Gospel Story Finder

Mom took Anna shopping for a new dress.
How about this one?
No, thank you.
All right, do you like the yellow one with flowers or the red one with dots?
But you like these colors. What would you like instead?
This looks like the dresses the missionaries wear. I want to look like them.
OK. Let’s see if we can find a dress in your size.
Anna loved the two sister missionaries in her ward. They shook her hand at church, they smiled when she waved at them on the street, and they prayed with her family when they came to dinner.
On Sunday, Anna could hardly wait to show the missionaries her new dress. When she saw them at church, she twirled around for them.
I look just like you now!
You do look just like us.
And you don’t just look like a missionary; you are a missionary!
Your mom told me you’ve been praying for us all week like we asked you to. And look! We brought someone to church today. Your prayers have been helping us.
Thank you, missionary Anna.

Hattie leaned against a trunk in the back of the wagon and watched the woods recede behind them. A sudden gust of wind made the tree branches sway and the green leaves quiver. The trees are waving good-bye, Hattie thought, blinking back tears. I can’t believe I’m leaving the only home I’ve ever known.
Hattie’s Uncle Jed was leading her family to Winter Quarters. From there they would cross the plains to join the other Saints in a barren desert. What would they do without trees? How could they build another log cabin? Where could they hang a swing?
Suddenly the wagon stopped.
“Hattie, are you awake? Come and see this,” her father called.
Hattie climbed slowly out of the wagon and walked around to the front. When she looked up, she gasped. She saw grass, miles and miles of it, taller than she was. It began a little in front of their wagon and stretched clear to the horizon, where it seemed to reach up and tickle the sun.
“Well, Hattie, what do you think?” her father asked. “It’s the beginning of the tallgrass prairie.”
Hattie swallowed hard. “Do we have to go through it?”
Uncle Jed laughed. “Don’t you worry, pumpkin. We’ll sail right across the top of it in our prairie schooner. Trust me.”
Father shaded his eyes against the slowly sinking sun. “However, we’d better set up camp here tonight and start that voyage tomorrow.”
“Hat-tie! Hat-tie!” Violet called from the wagon. Hattie lifted her three-year-old sister to the ground. When Violet saw the tallgrass, she spread her little arms as if greeting an old friend and let out an exclamation of delight.
Hattie grabbed one of her hands. “Come on,” she said gruffly. “We have to gather firewood before we get into the grass, where there won’t be any.”
Violet would not be hurried. She stooped to examine anything that caught her eye. Fortunately there was plenty of dry wood around, and Hattie soon had her apron full of sticks. Then she saw a good-sized branch a few yards away.
“Stay right here,” Hattie said to Violet, who was entranced by a butterfly. Hattie ran over as quickly as she could, snatched up the branch, and ran back. But Violet was gone!
Hattie looked around in panic. Then she saw Violet where an animal’s path led into the towering tallgrass. “No!” Dumping her load of wood, Hattie ran!
Violet gave a shriek of delight and disappeared into the grass.
“Stop, Violet! This isn’t a game.” Hattie took a deep breath and plunged into the grass. Grasshoppers exploded from beneath her feet. Pushing her way down the narrow path, she soon discovered other paths crisscrossing the first. Violet’s laughter always guided her toward her sister until one terrible moment when Hattie could only hear the wind and the insects. Then she heard Violet’s voice so close by that it startled her.
“Ooh! Pretty!”
Hattie pushed aside some grass and saw Violet clutching a blue flower.
“Look, Hattie,” Violet said. “Pretty flower.”
“You and your flowers,” Hattie sighed. “Come on. Let’s take the pretty flower to Ma.”
“OK! Let’s hurry.”
But Hattie had no idea which way to go. Each time they tried to find the right path, they seemed to be going in circles.
Hattie yelled for help, but the curtain of grass muffled the sound and threw it back into her face.
Hattie put Violet on her shoulders and stood on tiptoe. “Violet, can you see over the grass?” she asked anxiously. “Can you tell me where the trees are?”
“Giddap!” Violet bounced on Hattie’s shoulders and pulled her braids.
“Ouch!” said Hattie. They both tumbled backward into the soft grass. Violet was laughing, but Hattie was on the verge of tears.
The clouds above the tips of the tallgrass were edged with pink from the sunset. Hattie knew it would soon be dark. She knelt quietly in the grass.
“We need to pray,” Hattie said. Violet snuggled beside her and squeezed her eyes shut.
“Help us, Heavenly Father. We’re lost and don’t know what to do. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
Violet opened her eyes and smiled. Hattie smiled back. She felt much better. “We’ll be all right,” she assured Violet. “Someone will find us.”
The air was cooler at the base of the grass, and the ground was spongy. Hattie could almost imagine that she and Violet were lying in the hayloft at home. As the sky darkened, the sounds of the insects changed to a gentle chirp and the wind whispered a lullaby.
When Hattie awoke, it was early morning. A bird sang joyously above Hattie’s head, and sitting in front of her was Uncle Jed.
“Oh, Uncle Jed!” Hattie threw her arms around his neck. “I knew you’d find us.”
“Hold on there, pumpkin. I can’t take credit for finding you. I had to ask Heavenly Father to show me the way.”
“And He did,” Hattie said.
“Yes, Hattie, He did.” Uncle Jed climbed up on his horse, and Hattie handed him a sleepy Violet. Then he reached down to help Hattie up on the horse. “From up here you can see everything.”
Hattie shook her head. “I’ll walk behind you,” she said. “I don’t really need to see everything, when I know there’s someone I can trust leading me.”
As Hattie walked through the tallgrass, gathering prairie flowers, she wondered what kind of flowers they’d find blossoming in the desert Heavenly Father was leading them to.

My mother worked in a fashion boutique in Paris and liked the Americans she met there. She grew to love the English language and encouraged me to study English even as a young child. During the summers, she sent me to England or Scotland to stay with English-speaking families. One year she encouraged me to get involved in an American summer camp exchange program. Through this program I became a camp counselor in Sharon, Vermont—the birthplace of Joseph Smith. Perhaps the Lord, even then, was trying to turn the wheels once more. Unfortunately, I heard nothing of Joseph Smith or the Mormons while I was there.

Several years later, however, the wheels turned again, with great power. I was studying English, with a specific focus on American culture, at Paris’s Sorbonne University. As I began thinking about a master’s thesis topic, I remembered the documentary about the Mormon pioneers. I asked my adviser if I could do something on them. No one at the Sorbonne had written a thesis about the Mormons, and so my adviser thought the subject might prove interesting. But he insisted that I pick an aspect of Mormonism that was unique.

After doing some preliminary research, I discovered that there was not enough information about the Mormons in the university library. I concluded I would have to talk to them. By then I had learned that the official name of the Mormon Church was The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. With that information, I located the headquarters of the Paris Mission and boldly knocked on the front door. I asked the missionary who answered, “Is there someone here who can tell me about the Mormons?”

The surprised young man managed to stutter, “Yes, yes, come in!”

As my research at the mission home progressed, I learned that Latter-day Saints believe in ordinances performed for dead ancestors. The more I read about temple work for the dead, the more I wanted to use that topic. The title I finally chose for my thesis was enough to make even long-time members of the Church pause: “Genealogy and the Mormon Church.” That’s how I became known in the Paris Mission as the “Genealogy Girl.”

It was at this point, just two months after my first visit to the mission home, that I met my future husband. He was a freelance American photographer and writer traveling in France. The missionaries told him about me, and he decided to interview me for a possible article for the Church magazines. After talking with me about the Church, he asked if I had ever considered joining. I shrugged my shoulders and said, “I’m really just curious.”

But as an afterthought, I reflected, “There is something unusual about your church. I always feel a sense of peace when I come to the mission home. Actually, I welcome reasons to come back.” Still, I insisted that my interest was only academic curiosity.

A few months later I decided to continue my thesis research by visiting the famous genealogical facilities in Salt Lake City. I arrived in Utah the day before President Joseph Fielding Smith’s funeral, and I went to the public viewing with an LDS girl I had corresponded with while I was in France. I was impressed by the lack of despair at the services.

During this time, the photographer I met in Paris returned to Salt Lake City, and we became reacquainted. I asked him to help proofread my thesis, and as time went on, he noticed my comments in the thesis becoming more and more positive—starting with “the Mormons believe …” and later expressing, without my realizing it, “We believe …”

One evening, he asked if I would like to take the missionary lessons. I hesitated and gave my former response, “I’m only curious.” But there was less certainty in my voice, so he suggested, “What have you got to lose?”

I smiled and said, “Well, nothing, I guess. OK.” Three weeks later, I was baptized, and the wagon wheels turned again as I became a pioneer myself—the only member of the Church in my family. Soon I would be privileged to give many of my ancestors the opportunity to choose to become members of the Church of Jesus Christ.

A year and a half after my baptism, the photographer and I were married in the Salt Lake Temple. Little did he know when he met me how the wagon wheels shown in a French documentary would affect his life.

Now it is 1997, the 150th anniversary of the pioneers entering the Salt Lake Valley, and as I tell my story I truly do feel the jar of the wagon wheels as they crunch the rocks and churn the dust in a deeply rutted trail. It is a day like many others, and I am pulling a handcart as part of the 1997 Sesquicentennial Mormon Trail Wagon Train on the old historic pioneer route near Big Sandy Crossing, Wyoming. During this reenactment, I am playing the part of an actual pioneer girl from France who joined the Church in Italy and came to Zion in the 1850s. It seems incredible that I am walking the same trail, breathing the same dust, and hearing the same sounds as she and so many other pioneers did so long ago.

As I walk, I remember the documentary I saw when I was a young girl in France, and I can feel the presence of the many Latter-day Saints who lived and died along this trail. However, the part I am playing is not just a story from our pioneer past, it is also my story—for I am a pioneer, too.

Years ago, when I served as an Area Seventy in Tennessee, a new stake was created, which required the reorganization of a stake presidency. I was assigned to be the junior companion to Elder Christofferson of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. As you can imagine, I was thrilled!

Elder Christofferson and I approached that weekend in a Spirit of prayer and fasting. We had no agenda other than to seek revelation about who the Lord would have serve as the new stake president.

As is typical, we conducted a series of interviews on Saturday morning. Before we began the interviews, we had a companionship prayer. Then, we interviewed the stake presidency, the bishops and branch presidents, high councilors, and a few other men. These are very brief interviews, usually shorter than ten minutes. Each of the brethren we interviewed provided a brief biographical sheet with information that would help us be mindful of their individual circumstances.

In these interviews, we asked each priesthood leader to share a little information about himself and then asked him for the names of three brethren he would recommend for consideration as the new stake president. We often asked the brethren to explain why they recommended those individuals. We asked follow-up questions. We took notes on what they said, but more importantly on the impressions we received. The interviews lasted approximately three hours and could best be described as spiritual work.

When we completed the last interview and the door was shut, Elder Christofferson turned to me and said, “Well, Elder Meredith, what do you think?” As an Area Seventy, I always felt like that question was somewhat of a spiritual test. I asked Elder Christofferson, “How much of what I think do you want to know? Would you like five names, three names, or one name?” In his kind and gentle manner, Elder Christofferson said, “Let’s start with five names.”

I pulled out the biographical sheets of the five men that I thought should be given the greatest consideration and laid them on the table. He asked me thought-provoking questions about my impressions. He eventually said, “I also think the stake president is one of those five men. Now, if you were to narrow it down to three, who would be the three?”

I looked at the biographical sheets on the table, referred to some notes I had taken, gave it some thought, and pulled two of the sheets off the table. We talked about the three remaining men, each worthy and capable. He eventually asked, “If you were to put those three in order of your recommendation, what order would you have?”

I looked at the table and said, “Actually, the order that they are already in.” He looked at the sheets on the table and then asked with a smile, “Is that left to right or right to left?” I said, “Left to right.” He agreed . . . and I felt I passed the spiritual test. However, the real spiritual test was to determine if our thoughts and feelings were aligned with the Lord’s will. Elder Christofferson invited us to kneel to seek confirmation through prayer. The words are always different in these prayers, but the intent is always the same: to ask the Lord “if it be right.”

When we said “amen,” we both stayed on our knees and waited for a feeling of confirmation. In that case, as it usually does, it came as a peaceful feeling. Nothing grand or great, just small and simple . . . but clear. We knew who the Lord would have serve as the new stake president.

Just to illustrate this, one day when President Cowley and I were traveling, we arrived at the home of Brother Stewart Meha, a great and wonderful Maori man. He was in every way a pure patriarch. He had never been ordained a patriarch—he just was one, and he presided over his large family as a true father and leader. President Cowley and Brother Meha spent all afternoon sitting on the porch just talking about the Church and other interesting things. I listened to them part of the time and then visited with the kids and others who lived in this little area near Brother Meha’s home. Incidentally, there were two or three other homes in this little Maori village, but I discovered that most of the people living there belonged to his family. They were his children and his grandchildren.

When it came time for the evening meal, Brother Meha stood on his front porch and, in the Maori language, shouted out to all of his large family, “Haere Mai Ki Te Kai.” Then he said, “Haere Mai Ki Te Karakia.” This simply meant “Come on home for supper” and “Come on home for prayer.” Soon family members came from every direction. We all assembled in his home in the big front room. This room had very little furniture in it, and everybody gathered in a large circle. Brother Meha was at the head of the circle and on his left was President Cowley. I was next to the president. On Brother Meha’s right was a little child about eight years of age. All around the rest of the circle were the other children with some adults in between.

Finally Brother Meha said to the little boy on his right, “You start.” I bowed my head in anticipation of the little boy’s prayer. Instead of praying, he quoted a scripture, after first reciting the chapter and verse. Then the young person next to him gave a scripture with the reference. After about four scriptures had been given, I realized that we were going around the circle with each person quoting a different passage of scripture. One youngster started to quote one that had already been used, and he was quickly corrected. I immediately began to think of a scripture that I could quote when my turn came.

I had been in the mission field just a little over a year and had mastered two wonderful passages of scripture. I mentally polished up my first scripture and had no sooner silently rehearsed it than one of the young people gave that exact scripture. This, of course, slowed me down for a minute, but I thought I was okay because I still had one in reserve. I worked a little on it, only to hear someone directly across from me quote it. I then became panicky as I realized I could not think of another scripture I could give. My turn was coming closer and closer, and I felt tension building up within me. My mind went totally blank.

In my moment of greatest concern, President Cowley nudged me with his elbow and, out of the side of his mouth, said, “Quick—tell me a scripture. I can’t think of a single one to say.” I then realized that the two of us were in the same desperate situation. At that moment it was my turn. I bravely said the first article of faith. President Cowley followed by quoting the second article of faith, and then Brother Meha prayed. I think that night he prayed for the mission president and the missionaries a little more than usual. When the prayer was finished, a little boy about eight years of age came over to us and said, “I guess you two guys don’t know that the Articles of Faith are not allowed in our scripture study.”

Now, brothers and sisters, that was an excellent example to me of family prayer and how children can be taught the scriptures. If we would just gather together and have prayer, it would probably be the finest teaching experience that a mother and father could give to their children.

A few days after Thanksgiving, my three-year-old son, Drew, started to get sick. He woke up every morning, ate breakfast, got dressed for the day and seemed fine, but as the day progressed, he became lethargic and wouldn’t eat.
This continued for several weeks. Finally, on Friday, December 18th, I carried Drew into the doctor’s office around 3:00 in the afternoon. Drew couldn’t stand or walk and his skin was ashen.
I looked at the doctor and said, “This is how he has been every afternoon and evening for the past three weeks.” The doctor took one look at Drew and immediately admitted him to the hospital. They ran tests but could not figure out what was wrong with him.
The next day, Drew was transferred to another hospital. That Sunday morning, I was feeling crestfallen. After two days of numerous tests from two different hospitals, no one knew what was wrong with my son. To top it all off, it was the Sunday before Christmas. My favorite sacrament meeting of the whole year is the Christmas program and I was going to miss all the beautiful songs and talks in our ward.
As my husband and I were walking with Drew toward the room in the hospital where a sacrament meeting was to be held, I was miserable. I approached the table where the programs were, picked one up, and was still walking forward and looking down when I bumped into someone.
I looked up and said, “I’m sorry,” but no one was there. As I looked into the room where sacrament was to be held, it looked like an auditorium. On the stage there were chairs for the speakers, a piano, and a table set for the sacrament with a few chairs behind it. The room was sparsely filled with sick children and their parents, many hooked up to their portable IVs.
As I scanned the room, I felt the presence of angels. We took our seat and tears flowed down my face as I felt God’s love for His children who were sick and suffering, stuck in a hospital with all manner of illnesses at the most wonderful time of the year.
It turned out to be the most beautiful sacrament meeting of my life.
The doctors never did find out what was wrong with Drew. He was given medicine to treat his symptoms and then released from the hospital the next day. He has had no repercussions since, but that Christmas sacrament meeting will stay with me forever.

In the first city where I served during my mission, I had a native companion. Because she was helping the Church to grow in her homeland, Hermana Arriaga radiated a special intensity for the work. Together we had great success; we taught several people who were baptized and had many investigators. One night the President called--rather late--and instructed us to be on the first train to Salamanca the next morning. He was sending us to open a new city for work by sister missionaries. While that may sound quite thrilling, my companion and I were actually quite bothered by the mid-month transfer. Since we were both leaving, neither of us would be around to follow up with our investigators. Therefore, we had to leave copious notes explaining about the progress of each and every one. We also had to pack, which took hours. Then we had to decide what to do with the groceries we had just bought to see us through the month. We opted to take them with us, so we loaded everything into plastic bags.
After a couple of hours of sleep, we went to the train station, climbed aboard, had the other passengers help us find room for our suitcases and 10 (yes, ten) bags of groceries, and then collapsed in our seats. As we pulled out of the station, we noticed the train schedule on the wall and saw that a train left each hour--on the hour--for Salamanca. What was the big deal about being on the first one??? We hadn't even had time to tell any of the members or our investigators that we were leaving. We were frustrated, tired, and in a grumbling mood.
After a few minutes of complaining, my companion suggested that we hold our companionship study session. We had packed our scriptures near the surface, so we grabbed them. We then realized that our study guide and reference books were in cases under other people's seats, and we weren't about to inconvenience all of the other passengers (again) to dig them out. Hermana Arriaga suggested that we just read aloud. So, we flipped open our scriptures at random--no, they fell open--and we began to read--I'm not kidding--Section 111 of the Doctrine and Covenants, which says:

"I, the Lord your God, am not displeased with your coming this journey, notwithstanding your follies."

"I have much treasure in this city for you, for the benefit of Zion, and many people in this city whom I will gather out in due time for the benefit of Zion, through your instrumentality. . . ."

It goes on and on, but we'll skip to verse 10:

"For there are more treasures than one for you in this city."

"Therefore, be ye as wise as serpents and yet without sin; and I will order all things for your good, as fast as ye are able to receive them. Amen."

Well, that impressed us. Deeply. We knew the Lord was speaking directly to us through the scriptures. We immediately stopped our complaining.

While serving as young missionaries in Chile, my companion and I were walking down a street in the city of Los Andes. Across the way, a lady leaned out of her window to shake a blanket and said, “Good morning, elders.” She then disappeared into her house. I was surprised by her greeting. I walked up to the door, knocked, and when the woman answered, I asked, “How did you know us?”

She invited us in and explained that she and her husband had been two of the first people baptized in that community many years earlier. They had loved the Church until they had been offended. They now attended another church. “Now we know the Mormon Church is not true,” she said, retrieving a book titled something like Everything You Want to Know about the Mormons and written, of course, by a non-LDS author.

I glanced at the first few pages. I wasn’t an expert in Church history, but I knew Joseph Smith did not claim to see two angels named Urim and Thummim! “Not all this is true,” I said to the woman. “Look, if you want to know about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, talk to us. We’ll help you.”

That was the beginning. In the weeks that followed, my companion and I watched the members of this family add to their testimony tanks through study. They became active in the Church, but relying only on experiences in the Church was not enough to see this sister and her family through when the going got rough. Now, because they had also studied hard and found answers on their own, they each could say, “I know.”

We see this continually in people’s lives. One example was the woman who had little money to spend but wanted to share a Christmas treat with her neighbors. She didn’t feel that she could buy even inexpensive containers, but she was quite self-reliant. With what she had on hand, she made charming remembrances using brown lunch-size paper bags decorated with a white paper roof, a door and windows, and the words “Merry Christmas, Neighbor!” These brown-bag houses, filled with her home-dried apple slices, were welcome gifts.

This same light led the way for 15-year-old Mary Elizabeth Rollins and her 13-year-old sister, Caroline, on a dark and chilling day in Independence, Missouri. It was 1833, and an angry mob roared through the streets of Independence, burning property and wreaking havoc. In their path was the home of Brother William W. Phelps, where the printing press was kept. He had been printing revelations received by the Prophet Joseph Smith. The mob demolished the printing press and threw the wreckage into the street. However, they stacked up the printed pages in the yard so they could burn them later.

Mary Elizabeth and Caroline had been hiding by the fence, frightened spectators to all this destruction. Even though she was terrified, Mary Elizabeth’s eye was fixed on those precious pages. She and her sister ran out from their hiding place, gathered up the scriptures, and bolted. Some of the mob saw them and ordered them to stop. But the brave girls ran into a large cornfield, where they dropped breathlessly to the ground. They carefully laid the pages of revelations between the tall rows of corn and then covered the pages by lying on them. The relentless mobsters looked and looked for the girls, coming quite close at times, but never did find them. Eventually they gave up their search to see what further damage they could do to the town.

I believe the light of the Lord directed Mary Elizabeth and Caroline as to what to do and where to go for safety. Sisters, that light shines for you, and it will guide you as it did the Rollins girls. It will keep you safe even when danger lurks. As the Master promised, “I will also be your light … ; and I will prepare the way before you, if it so be that ye shall keep my commandments; … ye shall know that it is by me that ye are led.”

When I was eleven years old, my father was called to the bishopric of our ward in Idaho. Back then, the Church was small enough that members of bishoprics were invited to general conference at the Tabernacle in Salt Lake City, Utah. My parents decided that my father should go to general conference. They invited my younger brother and me to go with them.
My brother and I enjoyed the trip. We stayed at a hotel, ate at restaurants, and visited Temple Square. My father told me that if I went to the back door of the Tabernacle after conference on Sunday morning, I could see our prophet, President David O. McKay.
Sunday morning was a cool fall day. I went to the Tabernacle with my parents. I found my way to the place my father had told me to go, and as the minutes passed, I noticed other people gathering there. After conference was over, I kept on waiting and watching, hoping to see President McKay.
Suddenly he came out of the door. He smiled and waved to us. The small crowd of people began singing “We Thank Thee, O God, for a Prophet.” As we stood singing the hymn, a strong, warm feeling filled my being. I knew that the Spirit was telling me that David O. McKay was God’s prophet on the earth at that time.
That was not the only time I went to the back door of the Tabernacle to see the prophet. Each time, as we sang “We Thank Thee, O God, for a Prophet,” that strong, warm feeling returned to me.
I am grateful that when I was a child, Heavenly Father blessed me with a testimony of the living prophets. It has helped me to have confidence in what the living prophets teach. I have been able to feel Heavenly Father’s love for me as I have learned to have faith in the living prophets.

“When I was only 15 years old,” said Colleen Webb Asay, “I committed myself to living the gospel.”
At the time, having proven herself capable and dependable, she was called to serve as the stake organist. In those days stake officers were set apart by visiting General Authorities. Elder John A. Widtsoe, a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, laid his hands on this young girl’s head and, with the authority that he held, pronounced a blessing.
“I’ll never forget that,” she said. “It’s hard to explain it, but it was like an electrical feeling that went clear through me, and after it was over, I didn’t want anyone to talk to me or shatter that feeling. I remember thinking how great the gospel is. I guess the Holy Ghost witnessed to me that day how important it is. I remember the feeling I had. I wanted to serve the Lord however or whenever I could. That was a great day. I made a commitment.” And that early commitment has made a difference in all the rest of her life.

Twelve-year-old Simon Stone let more string out so that his kite could climb higher in the sudden rush of wind that lifted it aloft like a winged thing in the copper-colored sky. Simon’s uncle, Elias Thatcher, had helped the youth build the kite a few days earlier in an effort to keep Simon occupied while Elias felled trees.
Lumberjacking was a hazardous business, and the lumbering activity in Hammond County was no exception. Already that season three men had died tragically. A far safer place for a young boy than where they were cutting wood was in the bunkhouse, sweeping floors. But that chore took Simon no more than an hour to complete, and he pined for something else to do besides watching logs pour out of the flume at the sawmill. After all, he had been at the camp at White Pine for nearly a year.
Flying a kite in the woods was hard. Simon’s uncle had said that the trees on the slopes were closer together than hands in prayer and that the wind went into a fit just trying to find a way to go through them. Sometimes Simon found it difficult to believe everything that his joshing uncle told him. But Simon did believe his stories about an unusually large and mean wolverine that everyone called Old Scratch. The wily varmint usually roamed the slopes below Fox Meadow.
Suddenly the sound of a gunshot disrupted the stillness, and Simon’s kite began to tumble toward the earth like a piece of limp cloth. Simon glanced around and spied a youth with a single-shot army carbine emerging from the trees that bordered the small meadow, a dark grin creasing his face. “I guess I haven’t lost my touch,” the youth sneered.
It was Clay McCalister, a son of one of the lumbermen. Big for a thirteen-year-old, he was a short-tempered bully and had often taunted Simon because of his gentle manner and the book of scriptures that he always carried with him.
Simon gazed at his kite lying broken on the ground. “There wasn’t any call for that, Clay,” Simon blurted uneasily.
Clay’s grin widened. “No call for a lot of things, Stone,” he retorted. “But that doesn’t seem to keep them from happening, now does it?” Clay ejected the spent shell from his rifle and slipped another cartridge into the breech.
Simon, deciding that the best place for him to be was anywhere that Clay wasn’t, crossed to where his kite lay, picked it up, and started out of the meadow.
“I’m not through with you yet, Stone!” Clay declared.
Simon froze; then he turned and faced the menacing youth. “You ruined my kite,” Simon said boldly. “What more do you want?”
Clay stepped closer. “You think you’re something special, Mormon? You think that book that you’re always carrying around is going to save you?”
“No,” Simon replied, “but its teachings will, if I live by them.” Clay seemed to be listening, so Simon continued. “There was a prophet by the name of Joseph Smith who said that a man cannot be saved in ignorance—”
“Are you saying that I’m ignorant?” Clay barked.
“No,” Simon returned, “but it never hurt anybody to become a little more learned.”
Clay just stared. No boy had ever spoken to him with such simple boldness. He narrowed his eyes and demanded that Simon hand over the Book of Mormon. “Maybe I can make it even more holy with a bullet from my carbine,” he added with a cold chuckle.
Simon stiffened. “I can’t do that, Clay. It’s a sacred book.”
Clay regarded Simon threateningly. “Mormons aren’t real popular around Hammond County. Your uncle probably told you that already, him being one too.”
“Yes, he did,” Simon replied evenly. “He also told me that it’s important to stand up for what you believe, even when it’s not easy.”
Clay snickered. “Like now, Mormon boy?” Clay started forward. “Are you going to give me that book, or am I going to have to—” Clay’s boot caught under an exposed root, and he fell hard across a stump. It knocked the wind out of him, and his rifle discharged skyward.
“Are you all right, Clay?” Simon asked.
Clay glared at Simon, gasping for air. “I feel a lot better than you’re going to, Mormon!”
Simon sighed and started out of the meadow. Making his way down the slope, he was careful to give a wide berth to Old Scratch’s territory. Simon paused in a small clearing to rest. The brushwood was so dense that he almost missed seeing what appeared to be a burrow above him. He shuddered at the thought that he might one day encounter the beast.
As Simon was about to move on, he heard a crashing in the brush a short way uphill. His blood ran cold as he whirled around and caught a glimpse of Clay McCalister. The youth had regained his wind and was racing down the slope to overtake him.
Simon had no sooner turned to flee, when a scream erupted from the thick undergrowth above him. Again he stopped. Simon couldn’t see Clay, but the boy was still screaming. Simon started back uphill. When he got close enough to see through the foliage, he spied Clay lying on his back, without his gun, pressed against a half-decayed log. The wolverine was growling and slowly closing in on him, provoked by Clay’s intrusion of his privacy. Scratch’s short snout sniffed at the boy’s foot; his sharp teeth were bared.
Simon crept out from behind the trees, removed a hunk of jerky from his pocket, and tossed it a short distance from the wolverine to lure it away from Clay. While the animal’s attention was diverted to this new object, Clay quickly crawled off.
After distancing themselves from Old Scratch, Clay questioned, “Why did you do it, Stone? I mean, I shot up your kite and was going to bust you up good.”
“You needed help,” Simon replied matter-of-factly. He patted the small, worn book that protruded from his pocket and added, “In the Book of Mormon, it tells about a prophet named Enos who prayed for his enemies. If he could do that, the least I could do was try to …” Simon’s speech trailed as he beheld what appeared to be a tear in Clay McCalister’s eye.
Clay quickly wiped it away. “Haven’t you ever had anything in your eye before?” Clay snapped defensively.
Simon smiled understandingly. “Sure, Clay,” he said, “lots of times.”
Clay stared at Simon a long moment, his eyes gradually settling upon the Book of Mormon. “Could I borrow that book of yours for a few days, maybe?” he asked somewhat sheepishly. “I won’t tear it up or anything, honest. I’d just like to read some of it—find out what it’s all about. And what you’re all about.”
Simon nodded and handed Clay the book. “Keep it as long as you like,” he offered.
“Don’t start thinking that I’m going to become a Mormon or anything like that,” Clay asserted.
Simon smiled. Clay’s most likely right, he thought. But Simon had planted a seed, just as someone once had for his father and mother and his Uncle Elias. Those seeds had taken root, and many had been blessed because of it. Maybe, just maybe, Clay would be too.

Elder Gérald Caussé (France): In our family we have decided that Christmas is not just about having fun together, but it is also about focusing on Christ and serving others. About 10 years ago we formed a choir of family members. We went to hospitals and retirement homes and sang Christmas songs. At first it was a small group. We had babies in our arms and in strollers. But now these babies have grown up, and they are seasoned choristers. We have a 44-person choir sharing not only traditional French carols but also Church hymns, and we find great success. After singing, the children go and distribute to the sick or elderly little presents we have prepared as a family. We try to have time with each person, talking about the true meaning of Christmas and also listening to him or her. Everyone always has a lot to share.
Our visits are special occasions to remember what we know about being a Christian and bearing the name of Christ. Christmas is a good reminder of how we need to behave during the whole year.

I am what you would call an average high school student. I’m not that popular or good looking. So you can see why I was excited when the new girl at my school agreed to go to the homecoming dance with me. Okay, I wasn’t just excited; I was walking on air. She was a beautiful, blond-haired girl from my ward, and I considered myself lucky to be her date. Homecoming finally rolled around, and I was even more excited.
When I picked her up for the date and met with the other couple we were going to “double” with, my good mood soon disappeared. Once we were with the other couple, my date suddenly seemed more interested in the other guy than in me. I tried to tell myself that I was imagining it, and that everything was all right. But during dinner, she acted as if I weren’t even there.
At the dance I could no longer deny that my suspicions were correct. My date wouldn’t dance with me, but she did dance with the other guy. My heart broke. I got so frustrated that I left and took a walk. While I walked around the school, all I could think was, Why me? I waited to date until I was 16, I’ve tried to do what’s right, so why is this happening to me?
The dance finally ended, and I decided to give it one last shot. We had planned to go to a movie, so I decided we would. The other couple was still with us, and during the movie, my date held hands with the other guy. I hadn’t expected to hold hands with her, but I never guessed she would be holding hands with him.
When I finally arrived back home, I realized that I was all alone. My family was out of town, and it was too late to call a friend. So I did the only thing I knew how to do. I lay down and cried just like a little kid.
After a while, I got down on my knees to say my prayers. I asked for peace. At that moment, my heart was filled with a love that was so powerful and amazing I can’t really describe it. The Savior’s love filled my heart, and I knew that Heavenly Father loved me. After that I could go to sleep and deal with what had happened.
Now that I look back on this experience, I have to laugh. That horrible date is just a memory to me, and my life has gone on. And even though it was a terrible experience, I learned something very important: with Heavenly Father’s love, I can endure.

Maddie R., 13, in Virginia, has a “Dad’s box,” where she keeps her father’s letters and pictures. She e-mails him regularly so he doesn’t feel left out. “My dad used to ask me to go on bike rides with him, but I usually said no and didn’t think much about it. But now I would give almost anything to spend time with him,” she says. “I just want people to not take their parents for granted. You never know what will happen. Sometimes my dad is gone for a short time, sometimes he’s gone for a long time, and sometime,” she pauses for a moment, thinking, “it might just be for the rest of my life.”

They finally asked Andy to be in the Third Street Tigers. His best friend, Michael, was already in the club. If only he wasn’t afraid to climb up to the tree house where they had the meetings! Wooden planks were nailed up the trunk like a ladder, but whenever Andy tried to climb anything, he got a funny feeling in his stomach.
One day he decided to try climbing while no one was looking. On the fourth step, his stomach did a double flip, and he dropped to the grass. Turning to go home, Andy found Montgomery blocking his way.
“You’re afraid! You’re afraid!” teased Montgomery.
“What do you mean?” Andy gulped.
“You chickened out. I saw you! You’ll never be a Tiger.”
“Leave me alone!”
Laughing, Montgomery pushed Andy. “Maybe you should join the preschoolers. They meet in the sandbox.”
In the morning, Andy told Michael what had happened. “It’s no use,” Andy sighed. “I’ll never get all the way up. Montgomery was right.”
“But you have to be a Tiger,” Michael said. “Best friends are always in the same club.”
“Yeah, but Montgomery …”
“Forget Montgomery. I know something that might help you build up your courage. Meet me at the gym after school,” Michael said as he headed back to class.
All day long, Andy wondered what Michael’s plan was and if it would work. He wanted to be in the Tigers more than anything.
The gym was crowded when Andy found Michael in a corner, watching a girl do a somersault on the balance beam.
“What’s the plan?” Andy asked.
“The balance beam.”
“You’re not getting me up there. I saw what that girl was doing.”
“Not the high beam,” said Michael. “There’s a lower beam over there.” As he talked, Michael pulled Andy across the room.
Andy put one foot on the beam, then jerked it down again. He hoped the Tigers were worth all this trouble. With Michael guiding him, Andy finally walked to the other end. Then he saw Montgomery watching him.
Andy stepped down to the floor. “What do you want?”
“I came to see if you’re still afraid.”
“Let’s go,” Michael said to Andy. “We’re done here, anyway.”
As they left, Montgomery shouted, “Hey, Andy, maybe you can join the Tigers when you grow up.”
On Friday, Michael talked Andy into trying to climb the tree again. As he got close to it, Andy felt a familiar flutter in his stomach. Hitching up his pants and crossing his fingers once for luck, he started up the tree.
First step, no problem. Second step, fine. By the third step, Andy felt as if he could make it. Then the plank pulled away from the trunk, and Andy tumbled to the ground.
Andy and Michael were both thinking the same thing: Montgomery must have loosened the step. “I’m going to find him,” Andy raged. He headed for Montgomery’s favorite hangout, the city park. By the time he got there, he’d cooled off. What’s the use? he thought. No matter what I say, Montgomery will never leave me alone.
He turned to go back to Michael, when he heard yelling and a dog barking. Andy ran toward the sound and found Montgomery backed up against a fence, his arms covering his face. In front of him stood a large, barking dog.
Wow! Tough Montgomery is afraid of dogs! Andy wanted to run and tell Michael, but then he remembered how he had felt halfway up the tree. I guess everybody’s afraid of something.
Andy grabbed the dog’s collar. “Calm down, Montgomery! Don’t you recognize Mr. Henry’s dog, Skipper? He only wants you to play with him.”
“Keep him away from me!” cried Montgomery.
“There’s nothing to worry about,” Andy told him. “Let him smell your hand.”
“No way! I’m getting out of here.”
“Watch me.” Andy bent down and held out his hand. The dog sniffed, then licked it. “Now you try,” Andy said.
Cautiously Montgomery put out his hand while Andy held the dog. When Skipper licked it, too, both boys began to laugh.
“It tickles,” said Montgomery.
The boys heard someone calling Skipper, and the dog ran off.
Montgomery jammed his hands into his pockets and played in the dirt with his shoe. “Thanks for saving me. Are you going to tell?”
“No.”
“How come?”
“I don’t know,” Andy said. “It doesn’t seem right.”
“I’m sorry for picking on you,” Montgomery apologized. “If you want, I’ll help you climb the tree tomorrow—no tricks, I promise.”
“How come?”
“Isn’t that what friends are supposed to do?”
In the morning, Andy and Montgomery went to the giant tree early. Andy took a deep breath, then looked up. The Third Street Tigers clubhouse was up high!
“You can do it,” Montgomery said. “I’ll be right behind you. If you get scared, stop and rest.”
Andy swallowed hard. With shaky hands he grabbed the bottom plank. Nervously he pulled himself up. Counting to three, he moved on to the second step, then the third, which had been nailed on tight again. He bit his bottom lip and stopped to gather his courage.
Andy forced himself to continue from each step to the next. When he saw the opening of the tree house, he heard Montgomery say, “I knew you’d make it!”
They pulled themselves inside to wait for the rest of their friends. Andy could hardly believe that he’d done it. When Michael arrived, he asked, “What happened? How’d you do it?”
Andy and Montgomery just looked at each other and grinned.

I was taught a powerful lesson about the influence of setting an example. I strive to read my scriptures each night before I go to sleep. At times, I do well studying and feeling of the Spirit. Other times I barely read a few verses with sleepy eyes before setting my scriptures back on the nightstand and dropping off to sleep. Although my study is not perfect, I try to remain consistent in my goal to read every night.
One afternoon I had had a difficult day at school. I came home grumpy and discouraged. After I kicked off my shoes, my eyes fell to my nightstand. I scooped up my scriptures and settled into my bed, eager for some needed comfort. As I opened the pages, a paper fell to my lap. I discovered it was a letter.
The letter began with an apology for intruding. The writer explained that he had been playing with my brother when strangely, in the middle of the day, my alarm went off. After the blaring alarm did not automatically turn off, the writer had entered my room and switched it off. He had seen my scriptures sitting next to the alarm. He wrote that he was impressed by my example because my scriptures were out and ready to use while his lay forgotten somewhere in his closet. He was so moved that he began to read again and expressed his gratitude for my example.
On that discouraging day the kind note reminded me of the quiet influence I can be on others. I realized that if he had not thought to write this note I would never have known that I had been an influence in someone’s life. It taught me that each of us can be a powerful example in our simple daily actions.

When I was in the sixth grade, my class went to the Marin Headlands (California) State Park for a weeklong field trip. After a long drive on the bus, we unpacked our belongings and settled in to our bunk beds. We started talking excitedly about what activities lay ahead of us over the next week. Slowly, the conversation changed, and somehow the subject of religion was brought up. One person after another briefly stated what faith they belonged to. I didn’t want anyone to know that I didn’t go to church and was different from them. However, they noticed that I wasn’t participating in the discussion.
“What are you?” my friend asked curiously.
“I don’t go to church, so I guess I’m nothing.”
“You can’t be nothing. You have to be something!”
I decided to ask my mom what she was, because I thought that whatever she was, I must be the same. “Mom, everyone in my group at camp goes to church except me. They told me what religions they were and when they asked me what I was, I told them that I was nothing. I’m nothing, right?”
“Yes, I guess that’s right,” my mom said assuredly.
“But they said I have to be something,” I complained.
My mom repeated herself, “If you don’t belong to a particular church or religious group, then you are no religion at all.”
Two years went by, and I didn’t think too much about religion or the religious discussion we had had until my best friend invited me to attend a camp with her during the summer. After getting my parents’ approval, I excitedly told my friend that I could go. There were a lot of fun activities but also classes about principles and stories in the Bible that were brand new to me. I enjoyed learning about them, and I learned how to look up scriptures in my new Bible given to me by my friend. By the end of the week, I was “saved.” I wasn’t sure what that meant, but there were other people that were “saved” too.
I asked my parents if it was all right if I went to church with my best friend’s family every Sunday. They agreed. Unfortunately, something came up the next Sunday, and I wasn’t able to go. One week after another went by, and for one reason or another I did not go to church. The good feelings from camp slowly faded away. My freshman year of high school began, but my best friend and I drifted apart. Now I knew there was no chance of going to church with her family.
“Mom, can we go to church?” I asked several times, but I never really got the answer I was looking for. One day was different. Instead of the usual reply, she answered, “Well, I do know of a church we can go to. I know that they teach good things, because I used to go when I was little. I can take you to that church—The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.” That was the first time I learned she ever went to church, even though I knew my grandparents went to church.
I was more than satisfied with this answer. I was finally on my way to becoming something.
My mom, sister, brother, and I were finally going to church! My grandmother helped by locating which church building to attend in the area where we lived. Looking back, I do remember feeling welcomed.
Over the next few Sundays, I was welcomed like a friend that hadn’t been seen for some time. When people noticed that I was new, they smiled and extended their hand to greet me and introduced themselves. I went to Young Women with the girls. I was 15 and belonged to the Mia Maid class. I quickly made friends despite my shyness. Everyone made me feel comfortable. My sister was in the Beehive class. Being four years old, my brother went to Primary. He didn’t like going by himself, so he always made my mom go with him. I think she enjoyed it. She sang children’s songs and relearned stories from when she was younger.
The missionaries came to our house and taught us the lessons. I was delighted when they came over. Even though they were around 20 years old, they knew a lot about the scriptures and the gospel of Jesus Christ. They had a special presence and a warm glow about them. I soon found out that other members of the Church had that glow as well, including my Young Women teacher, who always let me know how happy she was to have me in her class.
I became good friends with a girl named Julia. We decided to be “buddies” at girls camp. Even though I don’t like camping or hiking very much, I really enjoyed the entire experience. There was a different feeling at this camp. Our counselors made a special effort to see that we were having a good time and that everyone was included in all the activities we participated in. During the week, we had devotionals, a nature walk to learn about different plants, a first-aid class, and campfire skits. There was also a service project that everyone in the camp happily participated in. In fact, the service project table was always crowded with volunteers. All through the week there was a sense of organization, cooperation, and friendship.
On Saturday morning, the last day, everyone got together around the campfire, and whoever wanted to stood up and told the others of their testimony of the Church and expressed their gratitude for their family, friends, and what a great and memorable experience they had at camp. Most of them cried while they talked, and I cried along with them. I was surprised to see my sister go up on stage. She said how happy she was to come to this Church and how thankful she was for her family, especially me. That was one of the first times she had ever expressed her love for me as her sister. Once she sat down, I got up and sat next to her. I told her how grateful I was for what she said, and we cried together. We really made a special connection.
We continued going to church and taking the missionary lessons. As the weeks went by, I learned much more about the Church. I wanted to do the right things. I began reading the Bible and the Book of Mormon, praying, eating good food, dressing modestly, and trying to live a Christian life. After trying all these things, I felt good about myself.
My mother, who had not wanted to go to church, continued to participate in the missionary lessons and continued to take us to church every Sunday. We made the decision to be baptized, and my mother, sister, and I became members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints on June 3, 2000. This was a decision that has changed all of our lives. My brother was too young to be baptized, and my stepfather did not share in our beliefs, but he always supported all of us in our Church-related activities and meetings.
We now have numerous friends that we would not otherwise have if we had not gone to church. We participate in many community service projects and have become happier people. I went on to receive my Young Women in Excellence award and attend community college. After high school, I became active in the single adults ward, where I met a wonderful returned missionary. We were married and have now had our first child.
Through all these experiences in the Church, our family has grown closer, and we are striving to become an eternal family. Seven years after our baptism, both my stepfather and my little brother made the decision to join the Church and were baptized together on January 20, 2007.

Just like Nephi stated in the opening verse of the book of 1 Nephi, I was also “born of goodly parents.” I grew up in Nagano, Japan, in a home where honesty, diligence, and humility were strongly encouraged and conformity to the old customs was strictly followed. My father was a very religious man. I watched him praying in front of the Shinto and Buddhist altars every morning and every night. Even though I had no idea whom he was praying to and what he was praying for, I believed some sort of unseen power or God would be “mighty to save” or help us if we prayed sincerely.
Like other teenagers, I experienced many hardships. I struggled, thinking that life was unfair and had lots of ups and downs. I felt lost, not having a sense of direction in my life. Life seemed so fleeting because it would end when I died. Life without knowing the plan of salvation was confusing.
Not long after I started to learn English in junior high school, all the students in our school received a copy of the New Testament. Though we had barely begun our study of English, our teacher told us we should study English by reading it. I opened it and reviewed its contents. The words in the New Testament were extremely difficult for me. The words in Japanese were equally difficult. However, I was drawn to a list of statements and questions of the soul that had been included just before the biblical text in this Gideon Bible—questions about feeling lonely, lacking confidence, being confused, facing life’s trials, and so on. Each item on the list was followed by a reference to verses and pages in the New Testament. I was especially drawn to the statement “When you are weary.” The reference led me to open Matthew 11:28–30, in which Jesus said to His disciples:
“Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.
“Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls.
“For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”
This was the first time I remember reading the words of Jesus Christ. Though I did not understand all the words He said, His words comforted me, lifted my soul, and gave me hope. The more I read His words, the more I felt like I should try the virtue of His words. I had never felt like I felt that day. I felt I was loved. I felt that Jesus Christ was someone I knew.
As I continued studying, I felt as though He were speaking directly to me when He said, “Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness: for they shall be filled.”
His words filled my heart, even though I could not describe my feelings well at that time. Although Jesus Christ lived many centuries ago in a land unfamiliar to me, I thought I could trust His words with all my heart. I hoped someday in the future I might learn more about Jesus Christ.
That someday came only a few years later. I met very dedicated, young, full-time missionaries of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. And I soon met a small group of kind and joyful Latter-day Saints striving to follow Jesus Christ. Despite it taking me a while to fully trust them, I came to see in the restored gospel what I yearned for when I studied the New Testament—the words of Jesus Christ and the hope and peace that come from them.
A particularly sacred experience was when the missionaries taught me to pray. I learned that we should address God by name. When we pray, we should speak from our hearts, express our gratitude, and share our hopes and desires. Once we have said all that we want to say, we end our prayer by saying, “In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.” We do this because Jesus commanded us to pray in His name. Praying to Heavenly Father helped me know who He is and my relationship with Him—that I was His beloved spirit son. I learned that because Heavenly Father knows and loves me, He would speak to me personally, uniquely, and in ways I would understand through the Holy Ghost.
There was a time when I really could not recognize the Holy Ghost. I misunderstood, thinking that all I had to do was follow the steps of prayer and something dramatic would happen. One day, during a lesson with the missionaries, I stepped out of the lesson to take a break. I was still confused about what I should do with my life if the restored gospel of Jesus Christ really was true.
As I was about to return to the room where the missionaries were waiting, I heard the voice of one of the missionaries. I heard my name. Instead of opening the door, I listened to the voice on the other side of the door. I was stunned. They were simply praying to Heavenly Father. The one saying the prayer was pleading to God that He would hear my prayer. Though his Japanese was not fluent, hearing his sincere prayer softened my heart. I wondered why they cared about me so much. Then I realized that their prayer in my behalf was a reflection of Heavenly Father and the Savior’s love for me. That love gave me hope, and afterward I did ask God in faith and with real intent. When I did, I felt a joyful and peaceful feeling that I was indeed a child of God and that I had a divine potential and destiny. The plan of salvation sank deep into my heart.
President Russell M. Nelson has said, “The way you think about who you … are affects … every decision you will ever make.” It is so true for me. The decision to follow the Savior Jesus Christ by being baptized and receiving the gift of the Holy Ghost blessed my life more than I ever imagined. As we enter into the baptismal covenant with God, we promise that we are willing to take upon ourselves the name of Jesus Christ, keep the commandments of God, and serve Him for the remainder of our lives. Our Heavenly Father, in turn, promises us that we can always have His Spirit to be with us—the continued guidance from the Holy Ghost.
I invite you to have faith in the message Nephi taught us—that the words of Christ and the Holy Ghost will direct you to “all things what [you] should do.” Everything! This is an incredible gift from God.
Brothers and sisters, I am grateful for our Heavenly Father’s plan of salvation. Because He loves us, He prepared the way to return to His presence through His Only Begotten Son, Jesus Christ. Knowing this incredible plan will help us know we are children of God and we can become like Him. I am grateful for this important truth. I bear you my witness that the words of Jesus Christ and the Holy Ghost will lead us to receive eternal life. I know these things are true. In the sacred name of Jesus Christ, amen.