Gospel Story Finder

One night Joseph and Emma stayed up late to take care of the babies, who were both sick. A mob of angry men came into the home. The men grabbed Joseph and carried him away from the house.
The wicked men hurt Joseph and poured hot tar on him.
When the mob left, Joseph was very weak. He crawled back to the house. When Emma saw Joseph hurt, she fainted.
Joseph’s friends carefully washed him.
Sunday morning—the next day—Joseph preached to the congregation as usual. Some of the men from the mob came to listen.

When I asked about their father’s sense of humor, one of the children offered this comment, “Dad has very poor handwriting and he readily admits it. He sometimes asks his office secretary to tell him what he has written on his calendar, because he can’t read it himself. President Lee called Dad’s handwriting, ‘unreformed Egyptian.’ One time when he was on the stand with President Kimball at a meeting, a message was delivered to Dad reporting that one of the Church school buildings in South America had burned. Father wrote a note to President Kimball, telling him about it. President Kimball looked at it for a long time, then sent a note back, ‘Do you mean burned or buried?’”

“In this new school year I want each of you to take a turn at the beginning of class in discussing with us the book that has impressed you most in life,” said our literature teacher, Mrs. Protschka.
I wondered what book I should present. Mother and I were living in Bonn, West Germany then, and I had just started ninth grade. I thought maybe I would introduce Lew Wallaces’s Ben-Hur. But was that really the book that had impressed me most in life?
No. I knew it was the book the two young missionaries who had baptized my mother and me had given to me a few years before—the Book of Mormon.
But I was the only Latter-day Saint in the school; could I dare to introduce this new scripture in my class?
I remembered how I had read this book, prayed about it, and received a confirmation that it was holy scripture.
When I told my mother about my idea, she encouraged me to do what I felt was right. The hard work began. I decided to start by explaining the Book of Mormon like a story, beginning with Lehi and his family’s departure from Jerusalem. After much prayer and thought, the right words began to flow into my mind. God was answering!
As I waited for my turn, I noticed that many of the other students presented books that in some way dealt with Satan and the dark side. Now more than ever, I wanted to be the Lord’s advocate to these people.
At last it was my turn. Usually the students wrote the titles of their books on the chalkboard at the beginning of their presentations, but I asked our teacher’s permission to save it until the end. I told her I wanted it to be a surprise.
Mother told me later how she had spent almost the entire morning of my presentation praying that my report would go well and that the class would be receptive. And indeed her prayers helped. At the beginning, when I started explaining Lehi’s vision and his travel through the desert, some students wanted to make fun of it, “It’s the Bible! It’s the Bible!” But suddenly the class became quiet, and I related the history of the Book of Mormon smoothly and calmly, bearing testimony of its truthfulness. The Spirit of the Lord was so strong it seemed almost tangible.
After about twenty minutes I finished, leaving my teacher and the class speechless. Then Mrs. Protschka asked what they thought. They all began to speak very highly of me and expressed admiration for my courage in presenting such a religious book at school.
I was asked to talk more about the Church and my mother’s and my conversion. After class, some of the students even asked me for a copy of the Book of Mormon.
From that day, I made friends to whom I still feel very close, friends who defended me later in front of others. They even wrote and supported me years later when I served a mission in Spain.

Slug ran along the dusty road, then turned in at Marshall’s yard. Marshall waited on the porch with his chin in his hands. When Slug saw him, he slowed, then stopped. “What’s the matter, Marsh?” he asked.
“I changed my mind about helping you with your grandma’s cellar.”
Slug’s forehead creased. “Come on, Marsh! Two of us will get done in no time! You want to earn some money, don’t you?”
“Yeah, but there might be snakes in there.”
Slug blinked. “My dad and brother were out there this weekend, and they didn’t see any.”
Marshall shook his head firmly, then got up and went inside. Slug rammed his hands into his back pockets and turned away. He kicked at a stone and thought of the time when he and Marshall had seen a snake at Hadley’s landfill. He remembered how he’d felt as it slithered away through the tall weeds.
Now he glanced toward the fields and imagined one coiled beside every rock. They could be anywhere, he thought fearfully. You never know till you see them! Slug zigged across the dusty road and kicked at a clump of weeds. “Too late now,” he grumbled. “I promised Granny!”
“Hey, Slug!” Willow called from the middle of the field. “Where are you going?”
Slug kept walking. “To my granny’s old house!”
Her hair flowing, Willow ran through the tall grass. “What for?” she asked, falling into step beside him.
“Mind your own business!”
“I don’t have any,” she said with a shrug.
Slug kept walking, and Willow kept pace. Girls! he thought irritably.
When they reached Slug’s grandmother’s property, they slipped easily through the space left by two missing pickets in the fence. As he stomped across the uncut grass toward the slanted outside cellar doors, Slug scanned the weeds. No snakes yet, he thought. He lifted one cellar door and let it fall open. Cautiously he peered inside.
Willow leaned over his shoulder. “What are you looking for?”
“Nothing.” Slug lifted back the other door. “I have to clean Granny’s cellar and hose it down, that’s all. Why don’t you get out of here?” he added as he craned his neck to check every corner of the sloping steps.
Willow flipped her hair over her shoulders. “I can help you,” she said, and she flitted fearlessly down the steps.
“Willow?” Slug called apprehensively.
Willow pushed open the door at the bottom, then turned. “What?”
“Nothing,” Slug mumbled, following reluctantly. “Just watch out!”
Willow wiggled through the stacks of boxes toward the other side of the damp, musty cellar. Quickly she climbed onto an old wooden workbench.
“What are you doing?” Slug squawked.
“Letting some air in!” Willow said, opening a window. “What’s the matter with you?”
Slug kicked at a stack of boxes. “I don’t know why you’re hanging around! You probably can’t even lift anything heavy!”
“Then you lift,” Willow said as a warm breeze swept through the muggy cellar, “and I’ll sweep.” She grabbed a broom. “Well … get lifting!”
Slug gave her a look, then cautiously lifted a box. With a fearful glance at where the box had been, he started up the steps. When he had placed the box by the road, he went back to the cellar steps and looked around. “That Marshall’s dumb!” he mumbled disgustedly. He descended the steps slowly, peering into every corner again. But there was Willow, pushing boxes across the floor toward the door. “What are you doing?” he snapped. “There could be snakes down here!”
Willow frowned. “Slug, stop trying to scare me! There aren’t any poisonous snakes around here. Besides, my dad says that snakes are as afraid of us as we are of them, so what’s the big deal?” Shaking her head, she went back to work.
Slug scowled at her, then grabbed another box and climbed the sun-splashed steps again. When he came back, Willow was singing. Slug stacked two bundles of tied newspapers and lifted them. Willow kept singing but looked at him and grinned. After he put the newspapers with the other trash, he stopped and glanced around at the bright yellow day. The trees had gobs of shade beneath their shiny green leaves, and the grass waved in gentle patterns. He wiped his arm across his chin and smiled. It’s a nice day, he decided.
Finally all the trash was outside, and Willow was sweeping a pile of dirt into a dustpan. “Looks better,” she said, brushing back her hair.
Slug nodded and uncoiled the hose. “Sure does.”
“Is your grandmother going to sell this old place?”
Slug reached for a bucket. “People from upstate want to see it.”
Willow aimed the broom at the rafters and swatted at cobwebs.
When the sun was high and grasshoppers were jumping, Slug wearily closed the cellar doors. “Thanks, Willow,” he said as they started across the overgrown yard.
Willow shrugged. “That’s OK.”
Slug slipped through the opening in the fence. “Granny’s paying me—I’ll split it with you.”
Willow shook her head. “I didn’t help for money.”
“Then why did you?”
“Something to do.”
“Yeah, but there could have been snakes down there!” Slug insisted.
Willow chuckled. “Oh, maybe. But there weren’t.”
“Yeah,” Slug admitted. “Even so, you kind of helped me forget about them.”
Willow pulled a long weed from beside the road and swatted at her leg with it as they walked. “Dad says that half of what we’re afraid of we make up. The other half hardly ever happens.”
Slug watched their shadows as they walked. Funny, he thought, how a friend can hurt you—or help you. He was glad that Willow had helped. “I don’t want you to argue with me, Willow Thompson!” he blurted out. “When I get paid, you get half!”
With that, Slug ran down the wooded path toward the stream. Willow watched him go and smiled, then continued toward home.

The experience of missionary John Brown in Alabama is typical of other early missionaries for the Church. Local community members assumed the 17-year-old in ragged clothing was a simple cotton picker. They gathered to hear him speak one day in 1843, expecting entertainment by mocking the young preacher. After he began, however, the crowd members silenced and “were as motionless as statues of marble.” Brown was well treated afterward.

Spencer’s family were also members of the Church. That made me nervous, because I had been taught my whole life that if I walked inside an LDS church, I would see fire and go straight to hell.
But Spencer and other Mormons were really nice to me, and I felt comfortable around them. So even though I was pretty scared of the Church, I went to church with them a few times and met a lot of other good people.
Their kindness helped soften my heart.
One of my new friends, Rick, was a member of the Church too. The night before he left on his mission, I told him I was feeling frustrated. I couldn’t go into the military, I didn’t want to go to college, and I didn’t know what to do. He looked right at me and said, “You should go on a mission like me.”
That statement hit me like a ton of bricks. I said, “All right, I’ll go on a mission.”
He laughed and said, “Well, you have to be a member of the Church first.”
I met with the missionaries with Spencer’s family after Rick left for his mission. Six weeks later, Spencer baptized me. I was almost 19 years old.
Still, things weren’t perfect after that. Most of my family was not happy that I joined the Church. My dad even offered me a brand-new pickup truck if I would just forget about it. But my brother Roger supported me. When I told him I wanted to serve a mission, he told me to give it 110%. Whether I was serving a mission or not, he told me to always do my best.
When I told him I wanted to serve a mission, he told me to give it 110%.
I tried to prepare the best I could by studying the scriptures, praying, and going to a mission prep class. While I was on my mission in North Carolina, I lost myself in the work and did my best to follow Roger’s advice to give it 110%.
Ten years later, I lost my dad to cancer. Even though he and I had hard times, I love him so much. As I leaned down to hug him and say “I love you” one last time, he said something I will never forget. He told me he was proud of me and that he was glad I served a mission. Two years later, Spencer got to baptize me for my father in the temple.
My family may not have approved of my joining the Church, but because of their unfailing love and the example of my friends and their families, I was able to serve a mission, be married in the temple, and help my dad after he passed on. I am grateful to be a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

During the basketball season of 1984, our ward team competed with other ward teams of our stake. As the season progressed, Scott had a chance to play, and as long as I was there I never heard any of the other players complain or say anything indicating resentment. Quite frequently, in fact, special efforts were made to give Scott an opportunity to score points. No one suggested it. Trying to help him make a basket seemed so natural that nothing special was said about it. The unspoken acceptance of Scott by everyone is what makes it so remarkable.
The team advanced to the area tournament, and it was during the semi-final game that one of Scott’s gifts was given. As usual Scott had a chance to play, but as it turned out, the opposing team was winning by quite a wide margin. They were a good team and played well. During the game our team members often threw Scott the ball and urged him to shoot. I suppose it was because the players on the other team were intent on winning that one of them stole the ball from Scott and dribbled to his end of the court to make a basket. Instead of receiving the expected cheers, he was surprised to hear fans criticize him, even those from his own ward. Ridding himself of his confusion and embarrassment, he recognized his mistake and backed away, allowing our team to throw the ball to Scott, who was trying to make a basket before the end of the game.
Soon other players from the opposing team began to participate. So involved were they that no one noticed the scorekeeper had shut off the clock with three seconds remaining to allow Scott his opportunity. Everyone’s eyes were glued to the action on the floor. Scott would shoot, and someone from one of the teams (it didn’t matter which) would rebound and throw it to Scott. Finally a shot went in and everyone cheered, the clock was turned on, and the game ended. Players ran to congratulate Scott, and our losing team evidenced little sadness about their loss. Observers left the game with a feeling very different from those of winners or losers. Scott had enabled all to participate in a gift of kindness and warmth that uplifted all who saw it. Souls were fed that evening instead of just being entertained.
I received the report of that game from Jeff LeBaron who, as Scott’s neighbor, had given him a ride and saw to it that he participated. I enjoyed the story and suggested to my son Dan, the other assistant in the priests quorum, that he have it told in priesthood meeting the following Sunday. As he conducted the meeting, he congratulated Scott and told of the events of the game. A warm feeling was created in our quorum as some of the players told additional details. Scott was congratulated by many, and we went on to the lesson thinking no more about the matter instead of appreciating the unity we all felt.

One day, my brother Rick and I decided to go goose hunting. That day we had success and both of us shot a goose. With the two geese in the car, we dreaded what was to come. Our father had taught us that we hunt for food. We knew that meant we would have to pluck both of these large birds and prepare them to be put in the freezer.
As we drove home, we talked about how hard it was to pluck a goose. We tried to find ways to get out of the job.
“Wait a minute,” said Rick. “Didn’t Brother Owen lose his job?”
“Yeah,” I replied.
“Maybe they need food,” said Rick.
We decided it would be a good deed for us to deliver some food to their door. (Of course, we were much more interested in getting out of the work than in doing a good deed.) We dumped the geese on the Owens’ doorstep, rang the doorbell, and ran back to the car as fast as we could. As we drove away, we were excited that we had found a way to avoid the work of plucking the geese.
The next day was fast Sunday. Brother Owen was the first one up to bear his testimony. He explained that he had lost his job and his family was struggling to get by. The night before, he was getting his three daughters ready for bed. They were crying because they were hungry and there was no food. His oldest daughter, still in Primary, explained that if they prayed, Heavenly Father would bring them food.
Brother Owen was overcome by the faith of his daughter. With tears in his eyes, he asked his daughter to pray. He explained that she had said a simple prayer, explaining to Heavenly Father that she and her family were hungry. Then she asked Heavenly Father to bring them food. As the prayer ended, the family was surprised by a knock on the door. They opened the door and found not one, but two large geese sitting on the doorstep. They thanked Heavenly Father for such a quick answer to their prayer. Brother Owen testified that God answers prayers and sat down. Rick and I had tears in our eyes.
From then on, every time my brother and I went hunting, we would drop our birds on the doorstep and run to the car. We left pheasants, ducks, quail, doves, and even some fish.
One day, as we were emptying the birds from our vests onto the Owens’ front porch, the door opened. Brother Owen stood in the doorway.
“I thought it was you,” said Brother Owen.
We apologized for leaving the birds there without cleaning them. He assured us that he was happy to clean the birds, and he was thankful for all the food we had left him. He told us how much he appreciated our thoughtfulness.
Initially, my brother and I had been trying to avoid the responsibility of cleaning after a hunt. But our loving Heavenly Father was able to use us to bless the lives of others. Now I look for opportunities to bless the lives of others—not to get out of work, but to be an instrument in God’s hands.

I remember Father’s placing confidence in me. We used to work on the farm, as I said before, and he would call me in the evening or early morning to discuss his plans, his program for the day, and ask me what I thought about it. Should we do this or should we do that? I felt that I was a part of it. I know now that he had his plans pretty well formed, but he showed that confidence in me. And realizing that I was part of it, I worked my head off to accomplish it, and I loved my dad for it.

And then I remember him saying to me one day, “You know, my son, I would rather have you helping me than any hired man I have. I have full confidence in you, and you surely do a good day’s work.” Such an expression of confidence and appreciation makes one more determined to do well what he is expected to do.

He said that a granduncle of his, who was an abbot in the Catholic Church, had asked on his deathbed that Derteano gather the family’s genealogical records. Derteano promised to do so, although he thought that the request was only the irrational talk of a dying man. But he had made a promise, and so, after some time had passed, he began to research the Derteano records. He had to spend considerable time, effort, and money to gather the information. Many times he felt like abandoning the project. On one occasion, when he decided to stop the work, he dreamed his uncle came to him and reminded him of the promise.
He carried on the research for thirty years, locating Derteanos in many parts of the world. Apart from fulfilling a promise to a dying man, Derteano never knew why he was gathering the information. He said he was working blindly, hoping that some day he would understand the reason for it all.
I said that I could provide the answer for him. I told him about the Church and the purposes of the vicarious work for the dead in the temples. I read to him 1 Peter 3:18–20 [1 Pet. 3:18–20], which tells of the Savior preaching the gospel in the spirit world. Then I shared with him parts of Doctrine and Covenants 138 [D&C 138], emphasizing the joy the spirits feel when they receive the gospel and their hope that their descendents would remember them since they cannot progress without us.
Derteano was overjoyed at hearing the reason behind his search. Now, sixty-three years old, he finally felt free of his obligation to his granduncle.
He gave me copies of all the birth and marriage records he had and also the names and addresses of other Derteanos in other parts of the world. My joy and feelings overflowed when together we found a common ancestor in the records, and thus I was able to connect my family tree to his.
Derteano gave me one of his books in which he wrote, “To Luis Roberto Derteano and Rosa Liliana, relatives I had been seeking throughout my life. Without a doubt something brought us together. Kepa De Derteano y Basterra.”

The following example illustrates how ministering is part of the soul of the African people. In June 1989 the government in Ghana decided that the LDS Church was a threat to the security of Ghana. They ordered the Church to be shut down. They confiscated our chapels and even arrested some of the leaders, one of whom was the president of the Koforidua Branch, Brother Richard Ahadjie.
Brother Ahadjie was arrested and put in jail for eight days. When released, he was required to report to the police station every day for a month.
During this period, Brother Ahadjie sought direction from the mission president as to how to take care of the branch members as they could no longer congregate as a church. The mission president instructed him to simply watch over, to minister, to the members.
Determined to follow the counsel of his leader and guided by the Spirit, Brother Ahadjie, with some of the branch leaders, devised a plan to take care of the members, to truly minister to them. Every Sunday for the next 17 months, they visited each member of their branch. Departing each Sunday morning at 4:00 a.m., they gathered at the home of a brother who lived on his farm in the bush. They administered the sacrament together and read from the Book of Mormon. They then paired themselves after the meeting and moved out to visit every family and minister to them.
Each Sunday they conducted these ministering visits arriving home around midnight. For 17 months they repeated this pattern. For 17 months they ministered as the Savior would to the members of the Koforidua Branch. Finally, the ban was lifted. The government realized that the Church was not a threat to the security of Ghana. On the contrary, the Church was a blessing to its people.
Shortly after the ban was lifted, a sacrament meeting was held. It was a fast and testimony Sunday. What was done by Brother Ahadjie in his branch was done in various forms by other branch presidents. No doubt the mission president was concerned by how many members would have been lost during this period known as “The Freeze,” even though he was not in Ghana. To everyone’s delight, the attendance at the fast and testimony meeting was 120%. Not only did the members return, but many nonmembers came, wanting to understand what kind of church would be so dedicated to its members.

Four-year-old Genny stared at the picture of her mom in a long, white dress. “Mommy, you look just like a princess going to a ball. Is that a castle behind you?” Genny asked. “I felt like a princess that day, but that’s not a castle. I’m at the temple,” Mom said with a smile. “It’s my wedding day.” She put Genny on her lap. “Daddy and I were sealed in the temple six years ago,” Mom said. “We were promised that our family can be together forever.” “Was I sealed at the temple too?” Genny asked. “You and your brother and any other children we have are sealed to us forever just by being born into our family,” Mom said. Genny liked the sound of forever. She looked at the picture again. “You look so pretty, Mommy.” “Would you like to see my wedding dress?” Mom asked. “Yes,” Genny said. In her bedroom, Mom took a white plastic bag from the closet. She unzipped it and pulled out a beautiful white dress. It had long sleeves, each with a row of tiny buttons. “Can I touch it?” Genny asked. Mom nodded. Genny gently touched the fabric. “It’s so soft.” “My mother helped me pick it out,” Mom said. “It’s the most special dress I’ll ever have.” Genny threw her arms around her mom. “When I grow up, I want to go to the temple and be sealed just like you and Daddy.” Mom said, “That’s just what Daddy and I want you to do.”

Does hiking 16 miles in the Arizona desert pulling a handcart sound like a good time? Well, for more than 225 young men and young women in the Mesa Arizona Kimball East Stake it was a great time.
The “trekkers” marched 12 miles the first day along the original Mormon Battalion Trail southwest of Phoenix. They traveled near the exact location where the Mormon Battalion was on Christmas Day, 150 years ago.
The eight companies, each including three handcarts with “Ma’s, Pa’s and children,” made camp on the second day, when they did a whole lot of “pioneering.” Many priests, Laurels, teachers and Mia Maids learned to kill a chicken and cook it.
“We did what they did,” says Rayna Martinez, 14, of the Sunny Mesa Ward, “but they had to do it every single day. It sure makes you more thankful for everything you have.”
The last day of the trek included hiking and pulling the handcarts about four more miles and ended when the tired and dusty youth were treated to a barbecue.
“It strengthened my testimony,” says Ronda Abel, 16, of the Fairfield Ward. “The pioneers went through all that because they knew that what they believed in was true. They endured those hardships. That makes me stronger. I know that if I ever have to stand up for what I believe in, I will because I’ll remember what they went through.”

Hi. We’re brothers. During the pandemic, we read more and spent more time outside. We especially like swimming and football (soccer). Here are other ways we grew.
Jannis: I appreciate my parents more. They help a lot with school at home. To help them, I’m spending more time with our little sister so my parents can have some peace. I’ve been more involved in the sacrament each week. And I also started studying the scriptures in seminary. These things have strengthened my faith. I am impressed with how Joseph Smith kept going in spite of difficulties. From him I’ve learned that I shouldn’t give up and that when I have questions, I should read the scriptures and find my answers there.
Till: At school, I really like math. When I need help with school, my parents always offer to help. I also help look after our sister. Lately, my faith has increased through being more involved in the sacrament. I’m also reading the Doctrine and Covenants.
Share your story and read stories from other youth at the @StrivetoBe Instagram.

One young man strayed from the Church for years before finally returning. At a testimony meeting he said: “I got involved in a lot of things I shouldn’t have in an effort to fit in with the popular group, but I always knew something was missing. When I finally repented and returned to full activity in the Church, I didn’t feel that void anymore. I came back, and through the forgiveness of Jesus Christ and His perfect love, I know this is where I belong.”

Your great-grandfather Frederick Michael Wilhelm Meurs was born in Holland in 1926. He was one of 12 children. His mother was a devout Catholic who took her children to mass each Sunday. Fred attended Catholic schools and developed deep faith in Jesus Christ and a love for the scriptures.
Your great-grandmother Lois Ellen Meurs was also born in 1926 in Warrnambool. She had two brothers, Ralph and David, and was raised in a faithful Methodist home. She admired her parents’ charitable service and developed a strong Christian faith.
Fred and Lois were married in Warrnambool in January 1954. Julie was born later that year, and Peter (me) in December 1956.
In their early marriage, Fred and Lois wanted unity in their faith. They attended both the Catholic and Methodist churches and studied the New Testament together. As they read, they wrote down many questions—about the nature of the Godhead, resurrection, priesthood authority, the Church’s structure, and baptism by immersion.
They sought answers from local religious leaders, but most said those matters were “mysteries” or struggled to respond. Their search for truth led them to visit several Christian churches in Warrnambool. Still unsatisfied, they turned to God in prayer, asking Him to send them answers.
Eventually, a letter arrived from President Bingham. After prayerful consideration, he wrote, he had the strongest impression that there were people in Warrnambool ready to receive the restored Church. He encouraged them to go back to work and to visit places they had not been before.
The elders received the letter around the same time that Fred and Lois were praying for answers. A few days later, they knocked on the Meurs family’s front door at 68 Jamieson Street, Warrnambool. Lois answered, and the elders said they had a special message about Jesus Christ and His Church to share.
Lois replied, “We have been praying for you to come—but you can’t come in just now. Our children (two-year-old Julie and six-month-old Peter) have chickenpox, and they might infect you.” She asked them to return in a week.
Lois told Fred about the visit, and they continued to pray that the missionaries wouldn’t forget to come back. They didn’t know who they were dealing with!
Elder Jones and Elder Erickson returned the following week and began teaching Lois and Fred. As they taught, they answered every question on Fred and Lois’s long list. They explained the nature of God, priesthood authority, the Resurrection and life after death, the purpose of life, developing faith, and the ordinances of baptism and the sacrament.
Fred and Lois opened their scriptures—already marked from their earlier study—and found confirmation for everything the missionaries were teaching.
Lois and Fred were baptized and confirmed on 5 July 1957—just three weeks after meeting the missionaries. Soon other families joined the Church, and the new branch began holding meetings in the Meurs home on Jamieson Street.

Of all the illustrations of faith in the Lord, few stories are more powerful than that told of the pioneer who years later stood to defend the decision of the Martin Handcart Company to start for the Salt Lake Valley late in the year of 1856. He had been one of the nearly 3,000 Saints who walked from Iowa and Nebraska to Utah between 1856 and 1860 in one of 10 companies pushing and pulling handcarts loaded with their belongings.
In a Sunday School class, there was sharp criticism of the ill-fated Martin and Willie Handcart Companies, which met with tragedy because of their late start on the trek to the Salt Lake Valley.
An elderly man arose and said: “I ask you to stop this criticism. You are discussing a matter you know nothing about. Cold historic facts … give no proper interpretation of the questions involved. Mistake to send the Handcart Company out so late in the season? Yes. But I was in that company and my wife … too. We suffered beyond anything you can imagine and many died of exposure and starvation, but … we became acquainted with [God] in our extrem[i]ties.
“I have pulled my handcart when I was so weak and weary from illness and lack of food that I could hardly put one foot ahead of the other. I have looked ahead and seen a patch of sand or a hill slope and I have said, I can go that far and there I must give up, for I cannot pull the load through it. … I have gone on to that sand and when I reached it, the cart began pushing me. I have looked back many times to see who was pushing my cart, but my eyes saw no one. I knew then that the angels of God were there.
“Was I sorry that I chose to come by handcart? No. Neither then nor any minute of my life since. The price we paid to become acquainted with God was a privilege to pay, and I am thankful that I was privileged to come in the Martin Handcart Company” (as quoted in David O. McKay, “Pioneer Women,” The Relief Society Magazine, January 1948, 8).

I want to begin with a brief test and a self-evaluation. The following episode was presented in a general conference address in 1966 by President N. Eldon Tanner (1898–1982), a counselor in the First Presidency of the Church.
““A young man came to me not long ago and said, ‘I made an agreement with a man that requires me to make certain payments each year. I am in debt, and I can’t make those payments, for if I do, it is going to cause me to lose my home. What shall I do?’
“I looked at him and said, ‘Keep your agreement.’
“‘Even if it costs me my home?’
“I said, ‘I am not talking about your home. I am talking about your agreement; and I think your wife would rather have a husband who would keep his word, meet his obligations, keep his pledges or his covenants, and have to rent a home than to have a home with a husband who will not keep his covenants and his pledge.’”1

A Primary teacher shared the following example. “Today,” she said, “our five- and six-year-old class made love necklaces. Each child drew pictures on strips of paper: one of themselves, one of Jesus, and some of members of their family and loved ones. We glued the strips into circles that looped through each other to make a chain that we turned into love necklaces. As they were drawing, the children talked about their families.
“Heather said, ‘I don’t think my sister loves me. We are always fighting. … I even hate myself. I have a bad life.’ And she put her head in her hands.
“I thought about her family circumstances and felt that maybe she did indeed have a hard life. But after Heather had said this, Anna, down at the other end of the table, responded, ‘Heather, I am putting you in my necklace between me and Jesus because He loves you and I love you.’
“When Anna said that, Heather crawled under the table to get to Anna and threw her arms around her.
“At the end of class, when her grandmother came to pick her up, Heather said, ‘Guess what, Grandma? Jesus loves me.’”

What happened last week made me feel even closer to Lizzie. It was a steamy, sweltering day, and Jacob and I were digging in the cool earth beneath our back porch.
We found pieces of broken china buried there. We pretended we were archaeologists and sorted them into bags.
Then I dug up something small and round, caked with red clay.
“What is it?” Jacob asked.
“I think it’s a doorknob. I’m going to wash it off.”
As I carefully scrubbed away the mud, a rosebud mouth, dark eyes, and round pink cheeks emerged. It was the tiny head of a doll, made of thick china! Even her black hair was china. Except for a few nicks, it was in amazingly good condition.
“Cool!” Jacob cried. “Let’s see if we can find the rest.”
It felt sort of gruesome, digging for body parts.
We found her feet and hands, minus the tip of one foot and a thumb. Mama said her body had probably been made of cloth and had rotted away. She helped me sew a new body from muslin, and a gown of pink taffeta.
How did the doll end up beneath our porch? Did someone leave it there and forget about it till it was buried by time? I guess we’ll never know.
I like to think it belonged to Lizzie. I hope she knows that I have it now and is glad.
When school starts, I’ll make other friends, but Lizzie is my best friend right now. I think we knew and loved each other before I was born.
My family have only been members of the Church for a few years. We have a lot of work to do, finding and turning in our ancestors’ names and dates so that we can do the temple work for them. I’m glad that Lizzie’s work is done so that we can be together some day. Thanks to her, I know that all those names belong to real people, people who were once kids who played with dolls and rattled sticks along the railing—like my friend Lizzie.