Gospel Story Finder

Another story of priesthood service was told a month ago in a ward sacrament meeting. Again, I was there. In this case, the seasoned Melchizedek Priesthood holder didn’t know as he spoke that he was describing exactly what the Lord desires to happen with strengthened priesthood quorums. Here is the gist of his account:
He and a home teaching companion were assigned to serve seven families. Almost all of them did not want visits. When the home teachers went to their apartments, they refused to answer the door. When they telephoned, they did not get an answer. When they left a message, the call was not returned. This senior companion finally resorted to a letter-writing ministry. He even began to use bright yellow envelopes in the hope of getting a response.
One of the seven families was a less-active single sister who had emigrated from Europe. She had two young children.
After many attempts to contact her, he received a text message. She abruptly informed him that she was too busy to meet with home teachers. She had two jobs and was in the military as well. Her primary job was that of a police officer, and her career goal was to become a detective and then return to her native country and continue her work there.
The home teacher never was able to visit with her in her home. He periodically texted her. Every month he sent a handwritten letter, supplemented with holiday cards for each child.
He received no response. But she knew who her home teachers were, how to contact them, and that they would persist in their priesthood service.
Then one day he received an urgent text from her. She desperately needed help. She did not know who the bishop was, but she did know her home teachers.
In a few days, she had to leave the state for a monthlong military training exercise. She could not take her children with her. Her mother, who was going to care for her children, had just flown to Europe to care for her husband, who had a medical emergency.
This less-active single sister had enough money to buy a ticket to Europe for her youngest child but not for her 12-year-old son, Eric. She asked her home teacher if he could find a good LDS family to take Eric into their home for the next 30 days!
The home teacher texted back that he would do his best. He then contacted his priesthood leaders. The bishop, who was the presiding high priest, gave him approval to approach members of the ward council, including the Relief Society president.
The Relief Society president quickly found four good LDS families, with children about Eric’s age, who would take him into their homes for a week at a time. Over the next month, these families fed Eric, found room for him in their already crowded apartments or small homes, took him on their previously planned summer family activities, brought him to church, included him in their family home evenings, and on and on.
The families with boys Eric’s age included him in their deacons quorum meetings and activities. During this 30-day period, Eric was in church every Sunday for the first time in his life.
After his mother came home from her training, Eric continued to attend church, usually with one of these four volunteer LDS families or others who had befriended him, including his mother’s visiting teachers. In time, he was ordained a deacon and began passing the sacrament regularly.
Now let us look into Eric’s future. We will not be surprised if he becomes a leader in the Church in his mother’s home country when his family returns there—all because of Saints who worked together in unity, under the direction of a bishop, to serve out of charity in their hearts and with the power of the Holy Ghost.

“When I was about nine years old, I remember Grandpa sitting in his big overstuffed chair. He allowed me to stand behind him and comb his beautiful hair. I would part it in the middle then comb it back in different ways. Sometimes I would part his hair on the side and try a new style, and I would comb it down over his face in the process. He was very patient and let me comb it until my arms were tired.”
“The things I remember about Grandpa were the great stories he would make up and tell to my sister and me as we sat at his feet. They were long adventure stories—real whoppers—almost like science fiction. My sister and I were always part of the tales.
“In one of his stories we were all riding in a car in the desert and discovered a big underground cave. In the back of the cave we found all kinds of jewels and valuable treasures. There was lots of food there for us to eat. The water in the bottom of the cave was boiling hot, but luckily we discovered a speedboat that kept us safe from the heat of the water. We all got into the boat and rode down the river. In his stories like this one, we always found a giant or two or something else exciting. Often we fought these giants and we always won, my grandpa, my sister, and I. We could listen for hours to these exciting stories. There was no television where we lived, but we certainly didn’t miss it.
“Grandpa was always learning there in his armchair, reading a book by lamplight. Nephi was his favorite prophet. He always said he wanted to live and to be like Nephi.”
One of the choicest experiences this man related to me was about a horse. Because he was a commanding officer in the Canadian Cavalry, a horse was very important to him:
“I looked around for the best horse in the area to buy. I loved horses—I always had. I finally found just the right one. I paid seventy-five dollars for this horse, which was a lot of money in those days. I quickly picked an excellent horseman who was an expert in horse training. He worked and worked with Steamboat, as I called him, and before long, he was not only the best-looking horse in the Canadian Cavalry, but also the best trained. I could tell him to lie down, to roll over, or to come to me, and this horse immediately obeyed. I was so very pleased.
“We were in Cardston at the time and I had enjoyed riding Steamboat for a couple of years when one day a Colonel Walker from Winnipeg visited our headquarters there. His main mission was to buy a fine horse for the general. He didn’t tell me this at first, but just said:
“‘I hear you have a fine horse.’
“‘He’s a dandy!’ I answered.
“Then he asked to take a ride on Steamboat and I said, ‘All right.’
“When he returned from a short ride, he dismounted and asked, ‘How much would you take for this horse?’
“I was sure he was joking with me, so I quickly replied, in jest, ‘Oh, five hundred dollars.’ This was an outrageous sum.
“‘Sold,’ he said.
“I was stunned! ‘But I was just joking, this horse is my pride and joy,’ I stammered.
“Colonel Walker stood straight and tall and said, ‘You told me the price, I will pay it, so we have just made a deal.’
“I was brokenhearted for a long time at the loss of my joy, Steamboat, my friend.
“About a year later,” he concluded, “while I was in England visiting our headquarters there, I was invited to inspect their horse stables. As I was walking down a row of stalls, I saw my great friend in one of them. ‘Steamer,’ I shouted.
“The horse jumped like he’d been shot. I climbed into the stall, threw my arms around that horse and cried and cried. An old friend is hard to forget.”
As I personally met with this great man, I asked him to tell me what he remembered about his boyhood. Some of the childhood experiences he related were humorous.
“My brother Bud and I had a lot of fun as children. He liked to tease and play jokes on me. One day we chased a weasel down a hole. We used a shovel and tried to dig him out, but with no luck. Bud told me that if I put my hand down the hole, maybe I could grab the animal and pull it out. I believed him, and thrust my hand as far down the hole as I could. But the weasel bit my finger so hard that it almost took the end of it off. After that I decided to be a little more careful whenever Bud told me to do something.
“My brother pestered me with jokes all through our childhood. I did get back at him once, though. I remember we were sleeping in the basement of a barn at the time. Bud had been reading a book about ghosts and ghost stories. One day I got the idea to ask my cousin to put an old sheet over himself and hide down in the basement of the barn until Bud came home. I then hid outside and watched and waited. Sure enough, Bud came along and went in through the barn door and started down the basement. When he saw my cousin, he came screaming out of the barn, running as fast as he could. It was a long time after that before Bud would sleep down there again.”
This apostle of the Lord also told me how important prayer and his testimony had always been to him. One last recollection sums up his feelings:
“
If I had a bad dream in the night when I was young, I would awaken and call out, ‘Mother, are you there?’ Since mother’s room was next to mine, she would hear me and answer quickly, ‘Yes, Son, I’m here.’
“Years later when I left for a mission to England, my mother reminded me that she wouldn’t be there to answer when I called but that our Heavenly Father would always be there.
“Many times on my mission and throughout my life I have called out: ‘Father, are you there?’”
The handsome elderly man with beautiful white hair, meditated for a few moments. Then quietly he said, “Always, I have received an answer.”

Bishop Webb remembers last year’s tithing settlement with Sage and her family. “I asked Sage, ‘Are you a full tithe payer?”
“She said, ‘No.’
“I asked if she had some tithing to pay to be a full tithe payer.
“She said, ‘Yes.’ Then she pulled out an envelope with some money and pushed it across my table.
“‘Do you want me to fill out your receipt for you?’ I asked.
“‘No,’ she said. ‘You hold the paper, and I’ll write it.’”
And placing a pencil between the stubs on the ends of her arms, she laboriously filled out the receipt.
The bishop knows, as do others close to the family, just how difficult Sage’s healing has been. At times, the pain has been almost more than she could bear. Once when she was undergoing some therapy at home, she begged her mother not to hurt her anymore. Denise told her about a little girl who cried so much that her parents stopped giving her therapy. Now that little girl can’t walk.
Sage wept. “I wish I could give my body so that little girl could walk again.”
And in a way, she has. Sage’s story has been published throughout the United States. “Since the articles started coming out, we get letters from all over the country,” Michael says. One was from a lady dying of cancer; she had cut a picture of Sage from a magazine and put it where it could be easily seen. “Now when I hurt,” she wrote, “I look at that and say, ‘You foolish woman, what have you got to be sad about?’”
Another wrote to tell them he had been so inspired that he had decided to become active in the Church again after many years.
“I believe that part of Sage’s mission is to show people that you can accomplish things with your life no matter what,” Michael says. “She will be a wonderful missionary. She already is.”
Faith in Sage’s future wasn’t easy. During those first terrible days, Michael and Denise faced the agonizing possibility that Sage would die. “We mourned for the Sage we had known,” they say, “and then we faced the challenge of accepting the new Sage. Spiritually and emotionally, we were healed as she was healed.”
The support from fellow Saints and neighbors was a vital part of that healing. Ruth DeBuck stayed with Denise those first few nights in the hospital. They lay on separate beds pulled together, their heads touching, holding hands.
“We talked through the night, working through the nightmare,” Ruth says. “We talked about what it would mean if Sage died, and what it would mean if she lived. All a mother feels and wants for her daughter had been suddenly ripped away, and Denise had to deal with that loss. Those first few days, we had to let the old dreams go, then dream new dreams.”
Ruth has seen those dreams blossom. “We see Sage some time in the future being married in the temple,” she says. “Some young man, kind and pure, who can see through the physical to her spiritual beauty, is with her. We see her with children of her own, living a life in the gospel, taking the joy offered, living beyong the burn.”
“When bad things happen, some people will lean on the Lord,” fellow ward member Kirk Wood says. “Others will become bitter and lose that opportunity. The Volkmans have relied on the Lord and have grown spiritually because of it.
“The whole experience has been difficult and wonderful for all of us,” he says. “It’s hard to describe a tragedy like this as wonderful, but it has shown us what really matters. It has stripped away the nonessentials.”
Michael humbly explains, “We’re luckier than most. We have the gospel.”
Denise smiles. She gazes at Michael, at Avery and Sage, then says simply, “The gospel heals.”

For months I had prepared with my piano teacher for this day. I was participating in Achievement in Music, an annual competition that rates music students on all sorts of things—from knowledge of theory to the dynamics in a memorized piece. Finally the day had come and along with it my nervousness.
The scariest part of the competition involved performing pieces for judges. I knew my pieces, but my hands shook as I played.
The dreaded performance was over. I could relax because I just had to give my report on a composer. I found the correct area and waited in a line before two doors. Curiously, I looked in the door on the left. A friendly teacher encouraged students as they nervously entered and became acquainted. She obviously wanted to put them at ease.
Then I looked in the room on the right. There was another piano teacher, an older one, but she had a stern look that made my hands turn cold. The more I saw her interact with the students, the more scared I felt. All I could think was, “I hope I get the first judge.”
I read my report over and over. When I got to the front of the line, I hoped the person on the left would finish first. To my dismay, the student on the right started walking to the door. There was no way I could go in there. Then the thought came to me, “Just put on your biggest smile.”
I walked in with a bounce in my step and the biggest smile I’d ever shown. Like they say, by acting happy, you feel happy. I beamed as I shook the judge’s hand. Then I read my report in a clear voice, pausing now and then to smile at her. At the end of my report, I thanked her for her time. She did not seem scary anymore. As I walked out of the room, I felt relieved and happy.
A few months later I listened as my piano teacher read the comments from the judges. On the last comment she said, “Wow, you really impressed this judge. She wrote, ‘Michelle, the girl with the beautiful smile.’” I didn’t have to ask her who wrote that.
Changing my attitude helped me do my best. Whenever I have something difficult to do, instead of showing myself to be unwilling, I decide to make it fulfilling and enjoyable. I know that my attitude affects my experiences. By persevering with a good attitude, I have learned to enjoy my challenges.

“Don’t worry, Gordy,” Benny told his friend. “I’ll get us back to the cabin safely.”
The boys had left the cabin about an hour earlier to explore the area on snowshoes. Benny had been in the woods many times before, but this was the first time for Gordy and he was frightened. A snowstorm had come up so quickly even Benny had been taken by surprise. It was snowing and blowing so hard that the boys could hardly see each other, and there was nothing to mark the way they should go.
Benny was almost as worried as his friend, but aloud he said, “All we need to do, Gordy, is walk straight ahead, and we’ll come to the cabin.”
“Then let’s get going!” Gordy insisted. “I can’t see anything—and it’s scary. What if we get separated?”
“Here,” Benny said as he took a long scarf from around his neck. He tied one end to his own wrist and the other end securely to Gordy’s belt.
“Now we’ll be okay,” he declared, sounding more cheerful than he felt. “Let’s go.”
Benny started out slowly, sliding one foot after the other without lifting his snowshoes off the ground. He felt a slight tug on the scarf as Gordy followed behind.
Suddenly Benny stopped. Gordy nearly collided into him but stopped just in time. “What’s the matter?” he asked.
“I just remembered something,” Benny said. “Let me think a minute.”
Benny’s mind raced back to the day of Charlie Roger’s birthday party when they played Pin the Tail on the Donkey. Benny remembered how he had walked in what seemed to be a straight line toward the donkey, but when he pinned the tail on, it was far to the right. Most of the other boys and girls walked far to the right too.
That night Benny had asked his father, “Why do we turn to the right when we think we’re going straight?”
“When we can’t see,” his father told him, “we move to the right or left because our bodies are not perfectly balanced. Most right-handed people tend to turn to the right because the muscles on that side of their bodies are better developed and slightly heavier.
“When we can see, we compensate for this imbalance without thinking. But in a fog, for instance, people often walk in circles when they think they are going straight.”
What’s true of fog must be true of a snowstorm, thought Benny. I’ll have to concentrate on moving to the left and hope we’ll end up at the cabin.
“Come on,” he said to Gordy. “Let’s go on now.”
Benny started out again, moving slightly to his left. After traveling for a while, he felt a tug on the scarf. He realized that Gordy was signaling for him to stop.
“What’s the matter?” Benny called above the noise of the wind.
“You keep going too far to the left!” Gordy exclaimed. “We should have gone straight. Now we’re lost and we’ll never find the cabin.”
“We’ll find it, Gordy,” Benny promised him. “Just trust me, and we’ll be there soon.”
When they started out again, Benny felt Gordy following reluctantly. The snow continued to swirl around them in thick clouds, and all Benny could see was a heavy mist of white. Even when he turned back to encourage Gordy, he could barely see his friend through the whirling snowflakes.
Before long Benny felt a tug on the scarf and turned to hear Gordy call, “We’re lost. What will we do?”
“No, we’re not lost,” Benny answered. “We’re almost there.”
Benny’s voice was strong against the wind and sounded full of confidence, but inside he was beginning to wonder if he hadn’t made a mistake. Yet he knew they had to keep moving.
Benny quickly moved one snowshoe ahead of the other, giving a little tug on the scarf. Gordy followed silently.
Suddenly Benny stopped. “There’s the cabin!” he shouted. “I see a little light over to the right.”
He felt the tension on the scarf relax as Gordy called, “Oh, Benny, I see it too!”
The boys hurried in the direction of the light, stumbling a little from fatigue and cold.
“We were right on top of it!” Benny said as the boys circled around to the front porch.
Benny could hear his father’s voice calling through the storm.
“We’re here on the porch, Dad!” Benny answered.
Swinging a lantern, Benny’s father came around from the back of the cabin.
“I’m certainly glad to see both of you,” he said, holding up the light to see the boys. “I’ve been calling and calling for you ever since the storm started. I didn’t dare move out of sight of the cabin, for I knew it wouldn’t help if I got lost too.”
“Well, I thought we were lost,” said Gordy, “but Benny knew just where to go.”
“You can tell me all about it when you’ve changed your clothes and had some hot chocolate,” Benny’s father said. “The important thing is that you’re here.”
As the boys hurried into the warm cabin, they looked at each other and smiled. “You’re right, Dad,” Benny said. “The important thing is that we’re here.”

A Brother Cooper, noticing William’s skill with cattle, hired him to break his teams to yoke and then drive them to Utah. In return William and Elizabeth were promised free transportation. A few days later, however, their employer announced that he did not intend to go to Zion but wanted them to help him farm nearby. When William refused, he and Elizabeth were ordered out of the wagon and left without food or water.

Elizabeth wept bitterly. William’s thoughts focused on his 50-foot rope that Cooper had taken. Then, with his fiancée following to calm him down, William hiked the half hour to Cooper’s evening camp. When he approached the cow to which his rope was tied, Cooper “drew a beeline on me with his old Yorker.” Without hesitation, William cut loose the cow, coiled his rope, then marched up to the disagreeable man and announced: “Mr. Cooper, I am going to lay off my religion and give you a licking so you won’t forget me.” Which he did.

Fortunately for the stranded couple, Elders Lyman and Charles C. Rich rode in from the West and found them that evening. They arranged for Elizabeth to ride to Utah with a family named Wardell for 40 dollars. Elder Lyman, however, asked William to return to Florence to help with the D. F. Kimball freight train. The fiancé agreed to this separation reluctantly:

“I think this was the greatest trial I ever underwent—to leave my betrothed and go back. However, I submitted and kissed my girl good-bye and gave her a half sovereign, all the money I had in the world, and jumped in the buckboard and off we went, I with a sorrowful heart and a mind full of reflections as to the outcome of it all. Brother Rich found I was in tears and told me to cheer up and have faith and all would be well.”

In addition to a belief in the existence of God, we must know something of his character and attributes or our faith will be imperfect and unfruitful. Faith will avail us nothing unless it is based on true principles. This is illustrated in a story I have told before about the meeting of the Indians with the Europeans when they first began their explorations in the New World. The Indians were amazed at the power and explosive qualities of gunpowder and asked many questions about how it was produced. Taking advantage of the ignorance of the savages and seeing an opportunity to increase their wealth through deception, the Europeans told them it came from the seed of a plant. The Indians believed them and purchased some seed in exchange for gold. They carefully planted the seed and watched it grow, but of course they did not get any gunpowder. No matter how sincere one’s belief may be in an error, it will not change the error into truth.

I first saw Hannah* at a Mutual activity. No one really talked with her. She just sat by herself looking miserable. I had already made several good friends in the ward, so at first I didn’t see any reason to talk with her. I thought it would be a burden to leave my friends and be with someone who seemed so unhappy.
Then I thought, “I used to be left out. I’ve been there before.” I remembered a time when I was watching everyone happily talking with each other but not with me. I felt bad thinking that Hannah might come away from Mutual feeling like that.
So I went up to her, smiled, and said hi.
She nodded in return.
I asked what her name was and what school she went to.
I got two one-word answers in a row.
As a naturally talkative person, I felt awkward. But I didn’t want to just get up and leave her alone, so I sat next to her until it was time to split up for our different activities. I mustered another smile and said, “It was nice to meet you. Will you come again next week?” She nodded.
She came back to Mutual over the next several weeks. Her dark hair was never combed, and she always seemed to be wearing the same black clothing. I talked with her whenever she came, even though it was hard. But, from the bits and pieces that she spoke, I got to know her better and found out that she likes drawing and art. After a while, I started to see her as one of my friends.
I soon found myself hoping she would keep coming to activities and especially to church. But I still didn’t know much about her circumstances or if she even wanted to come to church.
I went to her house a few times to drop off activity announcements. Later, I dropped off a card and a treat on her birthday. In spite of my efforts, she was never home and never answered the phone.
She only came to Mutual, so I kept on talking with her there and including her during the combined activities.
Then one Sunday it happened—she came to church! Although she only attended occasionally, I made sure to sit by her during lessons on Sundays whenever she came.
Later on that year we both took the same art class. I had never taken high school art before, and I was the one who needed help. I would ask her about how to use the different tools and for advice on creating art.
“Hey, Hannah, what does this white pencil do?” I asked.
“It’s a blending tool. It makes your pencil drawings look smoother. Cool, huh?”
“Wow! I didn’t know that. Thanks!”
She smiled.
At the end of the semester, we gave each other small sketches and drawings we had created in class.
When I graduated from high school about five months later, Hannah was wearing colorful clothes, looked happier, and had attended church several times. And she was actually smiling!
This experience confirmed to me that sometimes it’s hard to make righteous choices, but it’s those choices that make us stronger. I also learned to never underestimate the influence of small actions and decisions. Who knew that I would be the one needing Hannah’s help in the end?
I didn’t know it then, but as I look back on the experience, I also realize that being nice to Hannah and trying to be her friend was a part of keeping my covenants. Of course, at that first Mutual activity, I didn’t go up to Hannah thinking, “OK, I’m going to keep my covenants by befriending her.” I just saw that she looked lonely, and I didn’t want her to feel alone during Mutual. And that small act made a big difference in my life.

“I will never forget you, bishop. You saved my life.”
The man who makes that statement today didn’t feel that way in the beginning. As a teen he was scared. He knew he needed to repent. I was his bishop at the time, and he knew we needed to talk. But he was full of doubts.
“What is the bishop going to think of me?”
“Will he keep this confidential?”
“How will I ever look at him again?”
Such worries can feel overwhelming, making it seem nearly impossible to muster the courage necessary to travel the road to repentance.
But some confessions require that you talk to your bishop or branch president. And that’s where this young man found himself. He needed help beyond his own capacity, and he needed to know the journey was possible.
Let me close by telling you a little more about my visit with that young man. “Bishop,” he said, “you’re going to hate me for what I have to tell you. You’ll never be able to look at me again, and if you share what I say with anybody, I’ll kill myself.”
I said, “I promise I will never betray your confidences. I will take them with me to the grave.”
He told me about some minor situations and watched my reaction. When I said, “I know what you’re going through. I can help you,” he proceeded slowly until he got to what he really wanted to discuss. I reminded him repeatedly that I admired him for confessing and wanting to change. Even though he seemed ready to run at any moment, together we got through what he needed to share.
Was it a big deal? It was to him. But as we talked, he came to better understand the mercy the Lord offers to those who sincerely repent. After that first visit, we worked together, and over time his repentance became complete. Today he still calls me to say hello, and our conversations are happy.
I was privileged to help him learn that we all depend on the Atonement. And I join my voice with his in praise of Jesus Christ, the one who really saved his life.

Perhaps the hardest lesson I have had to learn is trusting Heavenly Father’s timing more than mine.
One day as I was reading the blessings He promised to me in my patriarchal blessing, I was overwhelmed with the idea that because of my OCD, the blessings described would be impossible for me. I was promised that I would feel peace, but how could I with so much anxiety?
How would I ever learn to love the temple when I always felt unworthy to attend?
I pled for God to remove my OCD from me. But as I did, a single thought came to my mind: “Would I continue to follow the Savior if He didn’t take my OCD away?”
The thought that Heavenly Father wouldn’t take my mental disorder away was devastating. In the days since, I’ve pondered that question a lot: “Will you follow me if not?”
I’ve learned that although OCD might always be present in my life, God will help me to handle its symptoms and continue to grow. My healing still includes crying, bouts of guilt and anxiety, therapy, and pleading on my knees.
But more and more, my healing involves reclaiming joy in my life, offering myself love and grace, and connecting with the Savior. As I turn to Him, He helps me have the strength to carry on. He is by my side as I weep. I have felt His presence more than ever as I plead for His help in dealing with OCD. I now understand how “he will take upon him the pains and the sicknesses of his people” (Alma 7:11). I am learning that He truly does know how I feel and will provide me with what I need as I keep moving forward.

James Peter Fugal was an honest man! He herded sheep much of his life in the rolling hills of Idaho. On one bitterly cold winter night, he was herding sheep for another man when a blizzard set in. The sheep bunched together, as sheep do, in the corner of a fenced area, and many died.
Though the death of the sheep was no fault of his, James Fugal felt responsible and spent the next several years working and saving to repay the owner for his lost sheep.
This same desire to live Christian principles was evident in Aurelia Spencer Rogers, who founded the Primary organization of the Church. She had a concern for the moral character and social development of children. Leaders of the Primary since Aurelia Spencer Rogers continue to teach wholesomeness, virtue, and love for one another as well as to instill a desire to understand and live by traditional values.
Sister Haight and I attended a sacrament meeting some distance from our home. We found, to our delight, that the Primary would present the program, the theme being “We Believe in Being Honest.”
I marveled at the eagerness of these young children as they spoke about the fundamental principles they were learning of telling the truth, respecting the property of others, being trustworthy, and standing for the right.
I thought of James Fugal, the humble sheepherder, and how wonderful it was that these children were being taught the same values that made him a man of such noble character.

There were only three Scouts, initially, in the Cleveland Branch of the Tulsa Oklahoma Stake. But that didn’t stop them. The branch was challenged to organize a Scout troop anyway.
“There were already other Scouts in the area,” reports Dan Steurer, first counselor in the branch presidency, who was given the specific assignment to organize the troop. “But troop committees weren’t really functioning. The community was looking for the leadership and organization that the Church could provide, and this was a way to serve them.” Strong adults, both LDS and non-LDS, were asked to work with the newly organized troop.
Depending on whom you ask, the Scout troop gets credit directly or indirectly for 8 to 13 baptisms.
“We’ve had Scouts who’ve been baptized, we’ve had assistant Scoutmasters who’ve been baptized, and their families,” says Michael Southward, the Cleveland Branch president. “The Scouts are probably the single most active missionary tools we have.”
Now the branch sponsors two troops, Troop 76 with 26 Scouts, and Troop 66 with 13 Scouts. Five boys have received their Eagle rank. The branch is also helping the Cub Scout movement in four different towns, and a Varsity Scout team is being organized.
“If service is helping people meet their own needs,” Brother Steurer said, “then you’d have to say organizing a Scout troop is one of the greatest service projects ever. And if you think of sharing the gospel as the greatest service of all, then you’d have to say we’re mighty happy.”

I think of some wonderful people I know. Their older children grew up and were married and went forward with their lives in a way that made the hearts of their parents glad. And then there was a younger son, a bright and able boy. It was the associations he had in high school that moved him in another direction. His hair grew long and his dress uncared for. He did other things which brought great distress to his father and mother. His father was troubled. He scolded and threatened; he wept and prayed and rebuked his son. But there was no response. The boy went his wayward course. His mother also wept and prayed. But she controlled her feelings and kept her voice low. She repeatedly expressed to her son her love for him. He left home. She kept his room tidy, his bed made, food for him in the refrigerator, and she told him that whenever he felt like coming home he would be made welcome.

Months passed while hearts ached.

The love of his mother finally began to touch his heart. He came home occasionally to sleep. Without ever scolding, she smiled, joked with him, placed delicious food before him, put her arms around him, and expressed her love. Finally, he began to show increasing neatness in his person. He stayed home more. He came to realize that there was no other place as comfortable, no place as secure, no place as happy as that home which he had earlier left. He finally got his life under control. He went on a mission, at an age older than most young men do. He proved to be a successful missionary. He returned home, entered school, and began to apply himself. The last time I saw him, he and his mother, each blessed with a good voice, sang a duet while some who knew the history of that family shed tears.

I hate camping. I do not like dirt or campfires. In fact, much to the chagrin of my adventurous husband and sons, I have established a rule that I will only sleep in a tent one night every five years. You can only imagine my consternation when my husband and I were called to be a ma and pa for our stake's pioneer trek last summer.

I have often read my family history. I have always been proud that my pioneer ancestors were a part of the Willie and Martin handcart companies. Yet I never appreciated—and still cannot fully comprehend—what they went through for me, and you, and every other Latter-day Saint.

On the second day of the trek, I participated in the women's pull. It was near record-breaking heat. Several of the youth were suffering from heat stroke, blisters, and sun burns. The sagebrush was waist high, and the ruts in the trail were 12 inches deep. I shared a position at the back of our company's handcart with one other young woman, and there were two young women pulling in the front of the handcart. The men were not allowed to touch the handcarts or help the women in any way as we labored up the 20 percent grade.

It was hard! What got me up that hill was looking back. I do not mean looking back at the sisters and handcarts behind me but looking back and thinking about my pioneer ancestors.

My ancestors pushed and pulled heavy handcarts for 117 days, from Iowa City to Salt Lake City, over 1,400 miles in blazing heat, wind, rain, and snow. They did not have Solomon trail shoes, UV-resistant and moisture-wicking clothing, or ice-cold electrolyte drinks at the top of the hill. They did not have Springbar tents, sub-zero sleeping bags, or ATVs to transport the sick and afflicted.

In fact, I want to share with you a few entries from the pioneer history of my great, great, great, great grandmother, Sarah Denton Moulton:

"The trials of the Willie Company were getting more difficult all the time. Provisions were running low. The rickety carts were needing repair. Fear that the entire company would perish prevented even proper ceremonies for the dead. The extra burdens put upon the handcarts because of the loss of the wagons and cattle was more than many of the immigrants could bear. Loads had to be greatly lessened by leaving behind more articles of clothing and bedding, which were sorely needed but which had to be disposed of so that progress could be made. To add to these difficulties, winter set in early that year.

"Cold weather, scarcity of food, lassitude, and fatigue from over-exertion soon produced their effects. Our old and infirm people began to droop, and they no sooner lost spirit and courage than death's stamp could be traced upon their features . . .

"At first the deaths occurred slowly and irregularly, but in a few days at more frequent intervals, until we thought it unusual to leave a campground without burying one or more persons . . . Many a father pulled his cart, with his little children on it, until the day preceding his death. I have seen some pull their carts in the morning, give out during the day, and die before the next morning."

These pioneers fled persecution, left their earthly possessions behind, and lost loved ones on the trail for us. When was the last time you looked back at their hardships for inspiration to endure your trials?

Whether it is one generation or five, whether it is from your own family history or someone else's, look back. Let their faith-promoting experiences provide the motivation you need to press forward.

I chose to speak about hope today because I have learned a lot about it over the past several years. There were other serious health issues, other surgeries, and other miracles. However, our trudge up Rocky Ridge in the face of the icy winds of adversity began on the afternoon of February 1, 2006, when we received the shocking news from Kansas that our daughter Laycee was in a hospital in a coma. She died the next day. We will be eternally thankful for the rescue parties the Lord sent in the form of loving family and friends. Truly they fulfilled the admonition of Alma “to mourn with those that mourn; yea, and comfort those that stand in need of comfort” (Mosiah 18:9). We are especially thankful for the anonymous individual who allowed us to purchase a gravestone immediately after Laycee’s death. This brought a great deal of comfort.

It was months before I began to see color in a life that had become gray. I feared that I might forget how to laugh or that I might never feel genuinely happy again. A day still does not go by that I do not think about Laycee several times. She was too well loved to ever be forgotten. Gradually the road became less steep and rocky. However, real healing, for me, did not come until 18 months later, after I climbed one more section of our own Rocky Ridge.

To set the stage for this experience, I will start by telling you that I have kept a daily journal for years. Writing in my journal is somewhat therapeutic. I record my thoughts and feelings along with events in my life. I also need to tell you that my career has caused me to travel a considerable amount. These trips involved many airline carriers, both foreign and domestic, to nearly every continent in the world. During all of this traveling, I had never lost a bag until one trip about six months after Laycee’s death.

I was on a long trip that took me from Argentina to Chile to Ecuador, back to the U.S. through Miami, and then to Reno before I returned home to Provo. All of the bags made it through to Miami; however, somewhere between the nonstop flight from Miami to Reno, one bag was lost. I always put my journal in a carry-on bag so that it is with me at all times—I cherish my journals. However, for reasons that I cannot explain, I inadvertently packed it in a checked bag for the trip from Quito to Reno. As you might have guessed, my journal was in the checked bag that was lost. Against high odds, that bag was never recovered by the airline.

At the time it was lost, that volume of my journal included daily entries for the six months following Laycee’s death. I was devastated. The loss consumed me for months. “Why did this happen?” I wondered. After my experience with the aneurysm, I had firsthand knowledge that God is very much involved in the details of our lives. I knew that God knew where that bag was, but repeated prayers, often accompanied with fasting, did not bring it back.

Eventually I accepted the fact that the journal was not coming back and that there must be a reason for it. It wasn’t until a little over a year later, near the end of a sabbatical leave at the University of Iowa, that I learned the reason for the loss of my journal. I was telling my wise bishop, Val Sheffield, of the loss of the journal—pining over the experience again and wondering why.

He stopped me and said, “I know why. It’s because what you wrote following your daughter’s death wasn’t right. It didn’t accurately represent how you should respond to what happened.” He went on, “You need to write how you feel about her death looking back from the perspective you have now; it’s a more accurate one.”

I was stunned. He did not know that over the past year I had been engaged in diligent study, pondering, and prayer about faith and hope, but the Lord knew. I went back to my apartment and thought about that for most of the night. I did rewrite my feelings about Laycee’s death. It turned out to be a sacred and singular experience. Although I can’t recall what I originally wrote in my lost journal, I am confident that it contained much of bitterness and anger. I am now glad that it is gone.

As my wife and I journey on, the depth and vitality of our faith and hope in Christ grows. We believe Christ when He tells us He has the desire and power to save us. That steadfast faith is the bedrock of our bright hope that through our temple marriage we will realize our goal of an eternal family, which includes Laycee. We have an assurance that the struggles involved in getting back home will seem “but a small moment” (D&C 121:7). We have cleaved together in a way that perhaps is not possible without the extreme heat and pressure of adversity. We can see that good can come from adversity if we have a hope in Christ.

It was Friday night and football season at my high school. As drum major of the marching band, I was having a great time cheering with the band and directing stand tunes. Then things changed drastically when I heard a desperate cry: “Get help! Jeff has stopped breathing!”
I found Jeff, a tuba player, lying across a bleacher, slipping in and out of consciousness and gasping for breath. Suddenly the all-important football game faded from significance. My number-one priority was to get help for Jeff. Paramedics arrived, and it wasn’t until after Jeff was safely on his way to the hospital that I even thought about checking the scoreboard.
After the game I realized that too many times in my own life I have allowed myself to get so involved in a fun yet unimportant event of life that I failed to recognize someone’s spiritual cry for help. During the football game it bothered me to watch Jeff struggle for breath and hear the cheers and laughter of fans that had no idea that anything was wrong.

Their struggles and triumphs are very real. One girl, faced with the assignment to pray, writes of her struggle to bend her “stubborn knees.”
“It was fifteen minutes before I could speak. If there really is a God, could he please let me know? I prayed like the woman who asked for the mountain to be moved and who, seeing the mountain intact the next morning, said, ‘I knew it wouldn’t work.’
“No heavenly messengers appeared; no visions manifested themselves; no inner voice acknowledged my completion of the assignment … (but) I think somebody heard me.”
Accounts of other youth “breaking through” can be of special help in moments of doubt or concern over the state of your testimony. Those youth acquiring or buttressing up a testimony will find The Faith of Young Mormons a helpful building tool. As Brother Pace wrote, “Their papers speak for themselves. The Savior is real; we can know him and be as he is. He does change lives.”

I joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in 1992 in the Netherlands. However, my husband didn’t join and wouldn’t allow our children, Alex and Petra, to be baptized (names have been changed). Even still, the three of us attended church and had regular family home evenings.
All went well for several years until Alex, then 13, announced that he was no longer willing to go to church or attend family home evening. As he got older, things continually got worse. It was difficult for me to stay close to Alex because he not only began drinking and smoking, but he also lied about his behavior. It broke my heart, and I shed many tears and offered many prayers as I pleaded with Heavenly Father to help my son.
Then one night while sitting quietly in the temple, I saw a picture in my mind. It was of a young man passing the sacrament. It seemed that the Lord was reminding me of the reality and power of His Atonement, encouraging me to love my son and to stay by his side.
However, as time progressed, life actually got rougher. After Alex’s father and I divorced, Alex got really depressed. I knew he needed help, but he didn’t want my help and wouldn’t listen if I tried to talk to him.
One night our branch president asked if he could come talk to Alex. Alex was irritated but did agree to have a conversation. After the meeting, Alex was angry with the branch president for encouraging him to serve a mission, saying, “If the branch president really was a man of God, he would know better. He would know that I’m not worthy to go—so why bother me?” That night I knew the Lord had a plan.
The plan began to take shape in an unexpected way when I received a phone call from the local police station. Alex had been arrested. My new husband and I put on our coats and in the middle of the night picked Alex up from the police station. We didn’t make a scene; actually Alex’s stepfather and I said very little.
When we got home, Alex told us what had happened when he and his friend had stolen a scooter. He was so sorry for what he had done. I saw for the first time a broken young man.
The arrest was a turning point for Alex as he began to realize the consequences of his actions and where he was headed. From that day on, so many blessings started to come our way.
The next day Alex told us that he had asked the officer to call us because he knew that we loved him. He also realized how much he had hurt us, and he appreciated that we had stayed calm.
Alex had several member friends who reached out to help him. One invited him to Church activities. Another gave him a Book of Mormon and challenged him to read it. And despite his suffering from dyslexia, I would find Alex reading it now and again.
The next blessing—if I could actually count them—was when Alex asked if we would buy him a suit since he had decided he wanted to go to church. I thought he meant just for Christmas. But to my great surprise, he continued attending even after the holidays.
The next blessing seemed almost too much for me to comprehend. Alex announced that he was going to be baptized. He didn’t need any help from me and arranged everything himself with assistance from his friends and the missionaries who were teaching him. I almost couldn’t believe my eyes when the day came, and I was able to see my son in white, making sacred covenants.
Later as he related the story of his conversion, I realized that Alex’s pain and sorrow had been difficult, but they also helped him become humble enough to bend his knees and ask for help. Alex explained: “One night when my burdens were too heavy to carry, I remembered the words of a good friend who had reminded me that I could always pray for help. That night I decided to give it a try. There was not another door open to me, and since my mom had taught me how to pray, I kneeled down and closed my eyes. As I started to plead for help, the most wonderful feeling came over me. I’ll never forget that feeling; I felt the pure love of Christ. I felt that my problems were taken away from me. My desperate feelings haven’t come back since, and I have been blessed with a testimony of Jesus Christ. My heart was changed, and I desired to follow Jesus Christ.”
After his baptism, confirmation, and ordination to the priesthood, Alex was asked to pass the sacrament—the sacred emblems of the Savior’s sacrifice. Then what I had seen in the temple so many years ago became a living reality right in front of me. I silently thanked Heavenly Father for what I was experiencing. It was a holy moment for me.
The story could end there, but fortunately it hasn’t. I have since watched as the Atonement has continued to work in the life of my son. Remember our inspired branch president? My son’s testimony has continued to grow, and the invitation of our branch president became a reality. Alex recently finished serving as a full-time missionary. He spent two years reaching out and helping others—as the Lord reached out to him.
I am grateful to be Alex’s mother, but I am even more grateful for the Atonement of Jesus Christ that works in the lives of all of us.

Emo’onahe (eh-moh-oh-nah) decided to share her talent of hoop dancing, which is part of her Native American culture. “One of my friends who went to FSY before me told me that they had this talent show and that I should perform,” she says.

“I was a little bit nervous, so I tried not to focus on the crowd.” But it was kind of hard not to! “I could hear everyone going crazy,” she says. “They were so loud I could barely hear the music, so I was barely able to keep on beat!”

Emo’onahe has worked hard to get good at hoop dancing. She says, “There was definitely a learning curve.” But the more she practiced, the more she learned about herself.

Hoop dancing is a form of personal storytelling. “You start off with one hoop representing your beginning, and then you continue adding hoops to show more things about your life. In my performance, you could see a butterfly, an eagle, and a cowboy,” Emo’onahe says. “When I’m telling my story, I feel like I’m telling the story of those I’ve learned from and experiences I’ve had.”

Emo’onahe is from the Cheyenne and Arapahoe tribes of Oklahoma, and is also Fort Peck Sioux and Assiniboine. She says, “I used to feel so different from everyone else,” and sometimes “that made me uncomfortable.” But hoop dancing embraces individuality. Each dancer creates their own choreography, and “that’s what makes it so unique and personal to you,” she says.

Emo’onahe feels closer to God as she prays, reads the scriptures, and strives to follow Jesus Christ. She also feels closer to God as she strives to improve in her talents. “When I pick up my hoops and dance, I can feel joy.” She recommends: “Find the things you love and find good people who will help you so you can use your talents to strengthen yourself and others. Serving others can help you strengthen your testimony of Jesus Christ as well.”

Since childhood, Elder Carlos G. Revillo Jr. desired to serve a full-time mission. But in college, he decided to postpone his mission by a year to finish a five-year chemical engineering degree and pass national board certification exams. He landed in the top five in the board exams and received several good job offers from multinational companies.
“During that time, I had to ask myself, ‘Do I really want to serve a mission? Do I really know that Joseph Smith was a true prophet and that the Book of Mormon is true?’” Elder Revillo said. “I had to pray and really look at what I believed.”
Later he learned that his mother was praying and fasting for him. Elder Revillo said the Spirit touched his heart.
“My testimony was fully galvanized when I served a full-time mission,” he said. “All of the blessings that I have now I attribute to that critical decision.”