Gospel Story Finder

About four months into my mission, I began to experience pain—not only during physical activities like riding my bike or morning exercise but also when I was sleeping or doing personal study. I began rapidly losing weight. Even drinking water made me sick. Doctors’ tests could not determine what was wrong. I had no parasites or viruses. My mission president, my missionary companion, and I were all confused by my deteriorating health.

During the month that followed, I maintained faith that surprised even me. Although I felt frustrated, I was convinced that if I kept working harder, biking faster, and speaking my broken Chinese to everyone I saw, that God would miraculously heal me. I believed the stories of Christ’s healing the sick and raising the dead, and I believed wholeheartedly that He would do the same for me—a weak but enthusiastic missionary. Then one Sunday while my companion and I were biking to the Church meetinghouse to meet an investigator, the pain and convulsions throughout my body became unbearable. When we arrived at the meetinghouse, I asked the elders to give me a blessing, which helped. As the days passed, priesthood blessings became more frequent and so did prayers for healing.

It was the darkest day of my mission when I awoke one morning in the fiery Taiwanese heat and realized that I could not even move my body enough to get out of bed. At that moment I knew that I would not be able to be a missionary for much longer. My mission president came to visit me, and we counseled together. We talked of all the possibilities, and after much prayer and many tears, the Spirit confirmed that I needed to return home and focus on getting well.

Julia wiped her brow. Then she picked up her shovel and started digging. Right now, the ground around her was a patch of dirt. But soon it would become a beautiful garden.
Times were hard for Black people in South Africa. Laws there kept Blacks and Whites separate. Many Black people had been forced to leave their homes and live in certain areas away from White people, and they couldn’t vote. There had been violence in the township where Julia lived, and the schools were closed because of it. Sometimes it was dangerous to be outside.
But that didn’t stop Julia. She wanted to do something to bring goodness to her community. That’s why she was starting a garden.
Some children saw Julia working. “Can we help?” they asked.
“Of course,” said Julia. She handed them each a shovel. She showed them how to loosen the soil and dig up weeds.
“Let us dig the soil of bitterness, throw in a seed of love, and see what fruits it can give us,” she said. “Love comes only by forgiving others.”
Weeks passed, and more plants grew. Other people came to work in the garden. They pulled tall weeds. They planted more seeds. They watered the plants. It made Julia happy to see so many people helping.
One day Julia met two young men. Julia was surprised because White people rarely came to her neighborhood. They said they were missionaries. She invited them to share a message in her home.
When Julia’s son heard they were coming, he was shocked. “Why did you invite them?” he said. “They are White. It’s not safe.”
But Julia trusted the missionaries. “These men are different,” Julia said. “They are preaching peace.”
When the missionaries came, Julia welcomed them in. One of them noticed a photo on the mantle. It was from Julia’s wedding.
“Who is that?” the missionary asked, pointing to the photo.
“My husband, John.” Julia looked down. “He died in a car crash.”
The missionary nodded. “We believe families can be together forever, even after they die.”
A feeling of peace washed over Julia. She felt happy to learn about God’s plan and kept meeting with the missionaries. Love for the gospel grew in Julia’s heart, just like the plants in her garden. Soon she decided to be baptized.
At church, Julia met lots of new people. Some were Black. Some were White. But they all served and learned together.
Julia showed the children at church how to help in her garden. “We must be soft in our hearts, like this soil,” she said. “We must make a place for the gospel within us. We must make a place for love.”
Thirteen years after Julia’s baptism, the laws separating Black people and White people in South Africa ended.
There are almost 70,000 members of the Church in South Africa today.
South Africa has 11 official languages.
Julia helped start Women for Peace, a group to promote unity and peace in South Africa.
She was one of the first temple workers in the Johannesburg South Africa Temple.
Julia was a teacher. She taught children to read when they worked in her garden.

I remember not long ago I was touring a mission in a foreign country and while we were there I asked the president, “Are there any particular problems in the mission?”
He said, “Well, we have one missionary that wants to go home. The only reason he hasn’t gone home is that I still have his passport.” You brethren who have been out know what that is like. “But,” he said, “I think I’m going to have to let him go.”
I said, “Can I talk to him? Would I be able to help you in any way?”
He said, “I don’t really think so. I think we’ve done all the talking we can.”
I met him before the meeting—I was shaking hands with a group of missionaries and I shook hands with this one young man and did not know who he was, except I felt a little different spirit with him, and afterwards I asked the president who that young man was and he said, “He’s the one that wants to go home.”
I said, “Do you mind asking him after the meeting if he would come up and let me visit with him?”
He said, “That’s fine.”
So after the meeting, the elder came up to the stand and I shook hands with him and said, “I appreciate your coming up. I wonder if you’d mind if I visited with you?”
And he kind of shrugged his shoulders and said, “I don’t care. It’s up to you.” You know, as if to say, “It’s your nickel; spend it how you want it.”
So we went over to the side, and in this particular meeting room in this chapel we were in there was a large stained glass window on one side. I have talked with missionaries before about not going home before they were supposed to go home, so I had a really good talk prepared on that subject—at least I thought it was. And as I talked to him he kept looking out the stained glass window. Never did I get his eye. I kept giving my speech. I was right in the very key part of it where I thought, “If anything will turn him this will.”
Then he said to me, “Bishop Peterson, if you look out the window very carefully you’ll see it’s snowing.”
I heaved a sigh and thought, “Oh, boy. He doesn’t even know I’m here, except he wants me to see the snow. He hasn’t heard a thing I’ve said.” I looked out with him and said, “You’re right, elder. It’s snowing.”
We finished the talk like that, and for the next two days I was around and with him in different meetings. As I was speaking in one meeting he was sitting over at the side reading a newspaper. That unnerved me just a bit. You can see what his attitude was and how I was developing an attitude toward him.
The last evening we were together in a meeting. After the meeting was over, I was down in front shaking hands with some young people and saw him just a few feet away out of the corner of my eye. Then something happened to me that I had not yet experienced. I had been asking for help; I had been praying about some way to help this young man. And then for a fleeting moment something happened to me that I had not experienced up to that point as it related to this young man. I had a feeling about this young man come over me that almost consumed me. I excused myself from talking to the other folks and went over to him and took hold of his hand, and as he was about three or four inches taller than I was I looked up into his eyes and said, “Elder, I’ve enjoyed getting acquainted with you. I want you to know that I love you. I really do.” And I left him and did not say any more. And he did not say anything.
I walked to the back door, and as I was about to go out, there he was again. I went up to him, put my arm around him, and said, “What I said up in front a few minutes ago is true; I really love you.”
And then he held onto my hand a minute and he said, “Bishop Peterson, that’s the first time in my life anyone has ever told me they loved me.” Now, you see, I could understand why he was discouraged, why he was confused, why he wanted to go home, why he did not know what to do. Remember the principle, brothers and sisters: “We love him, because he first loved us.” That is the second secret.

The story is told of an event that happened in New York when President David O. McKay returned from a trip to Europe: “Arrangements had been made for pictures to be taken, but the regular photographer was unable to go, so in desperation the United Press picked their crime photographer—a man accustomed to the toughest type of work in New York. He went to the airport, stayed there two hours, and returned later from [the] dark room with a tremendous sheaf of pictures. He was supposed to take only two. His boss immediately chided him, ‘What in the world are you wasting time and all those photographic supplies for?’
“The photographer replied very curtly, saying he would gladly pay for the extra materials, and they could even dock him for the extra time he took. … Several hours later the vice-president called him to his office, wanting to learn what happened. The crime photographer said, ‘When I was a little boy, my mother used to read to me out of the Old Testament, and all my life I have wondered what a prophet of God must really look like. Well, today I found one.’”

Indeed, sometime not long after 9-11, I had a missionary ask me in all honesty and full of faith, “Elder Holland, are these the last days?” I saw the earnestness in his face and some of the fear in his eyes, and I wanted to be reassuring. I thought perhaps an arm around him and some humor could relieve his anxiety a little. Giving him a hug, I said, “Elder, I may not be the brightest person alive, but even I know the name of the Church.” We then talked about being Latter-day Saints. I said, “Yes, Elder, we are in the last days, but there is really nothing new about that. The promised Second Coming of the Savior began with the First Vision of the Prophet Joseph Smith in 1820. So we already have about 184 years of experience seeing the Second Coming and the last days unfold. We can be certain that we are in the last days—years and years of them,” I said, and gave him a friendly shake of the hand and sent him on his way.

He smiled, seemed more reassured to put all this in some context, and went on his way. I assume he has long since finished a successful mission and is now happily at home getting on with his life, perhaps even sitting in this audience somewhere looking for a wife! (He’d better be.)

I hasten to say that I do know what this young man was really asking. What he really meant was, “Will I finish my mission? Is there any point in getting an education? Can I hope for a marriage? Do I have a future? Is there any happiness ahead for me?” And I say to all of you what I said three years ago to him: “Yes, certainly—to all those questions.”

It happens almost every Sunday evening. After church and after the dinner dishes are washed, nine-year-old Xinia (pronounced ZEEN-ya) gets out a pencil and several sheets of lined paper and starts writing her letters.
She sits at the kitchen table, absorbed with her writing. Sometimes she’ll look up to ask someone how to spell a word or to say something she remembers about the person she is writing to. But during most of her letter-writing time, she seems to be in her own world—or in the world of the person who is lucky enough to get her letter.
Who is she writing to? “The missionaries,” she answers with a smile. The letter she is working on now is for Elder Ed McCoy, a close friend of the family, who is serving a mission in California. Ed is the only member of his family who belongs to the Church, and Xinia makes sure that he gets at least one letter every week—hers.
“He used to come to our house for Sunday dinner,” she says. After he left for his mission, Sunday evening just didn’t seem complete without visiting with Ed—even if only through a letter. Before long, she started writing letters to the other missionaries, too. Now Xinia writes a letter nearly every Sunday evening to all six missionaries from Belize City. Sometimes she also writes to missionaries who served in Belize and have now returned to their homes. Every Monday morning, her mother mails a stack of Xinia’s letters to places such as Honduras, England, Canada, and the United States.

Following a recent discussion on the subject of adversity, a young man who was greatly concerned about the burdens being carried by his wonderful mother asked the question, “If God is omnipotent and knows all, why does He put my mother through the agony of continual sufferings when He already knows what the outcome will be?” Our response was, “Your mother’s trials are not tests so the Lord can measure her. They are tests and trials so that your mother can measure herself. It is most important that she know her strengths in adversity and grow from the experiences.”

In October 1946 General Conference, following the end of World War II, President George F. Richards of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles related the following experience: "A few years ago...I had a remarkable dream. I have seldom mentioned it to other people. I dreamed a group of my own associates found ourselves in a courtyard where, around the outer edge of it, were German soldiers-and Fuhrer Adolph Hitler was there with this group, and they seemed to be sharpening their swords and cleaning their guns, and making preparations for a slaughter of some kind, or an execution. We knew not what, but evidently we were their objects. But presently a circle formed and this Fuhrer and his men were all within the circle, and my group and I were circled on the outside; and he was sitting on the inside of the circle with his back to the outside, and when we walked around and I got directly opposite to him, I stepped inside the circle and walked across to where he was sitting, and spoke to him in a manner something like this: "I am your brother. You are my brother. In our heavenly home we lived together in love and peace. Why can we not so live together here on earth?" And it seemed to me that I felt in myself, welling up in my soul, a love for that man, and I could feel that he was having the same experience, and presently he arose, and we embraced each other and kissed each other, a kiss of affection...I think the Lord gave me that dream. Why should I dream of this man, one of the greatest enemies of mankind, and one of the wickedest, but that the Lord should teach me to love my enemies, and I must love the wicked as well as the good?" Remember, Elder Richards made these remarks not one full year after the end of hostilities in World War II. Present in his audience were, undoubtedly, servicemen and women who had been injured, even maimed for life. Widows and children of the slain may have been included among those who heard his words that day. Forgiveness and peace are not easy messages. But they are the message of the Savior nonetheless.

If you are not, and if it is difficult for you to smile, then analyze yourself. Know there is help available. Some of it can come from recognizing that difficulties are part of life. There are ups and there are downs, which reminds me of this little account shared by Elder Marion D. Hanks:
“A father [is] aboard an airplane on a short business trip. He has with him his five-year-old son and is almost wishing his son were not there because it is a very rough trip. There are downdrafts and updrafts and head winds alternating with tail winds, and some passengers are feeling a bit queasy. Apprehensively, the father glances at his son and finds him grinning from ear to ear. ‘Dad,’ he says, ‘do they do this just to make it fun for the kids?’” (Ensign, Nov. 1990, p. 38).

I used to leave the house at 8:00 a.m. and return at midnight after working all day and going to class at night. During the little time my husband, Daniel, and I had together, we argued. Things were bad. We were on the verge of separating.
One Sunday evening after an argument, Daniel said, “Maybe we should get closer to God.” The next day, while Daniel was home watching our son, missionaries knocked on our door.
When the missionaries started visiting us, I disagreed with everything they taught. But after a few lessons, we began to feel something. We didn’t know what it was, but we described it as “magical,” a feeling of peace and harmony. It would linger even after the missionaries left. We realized that we needed that feeling more often in our home.
Inspired by the missionaries’ message about the importance of family, Daniel and I came closer together in our marriage. I had hoped that going to school would lead to a better position at my work. But we decided to focus on our family, spend more time together, and have more children. I quit school, quit my job, and went to work as Daniel’s secretary at his pest control business.
Less than three months after the missionaries’ first visit, we were baptized and confirmed. Our life changed dramatically. We began living the law of tithing. We began praying at home and at work with Daniel’s employees. We began serving in the Church. Daniel’s business grew, and he needed to hire more workers.
A year after our baptism, we went to the temple to be sealed. A few days after our sealing, I found out I was expecting.
Sundays aren’t easy for us. Daniel leaves early for high council meetings. I have to prepare our three children for church by myself. But we are able to share a lot of time together throughout the week. So even if we are apart at times on Sunday as we serve the Lord, we know that we are blessed.
We have gained a testimony that when we do our part, the Lord can help us, and blessings come. We have received a lot more than we had ever hoped for from our own plans. The Lord had better things in mind for us.

Some years ago, following a stake conference, I felt impressed to pay a visit to a priesthood brother who had fallen away from the Church. We found him working in his garden. I approached him and said, “Dear brother, the Lord Jesus Christ has sent me to see you. I am Elder Hammond, one of His servants.”
We exchanged a Latin abrazo and entered into his lovely little home. He called for his wife and three children to join us. Two handsome young men and a beautiful girl sat beside their father and mother. I asked the children what they would like, more than anything else in the world, right now. The oldest son spoke: “If only all of us could go back to church as a family, we would be so happy—so grateful.” We told them how much they were needed by the Savior and how He loved them. We bore our testimonies to them and then knelt in prayer. The father prayed. The mother wept. They are now back in full fellowship. The children are proud of their father, and they are happy.

As a young boy of five or six years of age, I had a powerful experience with prayer. My grandfather, who was not very old at the time, was very ill—feverish, ashen, and almost unconscious. It was a real crisis for our family. He lay in a bed that had been set up for him in his living room, and many of our family members, as well as our stake patriarch, knelt in a circle around his bedside to pray for him.
Although I was the only one in the room who was not an adult, I was invited to be in that prayer circle. Each member of the circle took a turn saying a prayer out loud. Then I, as the youngest one there, was called upon to pray last. I had participated in family prayer, the blessing on the food, bedtime prayers, and the other prayers that children say, but I had never experienced prayer like this before. People were crying, and everyone was anxious and concerned. It all seemed awfully important and urgent and somewhat frightening.
As a result of these prayers, my grandfather’s health was restored. The patriarch later told me that he felt my grandfather had been healed primarily because of my prayer. I have never forgotten that experience. Because I was so frightened at the responsibility to pray in such a setting, prayer took on a deeper meaning for me.

One bright, fall afternoon when my BYU classes were over, I was rummaging through the freezer, searching for something microwavable, when I heard footsteps tromping up the iron staircase just outside the front door.
With three tremendous blows and before waiting for a reply, Paul swung open the door.
Paul lived in the apartment directly below mine. He was one of those professional study types who always had some interesting project going.
“I’ll be feeding the snake in about five minutes,” he reported.
Here I was at college where I thought everyone was supposed to be studious and intellectual, and this guy was asking me if I wanted to watch a python named Monty devour a live rat.
“I’m on my way,” I announced. I was only 18. I figured I was entitled.
I followed Paul down into his apartment. Five or six other guys were already huddled in a circle like a football team waiting to get the next play. The subject of their attention was a large aquarium about the size of a bathtub. There was some sand and a few sticks propped up against the glass walls, and a winding, multicolored figure piled in one corner. This was Monty.
“Are you sure he’s hungry?”
“Yeah, just wait,” Paul reassured us.
He armed himself with a thick ski glove and reached for a wooden box sitting on the desk. Gently opening the lid, Paul slipped his gloved hand in, grabbing the rat by the tail. Nobody said a word during this procedure.
As Paul let the rat dangle over the serpent, I felt almost disappointed in myself for being so anxious to witness such a gruesome thing. But I kept on watching.
“Here it goes,” he said. As the rat bolted to the opposite end of the cage from the snake, our huddle squeezed a little tighter in anticipation of a terrible struggle.
Nothing happened.
One of the spectators shook the cage a bit, another blew on the snake in hopes of arousing it. Still nothing.
I could feel the disappointment of everyone as Monty remained motionless. A small murmur of dissatisfaction grew into loud exclamations of “he’s not even hungry!” and “I knew he couldn’t eat that big rat!”
“Be patient!” Paul said. “It takes time.”
So we dug in, watching and waiting. The huddle broke up. Some sat down on the bed, others on the floor.
Finally, after about ten minutes the python showed signs of life. The rat remained in the opposite corner trying to jump out, but the walls were too high. Slowly, Monty raised his head and turned smoothly toward the rat. With his forked tongue working methodically, the serpent began inching his way to his victim.
The audience’s interest was again piqued.
When the python had come within a foot of its prey, the rat dashed to the other end. We again formed a circle, thinking that now the real chase would begin.
But Monty was patient. He slithered around so he would again be facing his goal, and with determination made his serpentine way at a slow, calculated pace toward the defenseless rat.
This continued for about the next 20 minutes—the snake would advance until the rat was sufficiently threatened to bolt to the other end. I noticed though that each time the python advanced, the rat would allow it to get a fraction closer. Because Monty did not appear violent or vicious, but gentle and soothing, the rat seemed almost hypnotized into believing that the snake wasn’t so bad.
Some of the guys began to leave, claiming to have studying to do or papers to write. But I was fascinated with the drama. It was no longer just the violence of watching a snake kill its prey. There seemed to be something personal about the whole encounter.
Forty-five minutes had passed from the time Paul dropped the rat into the aquarium. Monty was now getting within an inch of the rat’s pink nose before it scampered away. Each time, with unrelenting patience, the serpent turned and followed. His forked tongue still lashing, Monty went right up and touched the rat, nose to nose. It had made a new friend.
ZAP! In a split second, he seized the rat’s throat, twisted around its body, and squeezed out its life. We watched in awe as he swallowed it whole.
Not much was said when the group broke up. Some thanked Paul as they went out the door. I was the last one to leave, still watching the lump in the snake’s side.
As I made my way up the iron staircase, I didn’t feel like eating much any more. The whole thing had been so devious and crooked. I thought about it the rest of the day. In bed that night, I began to draw some parallels between the rat and some of my friends—and more frighteningly between the rat and myself.

In December 2005 some relatives who are members of the Church visited my wife and me in Colombia. Before they returned home, my uncle gave me two wonderful gifts—a triple combination and some old issues of the Liahona.
I began to read the November 2004 issue, which contained the talks from October conference. I read “Condition of the Church,” by President Gordon B. Hinckley, and “Prophets, Seers, and Revelators,” by Elder Jeffrey R. Holland. The testimonies of these great men led me to begin reading the Book of Mormon and the Bible.
The result was the most wonderful thing that has ever happened to us. My wife and I made the best decision we have ever made—we were baptized members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Edgar Henry Muñoz Porras, Colombia

When I was a young boy, my father saved my life. Although I do not remember the incident, it is a story that has been told many times in my family.
I was two years old at the time, and my brother was four. We were with our father as he was feeding the cattle on our family farm. He didn’t notice that my brother and I had wandered off until my brother, scared and out of breath, came running to him. My brother could hardly speak. He struggled to even say, “Rolfe’s in … !” “Rolfe’s in … !” Fortunately my father realized that my brother was trying to tell him that I had fallen in the irrigation ditch.
My father ran toward the ditch where I had slipped off the ditch bank into the running water. He ran along the ditch. When he saw my red sweater rolling in that deathly water, he jumped into the ditch and pulled me out. After administering first aid, my father was assured that I was breathing again.
I will be forever indebted to my brother for having the presence of mind to alert my father. And I will be forever grateful to my father and his quick actions that saved my life.

I’ve had a testimony of the Book of Mormon since the first time I read it when I was younger. But truthfully, my scripture “study” in the months preceding the October 2018 general conference felt more like casual skimming. So when President Nelson challenged the women of the Church to read the Book of Mormon by the end of the year, it felt like just the invitation I needed.
His invitation came with some powerful promises too. He said, “As you prayerfully study, I promise that the heavens will open for you” (“Sisters’ Participation in the Gathering of Israel,” Liahona, Nov. 2018, 69).
As I listened, I felt excited to recommit to the book I’ve grown to love so much, and I couldn’t wait for the heavens to open for me.
And they did. In so many ways. After completing this Book of Mormon challenge, I’ve spent time pondering on the experience I had and am still having. I’m amazed by what I learned, how I felt, and who I am becoming by studying its inspired pages.
As I read the Book of Mormon at a quicker pace than I am used to, the narrative really came alive. I felt such a connection to those whose testimonies and experiences make up this book.
From Nephi’s brother Sam, I learned that quiet righteousness is noble. From Alma I learned to never surrender my faith. From his son, that it is never too late to approach Christ and experience the cleansing power of His infinite Atonement (see Mosiah 27; Alma 36). King Lamoni’s father inspired me to make more sacrifices for God (see Alma 22:15, 18). Pahoran taught me to be calm and Christlike when I feel misunderstood (see Alma 61). From the brother of Jared I learned that while action on our part is essential, it is not enough; we need Christ’s help and enabling power (see Ether 2–3). From Moroni I learned that though we may feel alone, we never truly are (see Mormon 8:3, 5).
I learned to inquire of the Lord often, to pray fiercely and with faith. I learned the importance of keeping records and bearing testimony and the proper way to repent. I learned that God is mindful, that Christ is merciful, and that They are one in purpose.
I learned that “[feasting] upon the words of Christ” (2 Nephi 32:3) provides the direction I need for my life.
I learned, yet again, that Joseph Smith did not—and could not—write this book.
Was it a coincidence that I read Nephi’s psalm (2 Nephi 4) on a day I felt bogged down by my inadequacies and weaknesses? Of course not. Was it a happy accident that I encountered King Limhi’s declaration, “O how marvelous are the works of the Lord, and how long doth he suffer with his people” (Mosiah 8:20) when I felt alone in my trials? No! With God, there are no coincidences, only perfectly orchestrated tender mercies, and I was the recipient of many as I read. I truly felt my Heavenly Father’s love for me and an incomparable sense of peace as I immersed myself in the Book of Mormon.
It was the Savior’s healing power that I felt most throughout my reading of the Book of Mormon. Verse after verse testifies of His grace, mercy, compassion, and infinite love. As I read about Jesus Christ, I felt overwhelmed with gratitude for His sacrifice. One of the greatest miracles I experienced while reading was the feeling of complete forgiveness for a series of poor choices made years ago. I felt as though the Savior was speaking directly to me as I read. In my heart I felt the words, It’s time to move on. Christ literally provided the healing I needed.
Though I did not see the resurrected Christ as the Nephites did (see 3 Nephi 11), I felt His presence in my life as I read about Him in the Book of Mormon. He truly understands each one of us and our unique trials, and He has the power to save, comfort, and heal us.
As I daily immerse myself in the Book of Mormon, I am more patient, compassionate, grateful, and optimistic. I tend to be less selfish and less concerned with worldly things.
Because of the Book of Mormon and the Spirit it brings into my life, I am a better mother, wife, daughter, and friend. I am a more committed disciple of Jesus Christ.
How can one book have all the answers? How can one book accomplish so much?
Only a book designed by God has that kind of power. And I know it really is of God.
Just as President Nelson promised, the heavens really did open for me, in more ways than I could have ever imagined. So I will continue to read and study the Book of Mormon. I will continue to search its pages and find Christ there because this book really is all about Him.

One day in early winter, the boys planned to go hunting with their father. Charlie was so excited that he could hardly eat the spice cake Mrs. Thorpe had made for supper. “Do you feel all right?” she asked, feeling his forehead. “Why, Hiram, he has a fever!”
Charlie had to stay home. Jimmy could see that he was shivering under his pile of blankets. “I wish you could go,” he said awkwardly. His heart was heavy, for the twins had never been separated.
“Me, too,” Charlie whispered.
In two days Mr. Thorpe brought down three deer and a small bear. The third day he loaded the gun and handed it to Jimmy. “It’s your turn, son.”
Only once had Jimmy shot the big gun at a target. Although the recoil had knocked him over, he hadn’t missed! Now they were hiding in the brush near a little stream. When a big stag came to drink, Jimmy quietly sighted along the barrel. For Charlie, he thought as he squeezed the trigger. Boooom! Jimmy reeled backward, but the deer lay on the ground.
“Good work!” his father praised him. They loaded the horses, and Mr. Thorpe shouldered two deer himself for the long hike home.
“You must be as strong as Black Hawk!”
“Your eye is keen, your thinking straight, and your speed great,” his father returned the compliment. “Already you follow the path of Black Hawk.”
Jimmy thought about his Indian name, Wa-Tho-Huck (Bright Path). He hoped that whatever his “bright path” might be, it would be honorable, like Black Hawk’s.
Mrs. Thorpe met them at the door, but in spite of the great good luck of so much meat, tears streaked her face. “It’s Charlie,” she mourned. “He had pneumonia. He’s gone.”
Blindly Jimmy turned away. How could it be time for Charlie to go to the spirit world? If only he had let Charlie beat him just one time! He felt father’s strong arms around him.

“Jared, do you smell smoke?” Mom asked.
“No,” I replied groggily, still a little weary after just waking up from a nap.
“It’s probably Courtney’s cookies burning in the oven,” yelled somebody from the living room.
My brother Tyler had three friends over working on a psychology project in the dining room. Dad, Kim, Travis, and Devin were watching TV. Courtney and I were in the kitchen. All of us were downstairs on the main floor of our old, two-story farmhouse. Mom continued to ask everyone if they smelled smoke.
“Tyler, go check upstairs, please.”
As Tyler opened the door to the stairwell, smoke began to roll into the downstairs living room.
“Call 911! And everybody out of the house!” exclaimed my dad. I sat and watched as my mom made the phone call. I never really thought a 911 emergency phone call would have to be made from our kitchen phone.
“Jared, grab some shoes and a coat and get out.” It was good advice from my mother. As I did, I thought about getting my money out of the drawer, but I didn’t. The fire can’t be that bad, I thought.
I felt quite calm as I walked out into the chilly December air. I knew everybody was safe, and that was the main thing. Just then, I came out from underneath the porch and looked up to see flames billowing out of my sister’s second-story bedroom window.
My heart began to beat faster. My two little brothers were crying as they escaped to our barn to watch the horrible spectacle. My father stretched a garden hose around the side of the house and Tyler and I joined him in a futile effort to fight the flames from below. The fire was spreading. I heard windows in the old farmhouse shatter from the intense heat. My mom was worried and yelled at us to get away.
“Jared, go down and direct the truck when it comes,” I heard my dad say.
I ran away from the house to the spot in the road where our driveway separates from the main road, a deceptive fork to those who have never traveled it. Standing there alone, I watched bright, orange flames stream from several upstairs windows. The place where I had lived my entire life was being destroyed without mercy. A feeling of helplessness overcame me. I wanted to stop the disaster but knew it was impossible. The flames cut into the dark night. In that instant, the sight was calm, silent, scary, and awesome all at the same time.
I began to hear the whine of sirens approaching as the fire engines made their way through northwest Corvallis, Oregon. It seemed they were extremely slow.
The headlights of an engine came into view down the road. It had taken ten minutes for the trucks to arrive, but it had seemed more like an hour. By now the flames lit up the house, and the engines kept coming. Four trucks were on the scene.
I ran back to the house as the firefighters mapped out the entire house before entering, identifying from my mother the location of pictures and valuables. To our relief, most of these were saved.
The fire was confined to the upper story of the house because we had shut the door to the stairwell. It looked as if the house might not be a total loss. I looked at my dad staring at his burning home. “Well, we always wanted to do some remodeling up there anyway,” he said.
Ward members and other friends began arriving rapidly. I didn’t notice them come, but suddenly the place was filled with people eager to help and give comfort. As the firefighters brought things from the house, everybody helped in transporting them to the barn. Some of the people there I didn’t even recognize. I had never realized the kind of support and friendship our family has. I think sometimes I have taken for granted our many friends. I realized then, and in the ensuing months, that friends are truly a blessing that should be cherished.
It was difficult to sleep that night. My brother and I slept at a friend’s house, and the rest of my family stayed at various ward members’ homes. All I could think about was the fire. I wasn’t heartbroken about all the possessions I might have lost; those were not important. I realized the things that matter most in life are not clothes, stereos, or computers, but friends and family. The materialistic pleasures we have in life are nice, but definitely not important. I felt more sorrow for our dilapidated farmhouse that had weathered the years since 1918.
The relief effort put forth by Church members, the city, and other friends was truly amazing. We were showered with presents, food, and especially love. I almost felt guilty for all the gifts and acts of kindness that we were receiving from so many. All this did not stop after a few weeks or months.
As I look back on the experience today, I regard the fire as a blessing for our family. We ended up tearing our house the rest of the way down, and we have spent more than two years working to build a new one. The project of building a new house has been an opportunity for our family to learn new skills and has taught us to better refine how we deal with each other. Most of all, however, the fire taught us the importance of giving service and loving our neighbors.
Sometimes it seems that life throws us a curve ball. The important thing is how we deal with it. Every experience in life can be used for growth and learning. I thank my Father in Heaven for loving me enough to teach me the things I need to know.

During my final two years of schooling to become a dentist, I had the privilege of being taught weekly by one of the world’s foremost maxillary-facial surgeons. His personal preparation and training had been long and intense. After receiving his dental degree, he had received additional degrees in orthodontics, oral surgery, plastic surgery, and pathology. Because of his renowned ability, he was sought after by people from many parts of the world to repair mouths and faces following traumatic accidents, or to remove destructive tumors that left faces deformed and in need of his talents at facial reconstruction.
We had weekly seminars with this noted surgeon. They were held in the medical theater, where the dental students could view a patient’s particular disorder and see the results achieved following the surgical correction. In the sessions before the treatment, the clinical and laboratory findings were presented, and the possible cause or causative agents that might have contributed to the malady were discussed.
It was interesting how often the causative agent would be one of the harmful substances that the Lord had revealed to mankind through the Prophet Joseph Smith. The fact that the Lord had revealed the Word of Wisdom—with all its important counsel on the various substances that are beneficial, as well as those that are harmful to our bodies—long before that knowledge was taught by the medical community, has been a great testimony to me of the calling of Joseph Smith as the Lord’s prophet of the Restoration.
During those lecture sessions, I could have closed my eyes and imagined that I was seated in one of our Church meetings being taught about the blessings of living the Word of Wisdom. At almost every session this noted surgeon would vigorously denounce tobacco because of its harmful effects, and we witnessed it before our very eyes.
At that time evidence identifying smoking as a major cause of lung cancer was being documented. However, little was published about tobacco as a major cause of mouth and throat cancer. There in that theater as a dental student, I saw the devastating effects of cancer of the mouth and face, which were attributed not only to smoking but also to chewing tobacco. Keeping that powerful irritant in contact with the mouth tissue resulted many times in disfiguring types of facial tumors.
“And again, tobacco is Not for the Body, neither for the belly, and is not good for man” (D&C 89:8).
Alcohol was also condemned during those sessions as an irritant to the delicate tissues of the mouth and throat, causing other types of tumors.
“And, again, strong drinks are not for the belly, but for the washing of your bodies” (D&C 89:7).
Tea and coffee were discussed, not only because of their adverse chemical effects on the body, but also because of the temperature of the drinks. The drinks were often taken so hot that, without realizing it, many individuals were drinking liquids close to the boiling temperature. Those detrimental effects were observed.
“And again, hot drinks are not for the body or belly” (D&C 89:9).
But why do these substances act as they do? Why does one person contract an infirmity, and another in the same situation and environment never have a problem?
Our renowned instructor explained that under normal conditions, the cells behave in a normal manner; however, certain factors can trigger the cells to go out of control. These cells then become fast-growing and destructive tumors that can disfigure and threaten life. The sensitivity level at which the cells respond to the triggering factor, or T-Factor as he called it, depends on the inherent nature of the individual. Some people are very sensitive, so just a small stimulus would cause the change, while other individuals appear to be more resistant. This inherent level at which the cells can be triggered to change could explain why some people live long and seemingly trouble free, while others are affected easily and early in life.
With this understanding, perhaps we might understand better the meaning of the words from the Word of Wisdom, “adapted to the capacity of the weak and the weakest of all saints” (D&C 89:3). For a person with a low level of resistance to a harmful substance, just one encounter may trigger unwanted and dangerous cellular changes.
It is interesting how far the medical community has come in vindicating the words of a prophet who revealed that great health law, the Word of Wisdom, when its principles were not very popular.
As a young dental student, I was extremely impressed with the knowledge of this outstanding maxillary-facial surgeon. He seemed to have great knowledge, and I was amazed with his skill. However, in reality, his knowledge was just a mite in comparison with the knowledge of the Great Physician—the one who healed the lepers, raised Lazarus from the dead, and made the blind to see. The Word of Wisdom is from Him, and medical science is just barely catching up.

A year ago I went with President Kimball back to his home in Arizona. And we visited the home where he grew up as a little boy. We climbed the winding stairs up to a bare room. And there the little boy, before he was a deacon, read the Bible by lamplight. We looked out the window from that upstairs room, and we saw the barns out in back where the cows had been. He used to milk nine cows every morning and night, the old-fashioned way. And as he milked the cows he learned the Articles of Faith, he learned the hymns, and he learned the Ten Commandments. He wrote them down on a little card and put them on the ground where he could look as he milked the cows.
And as he did these things, he made decisions about things he would and would not do. He was growing up, and he knew there were a lot of things that were good and a lot that were bad. He decided that when someone offered him a cigarette, he would say no. If someone offered him tea or coffee he would say no. If they suggested that he be immoral, he would say no; to lie or to cheat, he would say no. He made those decisions when he was a little boy, before he was a deacon. He would do as his mother had taught him. He would keep the commandments.
And so as he grew older and the boys all came around and said, “Spencer, will you have a cigarette? Will you have a drink of whiskey? Will you have some coffee?” he didn’t worry about hurting their feelings. He had decided just once to say no, and after that it was easy always to say no to the bad things. And that is how he has lived his life all these years.