout it. “Confidence. Remember confidence. Ask her before the song ends. Sally, this is going to work. I know it.”
Wrong.
Crawford, though he could now dance, did not know how to ask a young lady to dance, a key omission from our family-room lesson. He simply reached out one of his huge hands and sort of thumped it on the poor girl’s shoulder.
As she turned around, she must have had visions of meeting King Kong. Crawford sensed something wasn’t going right, promptly froze, and sat there with a silly smile plastered on his face. The girl’s jaw dropped, and she began to back cautiously away. Awkward is too mild of an adjective to describe the situation.
“Oh, Crawford,” Sally moaned.
Finally, he began to show signs of life. Without changing facial expression, he backed up, one foot, then the other. The music stopped. Some of the returning dancers noticed the odd scene and stared at him. As though in a trance, he kept backing, backing away. It was the basketball fiasco all over again.
Crawford backpedaled until he nudged the refreshment table. The punch bowl sat at the far end. Crawford reached back with his hands, and without thinking, hoisted himself onto the table. It was only then that his grin disappeared. Replacing it was a look of sheer horror.
His weight on one end of the table sent the other end shooting upward. The punch bowl came sliding toward him. Too late he realized what was happening. He spun around after the punch bowl had plowed through a tray of cookies and just as it fell off the edge of the table. Instinctively, he grabbed the bowl and saved it from crashing to the floor. But he couldn’t prevent a tidal wave of raspberry punch from sloshing all over his face and his clothes.
Everyone’s gaze was on Crawford, who stood forlornly at the end of the table, holding the almost-empty bowl, dripping sticky red liquid from head to foot.
The music started, a fast number with a strong beat. Flashes of light from the mirror darted around the room, but nobody was dancing. Some of the kids were applauding, some laughing and pointing. Others were trying to help clean up the mess. One of the boys in the teachers quorum ran to get towels. Someone else went looking for a mop, but all he could find was a broom.
About a dozen people or so just stood there, wondering what to do.
Finally, Crawford straightened.
“Are you all right?” someone said. It was the girl in the blue-and-white dress. “Did you still want to dance?”
“I’m okay,” Crawford said. “In fact, I’m more than okay. I’ll just run home and change clothes, then I’ll be right back. Don’t worry. It’s my first dance. I’m supposed to make a big splash.”
Later that evening, Sally pointed to the middle of the dance floor. There was Crawford in his old suit, dancing with the girl in the blue-and-white dress. It was a slow number. I could see him mouthing the words, “two steps forward, one step back,” in perfect rhythm to the music.

Margaret Dean knew all about the misconceptions people had about the Church. As an African American, Sister Dean had friends who wondered if she would be discriminated against when she became a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. But she knew better, and she wanted others to know better, too. So Sister Dean set about knocking down those walls that Troy, Melissa, and all the rest of the members of the stake came up against when they tried to do missionary work.

Under the direction of the stake president, Sister Dean set about organizing a Black history celebration to be held at the stake center. She enlisted the help of the youth and youth leaders in the stake, and she also asked local leaders from other churches to participate. That first year no one really knew if it would work, or if anybody would even come. But by the fourth year, the last year that Sister Dean would be alive to attend the program, the celebration was filling the stake center to capacity and providing countless missionary opportunities. One highlight for Sister Dean—who has always loved music—was the 60-member choir comprised of youth from the Pensacola stake and the nearby Mt. Zion, John the Baptist, Mount Lily, Zion Hope, Greater Union, and Greater True Vine Churches.

April Reisinger, a Laurel, was a member of that choir. “I think that something like this helps you get to know each other. In the choir not only did we learn to sing together, which was a challenge since there were so many of us; we also prayed together at rehearsals. There was always a good feeling there.”

Although Sister Dean has died, the program she worked so hard to develop lives on. Every year, the crowd at the stake center grows larger. And every year, Latter-day Saint youth get a chance to share in the heritage of their community and to make friends who are members of other faiths.