Gospel Story Finder

The day of your release will teach you a great lesson. On the day I was released as a bishop, one of the ward members came to my home afterwards and said: “I know you are no longer my bishop, but could we talk just one more time? You have always spoken words I needed and given me such good counsel. The new bishop doesn’t know me the way you do. Could we just talk one more time?”

Reluctantly I agreed. The member sat down in a chair opposite mine. It seemed to be just as it had been in the hundreds of times I had interviewed members of the ward as a judge in Israel. The conversation began. There came the moment when counsel was needed. I waited for the ideas, the words, and the feelings to flow into my mind, as they always had.

Nothing came. In my heart and mind there was only silence. After a few moments, I said: “I’m sorry. I appreciate your kindness and your trust. But I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

When you are released from your calling, you will learn what I learned then. God magnifies those He calls, even in what may seem to you a small or inconspicuous service. You will have the gift of seeing your service magnified. Give thanks while that gift is yours. You will appreciate its worth more than you can imagine when it is gone.

The day after the assault, some friends of mine asked if I would like some alcohol to help me through the situation. I had been a member of the Church for little over a year, and I wasn’t active at the time. But something in me knew that if I drank any amount of alcohol, I would become dependent on it.

When my mind cleared after a few days, I decided that this assault would be a moment in my life, but it wasn’t going to ruin my life. I went through the court case. I remember shortly before the sentencing, people had told me that the man who had assaulted me was a good man from a respectable family and that this assault was so out of character for him. They said he had made a mistake due to drinking alcohol and he was so remorseful that he couldn’t live with himself for what he had done. They convinced me to ask the judge to be lenient with him.

On the day of sentencing, I gave my victim-impact statement and told the judge that the man had simply made a mistake while drunk and that I thought he should get psychiatric help rather than a prison term. The judge thanked me and, due to my statement, he sentenced the man to only six years in prison. After this, I tried to get on with my life. I got married and had children.

Sometime in 1997 or 1998, I got a phone call informing me that the man was back up in the papers. He had been released from prison and had assaulted three other women. This news brought everything back to me. I felt somewhat responsible because I spoke up for him.

The guilt I felt caused me to suffer from depression. I was a strong member of the Church at that time, but it was still hard. My head was so confused that I couldn’t always hear the still, small voice. Priesthood blessings helped me because I was able to better understand what my Father in Heaven wanted me to know at that time. I know I was able to get through this because I had the gospel in my life.

How do you remember to choose the right? Elder L. Tom Perry of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles tells a story about a young boy and his friends who found a package of cigarettes: “They decided to go down on the cliff alongside some large boulders and smoke. … They lit up, and the young man said that as he was looking down at the smoldering cigarette that he held between his fingers, he saw his CTR ring. He quickly put the cigarette out. … He chose to choose the right, as he remembered what the emblem stood for” (Ensign, Nov. 1993, 66).

I’ve always found it difficult to adjust to new situations. That’s why I was nervous to leave Primary and start Young Women. At first the schedule was strange to me. Young Women was a totally different environment—no singing time, no sharing time. We also had Mutual during the week.
I just wanted to fit in and feel comfortable, so I gave my new schedule a chance. I prayed a lot, and I began to adjust to the new routine and bond with the other young women.
As the weeks went by, I started to realize why I was in the Young Women program. I was learning more about the gospel, I was getting more opportunities to have a little goodness each week, and I was able to go to the temple and feel the Lord’s Spirit in His house.
Now I am very thankful for Young Women. I’m happy I gave this change a chance and that my Heavenly Father helped me do so.
Bethany W., Florida, USA

In 1946, the young researcher Arthur Hasler was hiking along a mountain stream near his boyhood home when he had an experience that led to an important discovery about how fish find their way back to their birth streams.
Hiking up a mountain, yet out of sight of his favorite childhood waterfall, Hasler was suddenly brought back to a forgotten memory. He said, “As a cool breeze, bearing the fragrance of mosses and columbine, swept around the rocky abutment, the details of this waterfall and its setting on the face of the mountain suddenly leapt into my mind’s eye.”
These smells rekindled his childhood memories and reminded him of home.
If smells could trigger such memories for him, he reasoned that perhaps smells could be as evocative for salmon who, after years of being in the open ocean, return to the exact stream of their birth to spawn.
Based on this experience, Hasler, together with other researchers, went on to demonstrate that salmon remember the very scents that would help them navigate thousands of miles to find their way back home from the sea.

One day I was complaining to my mom about how boring sacrament meeting was. I felt that it was just for adults and that it didn’t help me at all.
My mom told me it was boring because I wasn’t really trying to learn. She said that if I would pray before sacrament meeting to understand the talks and then really try to listen, I would hear the answers to questions I had. She also said the Spirit could help me understand the message in a way that would make the talk just for me.
I wasn’t really sure if that would happen, but I decided to give it a try the next Sunday. When I got up Sunday morning I prayed to learn something in sacrament meeting. Then right before sacrament meeting began, I prayed about it again. During the talks I tried really hard to listen and understand, instead of thinking my own thoughts as I usually did.
I couldn’t believe it! The first talk was about receiving personal direction from the speakers in sacrament meeting. As the meeting went on, I felt like every speaker was saying exactly what I needed to hear, and I felt the Spirit telling me that the things I heard were true.
Now I look forward to sacrament meeting because I know I will always learn something if I go with the right attitude.

When I was eight, I learned to ride a bike. I’d gotten a beautiful blue bike for my birthday, and my dad and one of my older brothers taught me to ride. They would hang on to the back of the seat, run along with the bike, and then let go.
I remember looking down from my bike and thinking, Wow, I am so high off the ground! It was scary, but I soon learned that you have to keep moving if you want to keep your balance. You just have to keep pedaling.

It’s Saturday morning, Shannon McNally is wide awake, and she’s still snoring. Listening to her and egging her on is Shannon’s younger sister, Landis. It looks strange, really. But it’s not. It’s what Landis likes. So Shannon indulges her mentally retarded sister.
“She likes for me to snore for her,” Shannon says with a shrug. Shannon doesn’t know why Landis likes that, or why she likes her big sis to play “The Wedding March” on the piano. “That’s just one of Landis’s things too.”
Shannon, 15, and Landis, 12, share a bedroom in their Union Bridge, Maryland, home. And despite Landis’s disability, the two sisters are just that. “We’re like regular sisters who have special things between them,” Shannon continues. That would explain the snoring and “The Wedding March.”
It would also explain why Shannon is such a big help to her mother when it comes to dealing with Landis. “Right now, Landis throws a lot of tantrums, she pulls hair, she spits, and she scratches. She’s also speech-disabled,” says the girls’ mom, Anjela McNally. “Shannon probably understands [Landis] a tad better than I do. I’ll say, ‘Shannon, what’s Landis trying to say?’ Shannon knows her sister very well and can usually tell me.”
That doesn’t mean it’s always easy for Shannon, a Mia Maid in the Westminster Ward of the Frederick Maryland Stake. When Landis gets upset, she’ll begin, as Shannon describes it, “trashing the house.” Once Shannon was heating up some leftover pizza, when Landis decided she wanted pudding instead. When Shannon told her she’d have to eat the pizza, Landis began throwing her food around the kitchen and knocking things off the counter.
“I get frustrated a lot over the things she does. I don’t mean to get mad but sometimes I do. Then I feel bad because I know she doesn’t quite understand why I’m yelling at her,” says Shannon. It’s at moments like these that Shannon will give Landis a hug, or sit with her in a chair, look at a magazine, and just rock back and forth. “It helps my anger to go away.”
“What is so incredible about Shannon is she’s able to not let what Landis does get her down too much. She has a great sense of humor about it,” says Sister McNally, a single parent who also has two sons, K. C. and Lucas, still at home. “Shannon is always willing to help, and she’s very kind to Landis. And Landis turns to Shannon for help as much as me or maybe even sometimes a little bit more than me.
“Shannon is a good role model for Landis,” Sister McNally continues. “But I think she’s more of a hero for Landis. Shannon has always been really pleasant and easygoing. I call her ‘my cheerful giver.’”
Even with all the help she provides her mother, Shannon still finds time for seminary, and school activities, which include her participation in color guard, a precision performing group that twirls flags. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, days Sister McNally is at school, Shannon is there to help Landis get off the bus. She also helps Landis get dressed, and will occasionally help with her bath.
There are moments when Shannon stops and considers her sister’s plight. She’ll think about times when Landis cries and doesn’t stop, and how hard it is to see her sister sad and not be able to find out what’s wrong. There are other times when Shannon will think about the gospel, and specifically about the Resurrection. “Landis has been this way for as long as I can remember. It’s hard for me to imagine her being perfect, her being able to speak,” Shannon explains. “I can’t really imagine her that way, but I know she will be someday.”
Sister McNally says, “I try to teach Shannon that she won’t always be recognized here for the help she’s given Landis, or for the way she’s been kind to Landis and helped make Landis’s life easier. But I also teach her that someday Landis will be able to come up to her and talk, and that this is not a permanent condition. As a family, we have had to do a lot of soul searching and a lot of studying of the purpose of life.”
For now, Shannon will continue caring for Landis. Like the nights when Shannon wakes up and makes sure her sister has blankets on her, or when she takes Landis outside to ride her bike. Those are the times when Landis will smile and so will Shannon. And one thing will be readily apparent. They’re sisters, and they love each other very much.

He returned to Ghana after earning his doctorate from Cambridge University in England and took a position as a chemistry professor at the University of Cape Coast. He spent the next ten years in academic pursuits, marrying, and beginning a family—unattached to any religious group. During this time he came in contact with “Reverend” Billy Johnson, who had come across copies of the Book of Mormon and started, without official authority, a Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Banyan had attended a church meeting, but couldn’t accept the tribal drumming and dancing that were a part of the services.
Eight years later Billy Johnson gave Brother Dadson copies of the Book of Mormon, Doctrine and Covenants, Pearl of Great Price, and Gospel Principles, along with the news that Latter-day Saint missionaries had recently reorganized the local church, this time with a priesthood foundation. Brother Johnson had been baptized and was called to be the first district president.
Banyan decided to give the new religion one more try. This time he attended a standard Latter-day Saint sacrament meeting with the hymns on cassette tapes. As he learned more about the gospel, he soon realized he had finally found the church he had been searching for. He was soon baptized, followed by the four oldest of his six children and, within a few weeks, his wife Henrietta.

In a typical Samoan family, a young man does the family cooking in a umu (fire pit oven). His little brothers are usually right there to watch and help him. One of the first things this young cook does is to slash off a few palm fronds with his big bush knife. Then he slits them in half down the thick middle of the stem, fastening the rib into a loop and quickly weaving the leaf fringes into sturdy workbaskets.
Later, the older brother gets into his pao pao (dugout canoe) and goes to the plantation for taro (an edible root). By the time he returns with his baskets full of taro, his little brothers have a pile of wood ready for the fire.
When the fire is hot, the special rocks layered on top begin to glow red. The young cook slashes the leaf fringes off a small coconut tree branch, trims the green rib, and bends it in the middle to make fire tongs to arrange the hot stones in the cleared-out fire pit. Over them he spreads layers of banana leaves, taro, breadfruit, green bananas, a leaf-wrapped fish or chicken, more leaves, more hot rocks, and then leaves and earth. In a few hours the family’s food is cooked for the weekend.

I am very grateful to have had a father who did not overindulge his sons, except with love and moral support. I think I have a special appreciation for many things because of having worked in a canning factory and having caught the hot cans as they came from the capper, for the munificent sum of 25¢ per hour. One of the by-products of the job was to have the flesh of the hands peel off from the moisture and the heat of the cans. It also involved a 16-kilometer bicycle ride every day to and from work.

The Turay family resettled in Bo, Sierra Leone. Although there was no Church presence there, they were encouraged to stay and help establish a branch. They started a home group with only the five members of the Turay family. Not long after they started talking to people about the Church, missionaries arrived, and the first baptismal service was held in Bo. On that special day, 31 people were baptized in the Sewa River. Mohamed was soon called to preside over the new Bo Sierra Leone District. Under Mohamed’s leadership, one small branch eventually grew into four branches.

It was my turn to stop someone and talk about the Church. I had been in Germany only two days, and I was terrified of the people and of my calling as a missionary.
I anxiously searched the street for someone I thought might react positively. I wondered how I was ever going to do this for the next eighteen months.
I didn’t want my companion to know how scared I was, so I held my breath and walked up to a woman in her early forties. But instead of asking her the questions I had intended to, I turned from her and ran. The fear of rejection was more than I could handle—I had to escape.
When I was finally able to collect my thoughts, embarrassment swelled inside of me. I desperately wanted to hide. My fear had been exposed, and it was preventing me from being a good missionary.
Unfortunately, as the days went by, my weakness did not subside, and I began to worry that I would never be a happy, brave, and successful missionary. My weakness became the main topic of all my private prayers.
Nothing seemed to help until I had been in the mission field for about two weeks. It was a chilly spring morning, and my companion was making breakfast. I was sitting on the floor, looking up scriptures on missionary work and reading them out loud.
“Doctrine and Covenants 84:88,” I said. [D&C 84:88] “And whoso receiveth you, there I will be also.” My voice broke. My mind raced as I realized that, as a missionary, I had divine support.
I started again, “And whoso receiveth you, there I will be also, for I will go before your face. I will be on your right hand and on your left, and my Spirit shall be in your hearts, and mine angels round about you, to bear you up.”
I had no reason to be afraid of teaching people the gospel. Heavenly Father was on my right hand and on my left, and his angels were around me to make me strong. From that morning on, whenever a wave of fear came over me, I just imagined those angels all around my investigator, my companion, and me. There was no way I could lose with that kind of support.

Minjun and Dad hurried into the Church building, the cold wind blowing behind them. It was chilly inside the building too. Minjun hoped it would get warmer as more people gathered.
Minjun’s friend Jungmin was getting baptized today. Jungmin had met with the sister missionaries and thought about getting baptized for a long time. The whole ward had fasted and prayed for him. Finally he decided to be baptized. And today was the day!
The font was still filling up with water when Minjun and Dad walked into the room. They sat down next to Minjun’s friend James. Soon Jungmin walked in, dressed in white baptismal clothing.
“He looks a little nervous,” James said.
Minjun nodded. He was glad he could be here for his friend.
Soon the font was filled. It was time for the baptism to begin! But instead of starting, the missionaries were talking with some of the other members, and they looked worried. Dad went to see what was wrong.
“What’s the matter?” Minjun asked Dad.
“The water heater in the building is broken, so the water in the font is very cold,” Dad said.
Minjun looked at the font. At his baptism, there had been warm weather, warm water, and even his dad’s warm hug when he came out of the water. He couldn’t imagine being baptized in cold water on such a cold winter day.
Minjun watched as Jungmin courageously stepped into the water with Elder Keck, who was going to baptize him.
“It’s too cold!” Jungmin said. “I can’t stay in here any longer.” He climbed back out of the font, shivering. Minjun felt sad for him.
A few minutes later, Jungmin tried to get in the water again. This time he only made a few steps before hurrying out. He tried two more times. The water was freezing! “Can we stop?” Jungmin finally asked. He looked like he was about to cry.
Minjun said a silent prayer asking how he could help.
“What should we do?” someone said.
“Should we postpone the baptism?” someone else asked. Everyone wanted to help Jungmin, but they didn’t know how.
Then Minjun had an idea. He gave James a nudge. “Let’s go, James!”
Minjun and James went to the kitchen. They found a large cup and bowl and filled them with hot water from the water dispenser. They carefully carried them back to the chapel and dumped the hot water in the font. “Maybe this will help warm the water up!” Minjun said.
Everyone was surprised. “Why didn’t we think of that?” someone asked.
Together, everyone started adding warm water from the kitchen. Some people heated water on the stove. Others carefully carried the pots across the hall and poured the hot water into the font. Even the other Primary children helped, one cup at a time.
Finally the water was warm enough. Jungmin and Elder Keck stepped all the way into the font. Minjun felt warm in his heart as he listened to Elder Keck say the words of the baptism prayer. When Jungmin came out of the water, he was smiling. Everyone was happy.
After Jungmin changed into his dry clothes, Minjun gave him a big hug. Minjun knew that whenever he prayed with courage, Heavenly Father would help him know what to do. This baptism was one Minjun would never forget!

I remember my last year as a student at BYU. I roomed with three fine young men. We were all returned missionaries—eager, confident, waiting to see what the test of life would bring for us. We were filled with all of those good things that young returned missionaries aspire to. Many years later it is interesting to see where those roommates are and what has happened to them. The wife of one roommate was killed in an automobile accident; he was left with nine children. Another roommate—by a strange, accidental slip of the knife in surgery in a routine operation—lingered between life and death for months, bordering on being permanently incapacitated and crippled. The third roommate, probably the most talented and the one with the greatest potential, somehow began to move away from the faith of his fathers, became disaffected with the Church, left the Church, and separated himself from his wife and his children. He lives a life of regret, I believe. So we cannot anticipate always what the race will bring us.

The shadows grew longer and finally disappeared as the sun sank behind the hazy mountains far to the west.
Our small western town had one of the better rodeo grounds in the area, and it was an ideal place for us four boys to play. On this sunny afternoon, my friends and I had come to the deserted grounds and let our imaginations run wild. We had fought and won many battles with cattle rustlers and other outlaws. We had ridden the hardest-bucking horses and wrestled the meanest steers.
Now the four of us were sitting quietly on the top steps of the grandstand, and Ray suggested, “It’ll soon be dark, so we’d better be getting home.”
“Yeah, my brothers will be looking for me,” I said, brushing wisps of hair out of my eyes.
“I’m still too tired to walk home. Let’s rest a few minutes more,” Bobby mumbled.
“Do you guys like honey?” Jack asked. He was gazing across the rodeo grounds into Mr. Sampson’s field, where there were a dozen white beehives, barely visible now in the near darkness.
“I do,” I said, “with peanut butter and bread.”
Ray and Bobby agreed.
“Honey is good fresh out of the honeycomb,” Jack said then. “Have you guys ever eaten honey fresh out of the comb?” None of us had. “Well, let’s go see if Mr. Sampson left any honey in the hives and get us each a comb.”
“Wouldn’t that be stealing?” asked Ray.
“Mr. Sampson probably already has all the honey out of the hives that he needs, so I don’t think he’d care if we took some,” answered Jack.
We were hungry as well as tired, so it didn’t take much argument to convince us that honeycomb would probably taste really good. We crossed the rodeo grounds, climbed over the board fence, and each took a honeycomb from a different hive.
As we sat back on the top seats of the grandstand, my conscience began to tell me there was something not exactly right with what I was doing. I should have been home before dark, and I had taken something that belonged to someone else. That first bite of honey didn’t taste as good as I had expected it to.
Just then we heard the crunch of footsteps in the gravel below us.
“Quick, hide your honeycombs,” Jack whispered.
The footsteps came slowly up the grandstand toward us. The large figure of a man loomed out of the darkness. “Good evening, boys.” It was Mr. Sampson. Everybody in our community respected him and liked him, and we were beginning to feel uncomfortable.
Jack shifted uneasily, trying to wipe the honey off his fingers onto the seat beside him.
“Good evening, Mr. Sampson.” Ray was the only one able to speak.
“Out rather late, aren’t you?” he asked.
“Yes sir. We were just going home,” Ray answered.
After a slight pause, Mr. Sampson asked, “Do you boys know anything about bees?”
This question made us uneasy. Finally Ray answered, “I don’t think we know very much.”
“I didn’t think that you did. Let me tell you a little bit about them. In each beehive there are three kinds of bees—the queen, the drones, and the workers. Each has a separate job to do, and each does its job well. The queen bee lays the eggs that hatch into young bees. The drones are male bees that fertilize the eggs laid by the queen.”
Mr. Sampson hesitated a few seconds to let what he had told us sink in. “Now I’ll tell you about the workers. As soon as it warms up in the spring and the plants and trees start blossoming, worker bees leave the hive and begin gathering nectar from the flowers. They fly from blossom to blossom until their pouches are full, then fly back to the hive and deposit the nectar in the comb. I extract the honey from the combs as they are filled throughout the summer. But in early fall when it gets cold and the blossoms are gone, the bees can no longer work, so I leave the combs full of honey for them to live on during the cold months. If someone took the combs away from the hives, the bees would starve to death and there would be no more bees or honey.”
Mr. Sampson stood up. “Well, boys, I guess that’s enough about bees for now. I’d better be getting on home.” He started down the grandstand, then stopped and turned back toward us. “You boys had better go on home too. But first I think there’s a little chore that you might want to do. Good night, boys.”
“Good night, Mr. Sampson,” we chorused.
For a minute we just sat there, stunned. Mr. Sampson knew that we had taken the honeycombs, yet there had been no anger, no scolding, no threats.
We knew what “little chore” we had to do. We retrieved our honeycombs and returned them to the hives.

As I walked through the door of the Relief Society room, I avoided meeting the gaze of any of the sisters by pretending to look intently at a fly resting on the piano. Glancing up to see how far back I could sit, I spied a seat on the last row, deep in the corner. I sat down and began to thumb through my scriptures, hoping my studious appearance would help me avoid making eye contact. My mother had been my Young Women leader for four years and was still in Young Women as I, now 18, moved on to Relief Society. Suddenly my peers changed from Beehives, Mia Maids, and Laurels to ladies my mother’s age.
As women filed through the door, I recognized all their faces, yet they seemed unfamiliar in this setting. Sister Pratt had taught me in seminary; Sister Caton used to teach my Sunday School class; I often babysat Sister Bent’s children. How could I ever relate to these women who had so much more life experience than I did?
The chatter began to die down as the clock ticked closer to the start of the meeting. Nobody sat by me. The empty seats surrounding me began to feel like a force field that was keeping me from joining the fellowship and camaraderie the others seemed to share.
I began shifting in my chair, wishing I could go back to the Young Women room to girls with whom I shared interests, friends, experiences, and the same decade of birth. Suddenly my “force field” was penetrated by a whisper in front of me.
“Heidi,” Sister Pratt said.
I looked up to see her beckoning me to sit by her.
“Come sit with us.”
I smiled as a rush of relief swept over me. Although I had chosen to sit alone, I was now grateful for the invitation to be included.
“Don’t ever try to sit on the back row again,” she said with a wink, as I sat down beside her.
Each week this wonderful warmth was repeated over and over again as other caring sisters invited me to sit with them until I felt truly loved by these sisters. It wasn’t long before I didn’t need to wait for an invitation.
I began to reach out to these sisters, just as they had reached out to me. I let their love engulf me and penetrate the wall I had built. I no longer felt a sense of dread as I entered the Relief Society room. These women with whom I had felt nothing in common soon became more than just sisters; they became my friends. I felt a part of the fold.

I was touched by the journey of one brother who asked himself, “When the Lord calls, will I hear?” I will call this fine brother David.
David converted to the Church some 30 years ago. He served a mission and then attended law school. While he was studying and working to support a young family, he came across some information about the Church that confused him. The more he read these negative materials, the more unsettled he became. Eventually he asked to have his name removed from the records of the Church.
From that time on, like Alma in his rebellious days, David spent a great deal of time debating with members of the Church, engaging in online conversations with the purpose of challenging their beliefs.
He was very good at this.
One of the members he debated with I will call Jacob. Jacob was always kind and respectful to David, but he was also firm in his defense of the Church.
Over the years, David and Jacob developed a mutual respect and friendship. What David did not know is that Jacob was praying for David and did so faithfully for more than a decade. He even placed his friend’s name for prayer in the temples of the Lord and hoped that David’s heart would be softened.
Over time, slowly, David did change. He began to remember with fondness the spiritual experiences he once had, and he remembered the happiness he had felt when he was a member of the Church.
Like Alma, David had not completely forgotten the gospel truths he had once embraced. And like Amulek, David felt the Lord reaching out to him. David was now a partner in a law firm—a prestigious job. He had developed a reputation as a critic of the Church, and he had too much pride to ask to be readmitted.
Nevertheless, he continued to feel the pull of the Shepherd.
He took to heart the scripture “If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God, that giveth to all men liberally, and upbraideth not; and it shall be given him.”13 He prayed, “Dear God, I want to be a Latter-day Saint again, but I have questions that need answers.”
He began to listen to the whisperings of the Spirit and to inspired answers of friends as he never had before. One after another, his doubts turned to faith, until finally he realized that, once again, he could feel a testimony of Jesus Christ and His restored Church.
At that point, he knew that he would be able to overcome his pride and do whatever it took to be accepted back into the Church.
Eventually, David entered the waters of baptism and then began counting down the days until he could have his blessings restored.
I am happy to report that this past summer, David’s blessings were restored to him. He is again fully participating in the Church and serving as a Gospel Doctrine teacher in his ward. He takes every opportunity to speak to others about his transformation, to heal the damage he caused, and to bear testimony of the gospel and the Church of Jesus Christ.

We admire those who risk their lives to rescue those in danger. When I visited Southern California during the devastating Santa Ana wind fires late last year, I came away with two impressions. The first was how the Church members came to the assistance of those in need. The second was how appreciative they were to the firefighters. One homeowner described what he saw the firefighters do. He pointed out that the Santa Ana winds blow from the warm desert toward the ocean. Once a fire starts, these hot desert winds carry the flames at a speed of up to 60 or 70 miles (97–113 km) per hour. The homeowner described his gratitude and admiration as he watched the firefighters standing with their hoses behind a cleared area, facing a wall of fire up to 10 feet (3 m) high descending upon them at this enormous speed. These brave men and women were able to rescue both people and homes while in constant personal danger.

Usually when Floyd and Dad were riding in the car, they had a lot to talk about, but not today. They had driven over to see Floyd’s new school, and Floyd hadn’t said a word all the way back. Dad broke the silence and asked, “What’s the matter, Son? Are you worried about going to a new school?”
Almost in a whisper, Floyd answered, “Yes.” This would be his fourth school, and he was only in the sixth grade. Dad was an electrical engineer, and his work required that they move often. “It’s always the same, Dad. I hate it.”
“Why don’t you tell me what you don’t like about it. You always do well in school, and you have friends and pen pals all over the country.”
Floyd didn’t want to answer. It would only embarrass him and probably cause trouble, but before he knew it, the words came tumbling out. “When I get there, I’m going to meet a bunch of Jims, some Mikes, a lot of Johns and Bobs, a couple of Garys, and a Steve or two—ordinary guys with ordinary names. I’ll be the only Floyd, and I’ll hear Floyd jokes for months. Why couldn’t I have an ordinary name?”
Dad knew what Floyd was talking about; he had heard about the jokes. “You’re right,” he said, “Floyd is no ordinary name. Do you know where your name came from?”
“From someone named Floyd who lived a long time ago when there were lots of Floyds and other weird names!” He said it before he could stop himself. Now I’m in trouble for sure, he thought. He knew better than to talk that way, but it had been bottled up inside for too long.
“You’re right again,” Dad replied evenly, “but there’s a lot more to it than you realize. Would you like to hear about a young man named Floyd who was not very ordinary?”
Surprised that he wasn’t in trouble, Floyd blurted out, “Sure!” But he wasn’t as excited as he sounded. How could anyone named Floyd be interesting? he wondered.
“Your name has belonged to some great men,” Dad began. “That’s why we gave you the name. We weren’t worried about anybody making jokes. That’s no big deal. Your mother and I hoped that having the same name as a great man might help you be a little like him. I want you to remember this story, Son,” Dad said as he pulled into the driveway of their new home. “My great-grandfather told me this story when I was about your age, and I’ll never forget it. …
“It was in the fall of the year 1857, as I remember, and a small group of Mormon pioneers were late starting across the plains. They got caught in an early snowstorm, and it slowed their travel. Many of them had become ill with colds, fevers, and pneumonia. They traveled as fast as they could, but because of the cold and sickness, they were just plain worn-out from pulling handcarts and carrying the smaller children.
“One day they came to a river that they had to cross. Everyone was so tired that the river seemed an impossible challenge. It seemed too wide, too deep, and too cold to the exhausted pioneers. One weary lady stood on the bank of the river, holding her baby as the tears silently streamed down her face. She didn’t have the strength to face one more trial that day. For a minute it looked like the journey might end right there for the small band of weary pioneers.
“Then, without saying a word, a young man waded into the cold river and made his way to the other side to see how deep it was. The icy water came up to his waist. He was certain that the handcarts were too small and too heavily loaded to carry children and those who were sick across safely. He knew what needed to be done, and he didn’t have to be asked. He knelt down with the rest of the pioneers and led a prayer, asking for strength to get everyone across safely. He was seventeen years old, and he was tall and strong, but he knew that he would need the help of the Lord to deal with the numbing cold of the river.
“The boy jumped up from the prayer and carried his sick mother across first, then his younger sister, and finally his three-year-old brother. When they were safe, he started carrying other children across. Another boy, a little younger but just as strong and nearly as tall, joined him in the cold river. The two youths carried across all the children and others who were too weak to make it through the icy water on their own. When everyone else was safely on the other side and the handcarts were across, the boys came out of the river to get dry and to warm themselves by the fire.
“Their legs and feet were blue from the cold. They got into dry clothes and wrapped up in blankets. Everyone thanked them for their help, but the boys said that they had just done what needed to be done. That night they sent everyone else to bed while they stayed by the fire to get warm. They talked about how things were going to be when they got to their new homes, but their conversation was often interrupted by muscle cramps and violent shivers. The cold water had chilled them more than they thought possible. The next morning they were still sitting there, wrapped in their blankets. When the leader of the group walked over to talk to them, he was saddened by what he found. During the night the boys had both died as they sat by the fire.
“The youths were buried right there on the edge of the river. They had lost their lives while helping others. The older boy, the one who had prayed for strength to get the others across safely, was one of your relatives. His name was Floyd. His three-year-old brother was your great-great-grandfather. When I was a little boy and Grandfather was in his nineties, he told me this story. That was when I learned that Floyd meant courage, relying on the Lord, and helping others.”
Floyd looked out the window at the old tree in the front yard, trying to keep the tears from overflowing his eyes. He couldn’t think of anything to say other than “Wow!”
Dad paused too. He couldn’t tell the story without getting tears in his eyes, either. Then he said, “That brave lad named Floyd is part of you. And you certainly were right—Floyd is no ordinary name! It’s a name to be proud of, and it’s a name for you to live up to.”
“I don’t know if I can be as brave as he was,” Floyd said with conviction, “but I’m going to be the best person that I can. And, Dad, I’ll tell you something else: When I go to school in the morning, I’m going to tell them that my name’s Floyd and that Floyd’s no ordinary name!”