Gospel Story Finder

About two years ago my son and I watched a nationally televised basketball game. The BYU Cougars had just won the Western Athletic Conference championship and were being congratulated by sports broadcasters. As they talked with different members of the team, a sophomore by the name of Devin Durrant was interviewed about his plans for the coming year. My son, who was ten at the time and very sports minded, watched intently as Devin told of his decision to fill a mission first and play basketball later. At that moment I was thankful for a young man who knew the importance of making such decisions before the moment to decide. Like the engineer, he knew what to do when the time came. My son and I saw a young man who had set goals, made decisions, and been true to those decisions.

It was my first day of college and I was scared. Scared because I felt like a nameless student lost in a sea of students. Scared that my high school achievements would not meet the requirements of my new classes. But most of all, scared by the sudden opportunity to improve my mind and body in ways I had never had before. I wanted to learn, but I did not want to fail. And that was why I worried about Swimming 101.
I had signed up for beginning swimming thinking that I would broaden my physical abilities. But as I sat on a locker room bench preparing for the class, I wondered if it was foolish to admit that I had never learned such an elementary skill. Wading in the creek that ran through my grandfather’s ranch and splashing around in some waist-deep ponds were the sum total of my aquatic experience.
Suppressing my fears I popped the contacts out of my eyes and stored them in their case. My blurred vision softened the surroundings and somehow made me feel less vulnerable.
Moments later I stood beside a huge swimming pool waiting for class to begin. Staring into the water I imagined my body lying lifeless at the bottom of the pool, then, pulled out by a lifeguard only to have a crowd of onlookers gather around whispering and snickering about an 18-year-old not knowing how to swim.
The shrill sound of a coach’s whistle brought me back to reality, and I lined up with the 23 other bodies in regulation swimsuits. As the roll was called I couldn’t help but wonder if all these students really didn’t know how to swim or if they were just taking the class for an easy A. I began thinking maybe I should transfer to a sport I knew more about.
The coach gave a speech on the benefits of swimming, then explained a chart on the wall. It listed the skills we had to learn in order to pass the class.
“And by the end of the semester,” he concluded, “you must all swim one mile and jump from the high dive.”
Everyone looked to the far end of the pool. Even without my contacts I could see all too well the spindly ladder and platform towering above the water. I swallowed hard and tried to forget it, but its image was etched in my mind.
One week went by. A second. Then a third. I was beginning to make new friends and feel comfortable with my classes. Except swimming. My classmates had taken to water like fish, but no matter how hard I tried, I just couldn’t seem to get the hang of it.
“Relax!” the coach kept telling me. “Don’t fight the water. Let it help you.”
Relax? How could I relax when I lagged behind all the other students? They were passing off the skills on the chart while I had to stay near the side of the pool and receive help from the coach or his assistant.
I hurried to and from the locker room each day, glad that my blurred vision kept me from recognizing anyone, and hoping no one would recognize me. Still, I worried about coming face to face with one of the California guys from my dorm. How could I explain Swimming 101 to someone who grew up with the Pacific Ocean in his backyard?
By the sixth week I was ready to quit. I was tired of being a loser. But something unexpected happened that made me decide to stay. I was working my way down the length of the pool, trying to pass off the backstroke, when I was suddenly torpedoed by another body. The impact sent us both thrashing about, sputtering and gasping for air.
“Stay in your own lane, Mitchell!” I heard the coach yell.
“Yes sir!” replied my assailant as he continued across the pool in wild and ungainly strokes. Thwack! Thwack! His feet slapped the water sending gallons of it into the air.
Mitchell. I checked his name on the skill chart after class. He had passed off four requirements, but I had now passed five. It felt very good to no longer be last, and I vowed to keep it that way.
Weeks went by and my swimming improved. My secret race against Mitchell had given me new courage and a deepening sense of satisfaction. I checked the chart at the beginning of each period, focusing not on how far I was behind the others, but on the fact that Mitchell was two, then three, then four spaces behind me.
Mitchell always practiced at the far side of the pool. I watched him from my lane, squinting to see what advice the coach was giving him, assessing his performance against mine. Rarely did a class period go by that the coach didn’t get down in the water and help him. I wanted to move closer and learn from the coach’s instructions, yet I kept my distance, thinking that association with Mitchell would label me a loser once again.
The final days of the semester came like a tidal wave, swiftly and silently submerging the student body in a flood of projects, papers, and exams. I sequestered myself in a corner of the library and tried to study for my tests, but visions of the high dive and the deep waters beneath it kept interrupting my thoughts. Relax, take a deep breath, jump, push off from the bottom, and swim to the side of the pool. I kept rehearsing the steps in my mind, wondering if I was really brave enough to do it.
The day I dreaded came quickly, and I stood below the diving board as other students ascended the ladder and dropped one by one into the pool. I tried to relax my knotted stomach by telling myself it would be easy.
“Okay,” said the coach tapping his pencil on my shoulder, “It’s your turn.” I nodded and turned to go.
“Oh, and could you give Mitchell a hand?” he added, pointing to a figure that stood by the wall.
“Sure,” I replied, wondering why I had to help him. Was he too afraid to climb by himself? Did he need someone to coax him off the edge?
I walked over to the wall and, for the first time, stood face to face with Mitchell, close enough to look into his cloudy, misshapen eyes and see that he was blind. Guilt and embarrassment shot through my body. This was the person I had privately put down all semester, too worried about my status to notice why he had been given extra help.
“Hi,” he said, reaching out his hand and grabbing onto my arm.
“Hello,” I managed to reply.
“Are you nervous?” he asked as we walked toward the high dive.
“A little,” I confessed.
“So am I,” he said. “But once we do it we will never have to be afraid of it again.”
As we climbed the ladder I thought of Matthew 7:1–2: “Judge not, that ye be not judged. For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged: and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again.” [Matt. 7:1–2] It seemed as though I had heard that scripture a million times, but suddenly I began to understand it. My judgments of Mitchell could not have been more wrong. He was not a loser, but a brave person who was conquering a physical challenge with confidence and enthusiasm. We only become losers when we avoid trying to learn a new skill because of fear of looking foolish. I regretted that my unkind judgment of Mitchell had prevented me from associating with him during the class and learning from and being motivated by him.
“Do you want to go first?” Mitchell asked as we reached the top.
“No,” I said, “you go ahead.”
I watched as he cautiously walked to the end of the platform, plunged down into the water, then resurfaced and swam to the side.
I knew I would not get an A in Swimming 101, but I had learned a lesson that I would not forget. I went to the end of the platform, took a deep breath, and jumped.

But being an all-star can go to your head. Every now and then Scott has to remind himself what’s really important.
“Once you put the hockey jacket on it’s instant popularity,” he says after practice. Scott’s with his older brother, Troy. They sit cross-legged in their basement, trading hockey cards and playing video hockey. “Some of the guys think they’re pretty hot. Once in a while I might join them and put somebody down—let it go to my head. When I put somebody down I always end up thinking about my brother, Troy.”
Troy, 17, has had a slight motor-skills problem and learning disorder since birth. It’s not serious enough to affect his life much, but it does make him a little different from the other kids. “When he was in elementary school he got picked on a lot,” adds Scott. “I think about that and stop. I try to get the others to stop, too.”

After crossing the Colorado River by ferry, the company still faced more than 240 kilometers of rugged ground. Elizabeth M. Decker described this land in a letter to her parents. “It’s the roughest country you or anybody else ever seen; it’s nothing in the world but rocks and holes, hills, and hollows. The mountains are just one solid rock as smooth as an apple.” Because the land turned out to be rougher than anticipated, the journey took much longer than expected—six months instead of six weeks—making the so-called shortcut extremely arduous. Two babies were born along the way. Supplies had to be brought in to the company by mule train. On 6 April 1880, the exhausted company came upon a few acres of good farmland near a small river. They named the spot Bluff City.
Though travel worn, the pioneers had remained true to their resolve to follow the prophet and move forward, and they had endured the hardships in good spirits. As one member of the company recalled, “In a camp … moving … through extremely rough country, one would naturally look for some trouble and a few accidents, but this was not the case. All was hustle and harmony.”

Another day I was riding in the airplane with my squadron commander. I was about 23 years old, and he was about 40. He was a man of fine manners and polite expression. After we had finished our flight and had landed the airplane, we were taxiing back to the parking area when another airplane came driving past in a way that my squadron commander did not appreciate. He looked over at the other pilot and said to me in a disgusted voice, “Where does that so-and-so think he is going!” And he uttered an oath. We parked the airplane and shut off the engine. As I climbed out, he turned to me and said, “Mr. Bangerter, I am sorry I spoke the way I did back there. I forgot for a moment it was you who was riding with me in the airplane.”

Temperance Wick held a damp cloth to her mother’s feverish forehead. “I’ll fetch the doctor before it gets dark,” she murmured comfortingly. “‘Tisn’t far to ride.”
Ever since Father had died just ten days before, Mother had been ill. It was only a mile to Temperance’s sister Phoebe’s home on the road to Mendham. Phoebe’s husband, Dr. Will Leddell, would come quickly to attend to her mother on that New Year’s Day of 1781 if he possibly could.
Mrs. Wick shook her head sadly. “The roads are too icy. It isn’t safe to ride horseback alone. And there was talk of some shooting over at Jockey Hollow.”
Tempe, an excellent horsewoman, frequently cantered her horse, Captain, through the beautiful, wooded New Jersey countryside near Morristown. “I’m not afraid,” she boasted. “Besides, Washington’s soldiers are in camp at Jockey Hollow to protect us from the Redcoats.”
“Still, trouble is brewing,” insisted her mother. “The war for our independence has gone on too long. Be very careful,” she muttered weakly before drifting off to sleep.
Tempe wrapped her red homespun cloak about her and dashed to the barn. She flung her arms around the horse’s neck. “Oh, Captain,” she whispered. “We must get help for Mother.” Then Tempe quickly saddled the animal and galloped down the road.
As they sped on, Tempe became more and more apprehensive. Mother and she were all alone at the Wick farm now. Snow-covered trees hung ominously over the narrow rutted road, and a stiff wind lashed her face, stinging her tear-filled eyes.
She gave a sigh of relief when she reached her sister’s house. A welcoming door swung open. “Tempe!” Dr. Leddell, cried, surprised. “Come in by the fire. What are you doing out in such wintry weather?”
“It’s Mother,” the worried girl replied. “Can you come quickly? Her fever is worse!”
The kindly doctor assured her that he would come right away.
Tempe turned Captain around, and as she headed homeward, she began to feel more at ease. “Everything will be all right,” she murmured, “and I’ll soon be safely home.” But as she rounded a bend in the road, several soldiers stepped out of the woods. They waved for her to stop. “Halt!” shouted a tall, ragged man. Grabbing Captain’s bridle, he added, “We won’t hurt you. We’re not the British.”
“Then let go of my horse!” cried Tempe. “I must get home!”
The soldier continued to hold on to Captain. “Excellent horse,” he declared. “We can use it.”
“But he’s my horse, and I want to keep him. I need him!” objected Tempe.
The soldier laughed. “We need him more. We need all the horses that we can find.”
“But aren’t you from Washington’s army? Captain is the only horse we have left. All the others have already been taken by the troops. Why do you need him, too?” persisted Tempe.
One of the other men pointed to a soldier with bandaged feet. “Frostbitten, that’s why. He can’t walk, and we can’t leave him here.”
“Aren’t you encamped at Jockey Hollow to defend us against attack by the Redcoats?” asked the puzzled girl.
Another soldier shouted angrily. “We were at camp. Indeed we were! Nearly froze to death! And we haven’t been paid for twelve months in the bargain.”
“Get down from your horse, Miss, before you get hurt,” urged the tall soldier. “We’re men of the Pennsylvania Line on our way to Philadelphia to see the Congress and to demand our back pay.”
Tempe nodded sympathetically. She really felt sorry for the men. Just the year before, more than a hundred soldiers had died at Jockey Hollow because of sickness and a lack of food and warm shelter. But then she thought of her sick mother at home. They would be stranded at the lonely farmhouse without a horse. Surely the soldiers could carry this man to the nearby army hospital and stay to defend New Jersey.
All at once she made up her mind. She reached out her hand as if for help in dismounting. But when the soldier let go of the bridle to help her, she kicked Captain with her heels and spurred him on. Down the frozen road she galloped, musket shots ringing in her ears.
“It’s all right, Captain. They can’t catch us now,” she cried, slowing him down at last. “But they will follow us,” she told her steed. “I can’t keep you in the barn. And if I hide you in the woods, you’ll surely die from the cold.”
Past the fields and apple orchards she rode and straight through the herb garden to the farmhouse door. She sprang from the horse’s back and glanced down the road. The men were nowhere in sight. Holding tightly to Captain’s bridle, she led him quickly inside and closed the door behind him.
Gently Tempe took him through the kitchen and into her mother’s bedroom, where she explained to the amazed woman all that had happened. Then she carefully walked Captain into the spare room. The horse’s shoes clattered over the wooden floors.
“You must keep quiet,” she told him. Hurriedly she fetched some towels from the wardrobe and wrapped them around Captain’s feet. “Just in case you paw the floor,” she muttered.
Tempe stood with her horse, holding his head so that he wouldn’t whinny or snort. A few minutes passed before she heard the angry soldiers shouting in the yard: “She’s not in the barn!” “No sign of them in the woods!” Other men’s voices sounded closer to the front door: “The snow is so trampled down that we can’t see any fresh tracks.” “Must have gone past and down the road!”
Worried and thoughtful, Tempe quietly soothed Captain while the soldiers searched the grounds and outbuildings. Are they setting a trap for me and waiting until I come out of hiding? She wondered. Of course, they wouldn’t have expected me to bring a horse into a house! Nevertheless, she waited a long time, listening for their footsteps and voices, before she went to help her mother.
Just when Tempe decided that the men had given up the hunt and left, Captain whinnied when there was a soft knock on the door. Tempe went and cautiously opened it a crack. She was relieved to see that it was Dr. Leddell.
After the doctor treated her mother, Mrs. Wick began to feel better, and in a few days she was able to leave her bed.
Tempe continued to keep Captain in the darkened spare room, however. At first she was afraid to leave the house, so she fed him biscuits and lumps of sugar from the kitchen. Later she dared to sneak out to the barn for feed.
Six days later news came that the soldiers’ mutiny was over. “Now Captain can go back to the barn!” cried Mother thankfully. Tempe slowly led her horse out of the house, leaving behind hoofmarks on the wooden floor.
Word spread like wildfire about the young woman who had outfoxed the soldiers in New Jersey. Even General Washington and his men expressed their admiration for her. To this day, Tempe Wick is remembered for the daring, clever way in which she saved her horse.

After I graduated from high school, I pondered the words of the Book of Mormon in Enos 1:15, “Whatsoever thing ye shall ask in faith, believing that ye shall receive in the name of Christ, ye shall receive it.” I called the temple to put my name on the temple prayer roll and continued to pray personally, asking my Heavenly Father to help me find a job that would allow me to save up money to pay for my mission and also to touch the hearts of my family members so that they could be baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints before I left to start my mission.
My desire was to go on mission in 2017.
A few weeks later, Heavenly Father began to answer my prayer. In November 2016, I found a job. It was really difficult at first, but then it became easy. I saved up money to help my mother AND to pay for my mission.
In February 2017, I invited my family to our stake conference, and in April, my mother, one of my sisters, and two nephews were baptized into the Church. What a blessing: four members of my family baptized within a month!
In September 2017, I received my call to serve a two-year mission in the Democratic Republic of Congo Kinshasa Mission.
Through this experience, my testimony has grown. I know that our Heavenly Father loves all His children, He lives and knows us all individually, and He knows our desires. The Book of Mormon is the word of God—the name of Jesus Christ is quoted 558 times in it, which strengthens my belief that the Book of Mormon is another testament of Christ because I read it.

It sounded like a typical service project: round up a group of Relief Society sisters to put on a short choir program at a local hospital’s respite care center, though no one from our ward was a patient there.
We found ourselves crammed into a small room with nine elderly patients facing us in their wheelchairs. Their faces seemed blank, empty of expression. It was hot and stuffy, and I thought, “Let’s get this over with.”
I was to lead the music, so I turned my back to the patients and concentrated on the program. As we began, I heard one patient calling, “Mama, Mama,” while another clapped and made noises. I felt uncomfortable, but in a few minutes we would finish and go home.
As we prepared to sing our last hymn, “How Great Thou Art” (Hymns, no. 86), we invited the patients and medical personnel to join with us. I turned around to lead everyone in the singing, and that’s when I saw her—a tiny, wrinkled, white-haired lady with a lap full of tissues wet with her tears.
She motioned for me to come to her. I did so, and when I bent my head to listen, she took my hand. Her whole body trembled as she whispered, “I’m a Latter-day Saint. It’s so wonderful to have my sisters come.”
The Spirit filled my soul, and I knelt beside her, tears streaming from my eyes. She put a frail arm around me and patted me as if she understood my emotions. Everyone began singing the hymn, but I couldn’t get the first verse out.
As the patients and staff sang of God’s greatness, the Spirit filled the room, and all were touched. I finally gained control of my feelings and joined the others, singing:
When Christ shall come, with shout of acclamation,
And take me home, what joy shall fill my heart!
Then I shall bow in humble adoration
And there proclaim, “My God, how great thou art!”
After the program the Relief Society sisters mingled with the patients and staff. The white-haired sister told us she had been lonely and had felt surrounded by strangers until we came. We didn’t know she would be there, but Heavenly Father did.
I was reminded that all of these people were our brothers and sisters, that they needed love and comfort, and that someday I could be in their place. I was touched that we could be instruments of a loving Father, and I was grateful that our service project had taught me a powerful lesson about love.

My daughter Emily is in kindergarten. Every day at recess she sees a little girl named Raye who is in a wheelchair. Raye can’t walk or talk. Emily told me that she doesn’t want Raye to feel sad because she can’t run and play with the other children. So whenever she sees Raye, Emily sits with her and holds her hand and tells her stories. One day last week Raye looked cold, so Emily took off her own coat and laid it across Raye’s shoulders. Emily loves Raye and wants her to be happy.

The Ozark Mountains! Karl could hardly wait to see them. The whole last week of school, Karl daydreamed about the backpacking adventure he was going to have as soon as school got out.
Finally, fifth grade was over, and Mom was helping Karl pack his backpack.
“Be sure to pack your bug spray,” she reminded. “And make sure to take your flashlight.”
“OK, Mom,” Karl said. But he was busy thinking about all the animals he hoped to see in the mountains.
“You need to take your whistle too,” Mom added, dropping his whistle into his backpack.
When Mom wasn’t looking, Karl pulled the whistle out of his pack. “I won’t need this,” he thought. “Mom doesn’t understand what adventure is about.”
Early the next morning, Karl and his friends rode in vans to the trailhead. When they finally arrived, all the boys cheered.
Karl was assigned to a trail group. Each group would hike and camp together with their leaders.
After hiking for several hours, Karl began to feel impatient. Several other groups had already passed his. “I’m with all the slowpokes,” Karl thought.
After lunch, Karl decided to blaze ahead. He knew he should tell an adult, but he didn’t want to be stuck with his group anymore.
A few hours later, it began to get dark. Karl couldn’t hear his group anymore. He started to retrace his steps, but as it got darker, he worried that he might fall down a steep incline or stumble near an overlook. He remembered Mom’s reminder to pack his flashlight. “I wish I’d listened better,” he thought.
It was nearly nighttime. Karl unrolled his sleeping bag and found a stick of beef jerky in his backpack. He listened to the strange sounds of the woods at night. Karl knew he had broken an important rule by leaving his group, and he wished he had listened to Mom better before he left.
The next thing Karl knew, something bright woke him up. “You found me!” he yelled happily. But it was only a firefly dancing in front of his face. Karl felt his heart start beating fast. What if no one ever found him?
As soon as the sun rose the next morning, Karl rolled up his sleeping bag and looked through his backpack for something else to eat. At the bottom of the pack he saw the whistle his mother had given him.
“Mom must have put it back in my bag,” he thought with relief. Karl knew it was best to stay where he was and wait for the others to find him. He started blowing his whistle as hard as he could, and soon he saw a search party coming down the trail.
When Karl got home, he gave Mom a huge hug. “I’ll never forget how important it is to listen to you and follow the rules so I can be safe,” he said. Then he handed Mom his whistle for safekeeping.

On a hot July day when Alma Elizabeth was ten years old, she went to a ward meeting. The people felt very discouraged because their crops needed rain. President Brigham Young came to the meeting, and she listened carefully when he rose to his feet and spoke. He promised the people that if they would listen to his words, the Lord would open the heavens and send the rains.
The words hardly left the prophet’s lips when Alma Elizabeth noticed the gathering clouds. Soon they filled the sky, and rain poured down in torrents. On that day she received a great testimony of the gospel that she remembered all her life.

There is yet another gift some of you may want to give that takes starting early. I saw it started once when I was a bishop. A young man sat across my desk from me. He talked about mistakes he had made. And he talked about how much he wanted the children he might have someday to have a dad who could use his priesthood and to whom they could be sealed forever. He said he knew that the price and pain of repentance might be great. And then he said something I will not forget: “Bishop, I am coming back. I will do whatever it takes. I am coming back.” He felt sorrow. And he had faith in Christ. And still it took months of painful effort.

And so somewhere there is a family with a righteous priesthood bearer at its head. They have eternal hopes and peace on earth. He’ll probably give his family all sorts of gifts wrapped brightly, but nothing will matter quite so much as the one he started a long time ago in my office and has never stopped giving. He felt then the needs of children he had only dreamed of, and he gave early and freely. He sacrificed his pride and sloth and numbed feelings. I am sure it doesn’t seem like sacrifice now.

Nate was walking home from school on Monday. He saw something shiny. It was a yellow truck in a sandbox. Yellow was his favorite color! He put the truck in his pocket.
At home, Nate took out the truck to play. But when he looked at it, he didn’t feel so good.
On Tuesday, Nate passed the sandbox again. This time he saw an orange truck.
This will go great with the yellow truck, Nate thought. He put it in his pocket. But when Nate got home, he felt bad inside.
The same thing happened Wednesday, when Nate took a purple truck.
On Thursday he took a green truck.
Each time he took a truck, Nate felt worse. But he still wanted to collect more.
On Friday, as Nate reached to grab a white truck from the sandbox, he heard a voice above him.
“I see you like trucks.”
Nate jumped back. A woman was smiling at him.
“My son, Cayden, is about your age,” the woman said. “He has been losing a lot of trucks lately. Do you know where they are?”
Nate gulped. He knew he was in trouble. But he also knew that telling the truth was the right thing.
“I have them at my house,” Nate said. “I’ll go get them!”
Nate ran home. He told Mom what had happened. They said a prayer. Nate told Heavenly Father he was sorry. He asked for the bad feelings to go away. Then they took the trucks back to the sandbox.
“Sorry I took your trucks,” Nate said to Cayden.
“Thanks for bringing them back,” Cayden said. “Want to play?”
Nate smiled and nodded. Playing with trucks had never been so fun. And next week, he would make better choices!

As Adam Harrop walks the sidewalks of Ricks College, very few students or faculty would be able to single him out of the crowd. After all, his worn jeans, fresh haircut, and navy blue shirt are common sights at the LDS Church-owned junior college in Rexburg, Idaho.
However, beneath his common appearance, Adam is different. Not many male sophomores at Ricks are only 18 years old. Most second-year male students are 21 and returned missionaries. In addition to Adam’s unique age situation, he also holds the top student leadership position, overseeing 8,500 students at the largest private junior college in the United States.
Being student body president of Ricks College doesn’t come stress free. Especially when you’re taking a full load of classes, planning towards a degree in law or medicine. Especially when you’re also preparing for a full-time mission. Especially when you’re younger than most of the people you are leading.
But Adam Harrop knows that everything “IS OK.” The Harrop family has a saying back in Quincy, Illinois, where Adam grew up. If you’re In Scriptures and On Knees (IS OK), everything will turn out the way the Lord intended.
Adam doesn’t see his age as a disadvantage. “I still have my youthful spirit,” he says. “I want to work hard and play hard.”
It wasn’t easy from the start, however. Adam didn’t come to Ricks with a lot of leadership experience. Once he got to Ricks, he knew he wanted to develop his leadership skills. “There are a lot of people older than I am on my committees,” Adam says. “But there is a feeling of trust that has grown among the officers that has allowed me to lead them and to accomplish our goals.”
In fact, Adam’s campaign slogan last spring emphasized his energy. His signs read, “Thumbs up, step it up with Adam Harrop.” The voters said thumbs up to his ideas and elected him to the office. Adam is quick to give a thumbs up to his sister Heidi, also a Ricks student, who did “all of the campaigning,” he says. Adam has five older sisters, including Heidi.
His support of other students and leaders and, in turn, their support of him make him an approachable leader. He hopes his experience at Ricks will be a springboard toward a successful career. “Being the president has taught me time management, communication, patience, and how to get along with others,” Adam says. “It has been a big character builder for me.”
Adam spends more than 20 hours a week completing duties for his office, including attending 18 meetings each week. “I have to make good use of my time so I can study. None of us has time to waste. We all have to prioritize and know what is the most important to us.”
“If I could give advice to high school students,” says Adam, “I would say to push yourself harder and find areas in which to improve. Participate in something that will help you grow—physically, spiritually, and academically. Find out what the Lord wants you to do, not just what you want to do.”
Adam is pushing himself hard in his office and his schooling as he tries to do what the Lord would have him do. At times it seems overwhelming, but he reads his scriptures and prays. So he knows, everything IS OK.

I opened my eyes to pure darkness. I was alone. And I needed to get moving.
Moments before, my siblings and I had gathered in our barn. This was the perfect arena for our favorite game: hide-and-seek in the dark.
I had the misfortune of being the first seeker. My siblings ran off with flashlights in hand, and I was left alone without a light source. After two minutes of waiting, it was time to run off in search of my siblings.
But I couldn’t bring myself to move.
I was temporarily paralyzed by the fear of what lay beyond in the dark. Eventually, my fear of being alone took over. I took tentative steps forward and …
I fell flat on my face.
I got back up and continued to stumble around in the dark.
As someone with a crippling fear of the dark, I felt vulnerable and exposed in my pitch-black barn. If I hadn’t been so focused on my fear, perhaps I would’ve been more prepared for the obstacles that awaited me.
I tripped and fell in my barn because I couldn’t see any obstacles. A flashlight would’ve warned me of the danger and saved me a great deal of pain.
My sister was my hero that day in the barn. She could’ve ignored my pleas for help as I crossed her path. But instead, she turned on her flashlight and ran to my rescue. Her grace made me feel less alone. And I clung to that grace until the search for my brothers was over.

Dark, threatening clouds rolled over Davao, the Philippines, one Sunday evening. The misty gloom of that fast-falling night haloed the lights from the island homes that bordered the gulf and dotted the hillsides. Suddenly a stiff wind arose, and gulls cried as they wheeled through the air to more sheltered spots among the rocky cliffs along the shore. The wind increased, and the lights along the shore went out. The waves crashed thunderously and shot spray high into the air. Back in the hills and valleys frightened carabao (water buffalo) bawled, pigs squealed, and chickens squawked, their cries whipped away by the wind.
The wind rose to a shriek as it bore down mercilessly with its knifelike rain, bending coconut palms to the ground and trying to push everything, even houses, out of its path. Some trees yielded to the force of the wind and toppled to the ground, their roots seeming to claw the air.
Then the storm reached the house of the Lopez family. It pushed against the doors and rattled the windows where Anita and her sister Sabina were sleeping on their mats.
A lone palm leaf slapped across the window, and Anita sat up with a jerk. Her eyes grew round. What had awakened her? Prickles went up and down her back as she reached over and shook her sister. “Sabina! Wake up!”
“Huh?” Sabina asked as she rolled over.
“Sabina, listen! That’s not the river making all that noise! It’s a storm, and I—I’m scared!”
Sabina sat up and took her sister’s hand in her own. “It is a storm! A bad one! Maybe it’s a typhoon!” Sabina gasped as the two girls hugged each other tightly.
A sudden blast drove what seemed like a riverful of water through the cracks of the walls and around the closed window. Everything was drenched. The house lurched and swayed like a cradle rocked by a giant’s hand.
“Mama! Daddy!” screamed Sabina. “Come quick!”
Even as Sabina cried out, Mama and Daddy rushed in and hurried the girls to a safer part of the house.
After a while, Daddy called out above the noise of the storm, “I believe it will be safe if we stand to the side of the small window that overlooks the river. I’d like to be where we can see how fast the water is rising. Typhoons have caused disastrous floods here in the past.”
Anita clutched Mama’s hand as the family moved next to the window. When they looked out at the river, Anita’s eyes grew rounder than ever, and she held her mother’s hand more tightly. The river had already flooded over its banks, and their home was surrounded by water! The house next door was half submerged and bobbing up and down as it was driven downriver. Were their neighbors still in it? As they watched, another house went by, then another, and another. Some were smashed to bits. Some still had people in them who shouted from the windows, “Help! Save us! Save us!” One house that swept by had a yelping dog clinging to the ridge of the roof that was barely above-water. A loud crash behind their home meant that another neighbor’s house had collapsed.
Anita began to cry out loud. Daddy picked her up and held her tightly. Then he called out above the sound of the storm, “We must pray to the true God of whom we have just learned!”
They all bowed their heads as Daddy prayed.
“Heavenly Father, we are grateful that now we know of Thee and can talk to Thee. Please deliver us from this flood! Save us, in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
It was the Lopez family’s first prayer since listening to the missionaries the night before.
Anita looked out the window. Two big logs loomed out of the black waters and shot straight toward their house! Then the logs suddenly turned sideways and caught on something. It was as if they were being set in place by a giant hand. The onrushing floodwaters were turned aside by the two huge logs, and the house stood fast!
All night long Anita and her parents and sister watched the miracle of the logs and praised the God of heaven and earth for His goodness in answering their prayer.
Early the next morning as the storm wore itself out, the Lopez family cautiously went outside. Nothing looked the same. Palm trees, their branches ripped off, were strewn all over. Broken bits of houses were tangled with underbrush and mud. Dead chickens, cats, and dogs were scattered here and there. Sad-faced people pulled at piles of debris, looking for missing loved ones.
Sabina looked up at Daddy and said, “I’m glad that we learned about Heavenly Father and about how to pray to Him and that He helped us when we asked Him to.”
Daddy nodded.
“I wish everyone knew about Him,” Anita added, squeezing her father’s hand.
Daddy said, “I know that I don’t ever want to be without Him again. Even if our house had been destroyed, talking to Him brought me peace. I hope that the young men who told us about Him will come back very soon and tell us more.”

Spooked by a ravaging band of Shoshone hunters, Little Wind’s pony has escaped into high rock country. His father, Ten Days Walking, has ridden in another direction with several tribesmen to reclaim a band of village ponies that also fled during the melee.
Fearing that any delay will spoil the chance of catching his pony, Little Wind doesn’t tell his mother of his departure. But he is unaware that beyond the fog-shrouded mesa a giant winter storm is brewing.
Little Wind moved in a hurried, anxious fashion through the deepening drifts of snow. His young eyes eagerly searched the white wilderness beyond the hoof tracks for his stray pony, expecting at any moment to discover the animal patiently waiting for him in the swirls of mist. But as minutes multiplied into hours, all that greeted the boy’s intense anticipation were the dark shapes of some lightning-split scrub oak, a clump of rocks jutting up, or bunches of brushwood scratching together in the new wind.
The wind! It had returned. Its stirrings were barely noticeable at first in the wee rattlings of ice-cloaked underbrush. It was only the piercing chill that invaded even the warmth of Little Wind’s big otter coat that first kindled his awareness of the wind’s growing intensity.
The boy paused to wipe the wintry drippings from his frosted brow and looked with difficulty up the sides of the gigantic ice-blurred mesas. They loomed above him like dark mythical giants that grow out of the smoke and tales spun by the old ones around the great fires. Then Little Wind shuddered at the chilling sight of a formless black cloud mass that loomed over the top of the buttes and out of the mist.
The boy gathered the otter coat more tightly about himself and continued on at an even more urgent pace, all the while feverishly searching for any sign of his pony, whose tracks were now completely obliterated by the snow. He leaned heavily on his sense of hearing to assist him in his search, his ears straining beyond the sound of the crunching beneath his numbed, moccasined feet. But the strident whine of the ghostly wind would have made it impossible to hear the nicker of his pony, even if he were close-by.
More than once Little Wind glanced back over his shoulder through the whirling curtain of ice toward what he guessed was the direction of home. Home. How far away it seemed, farther away even than he was from heaven’s door.
Laughing Water, Little Wind’s mother, stepped out of the family tepee into the howling, icy wind. Worry spread across her countenance like mourning paint. It had been some time since Yellow Fox, himself concerned about his friend’s safety, had informed her of Little Wind’s departure from the village. The awesome skies and unusually cutting winds filled her anxious heart with mounting fear. Even her father-in-law, Red Owl Watching, who was usually optimistic, had lifted himself from his sickbed to gaze with troubled uncertainty. He had seen many frightful storms, but never one such as he now beheld.
Laughing Water had beseeched some of the husbands of the other families to seek out her son, but while they were in full sympathy with her fears and concern, they were without horses. And if they were to venture out into the killing freeze on foot—even a little way—they would most surely perish. Aside from the fact that they had their own families to care for, in the wild swirling snow they would not be able to see their hands in front of their faces, let alone a small boy in an invisible wilderness of driving ice.
Laughing Water brushed the unbidden tears from her dusky cheeks and gave a sidelong glance in the direction taken by Ten Days Walking and the others. His eyes were eagle sharp, even during the foulest weather or throughout the darkest night. She quickly looked back in the other direction, hoping somehow that Little Wind would suddenly appear alive, safe. But the only thing that broke forth from the worsening blizzard was another blast of gale-force wind. Red Owl Watching lifted his raspy, failing voice against the wind and begged Laughing Water to come inside by the fire. “We have enough souls to pray for, good mother. Let it not be that we must pray for you too.” She turned slowly and went inside.
The winds grew wilder still. Little Wind struggled along blindly in the wracking cold, banging his hands together in an effort to keep his blood from freezing up like the tiny prairie streams long since turned to ice. Still he tried to catch some glimpse of his pony, but it was useless. His hands had already become so numb that he could scarcely feel them, and his feet felt as though they were only extensions of his soaked leggings that plodded along through the drifts as if by instinct. The wind tore through his otter coat like a great spear. And everywhere shards of flying ice were so thick that he could not tell where he was going or where he had been.
Little Wind stumbled a few more feet, turning one way, then another. Whirling around to escape the stinging ice, he lost his footing, tripped over a small log fall, and collapsed in the snow. He tried to pull himself up, but a rushing wind slammed against him. In a moment the snow began to cover the small fallen form.
Ten Days Walking and the other braves had at last returned to the village, chilled but successful. Their scattered horses had been recovered. As the Sioux chief dismounted, Laughing Water clutched at his heavy wraps, tearfully recounting the story of Little Wind’s flight into the storm after his pony. Ten Days Walking wrapped his big furs back about his face so that only his eyes were visible, eyes filled with concern and fear. He mounted his buffalo runner again and faced the screaming storm. How can I possibly save Little Wind? he wondered sadly. It had been only with great difficulty that he and the other braves were able to find their village! And the storm was now so incredibly furious that he wondered if even the Great Spirit could find his boy. He reeled his horse around, eyed Laughing Water with stinging emotions, and pitched headlong into the savage white squall.
Little Wind lay beneath a cloak of snow. Still alive, yet unable to move, and on the edge of slipping off into a final, frozen sleep, his thoughts—untouched by the weather—raced home to his father’s fires, his mother’s steaming broth, and the warmth of loved ones pressing near. And with these warm memories, he was ready to make his final journey to the land of the Sky People, who lived beyond the fury of the wind and the thrashing winter blasts, a place where the sun shone forever and the plains were green and fine. He could almost see it now. Surely, he thought, I am on my way to heaven.
He dared to open one eye, just a little. And in his delirium he seemed to see something through the falling snow. It was a glow! Could it really be the welcoming fire in the village of the gods? Yet he had not left mother earth, for the storm still raged about him.
The light grew brighter, nearer. Little Wind opened both eyes, looking with awe and disbelief. The glow came from … an animal! It was the old buffalo that he had befriended in the great four-legged’s final hours, the one with the broken horn and the ghostly blue eyes! Little Wind looked harder, scarcely able to believe what his eyes were beholding—a white glow in a white wind. “The spirit of the great four-legged!” he muttered as the bison seemed to drift nearer still, its pale blue eyes watching the boy in the snow.
In his mind, Little Wind started to question the animal’s presence. Why would the old buffalo … ?
Suddenly his father’s words, spoken to him on the great hunt when he had pleaded compassionately for the bison, came back to him as if on the wind. “Such kindness,” Ten Days Walking had promised with prophetic surety, “will one day return itself upon you, my son, whether this old four-legged lives or dies. And this because of the goodness of your heart.”
The huge animal figure, still immersed in a strange glowing light, paused a moment before Little Wind then lay down beside him, its great fur coat engulfing the boy like a blanket of heavenly warmth.
Ten Days Walking plowed forward on a prayer through the raw, heaving weather, his cries for his son muffled by the louder cry of the wind. Suddenly he pulled up, for in the lee of a jack pine he saw the outline of a figure under the snow, one so clearly seen that it was almost as though a light pointed toward it.
Ten Days Walking piled off his horse and scooped Little Wind up into his arms. He quickly bundled the boy inside his furs. But how odd, he thought, that the boy still feels so warm! He wiped tears of thanksgiving from his eyes and stood there in the storm, thanking the Great Spirit for the life of his son.
After a moment, Little Wind spoke softly. “Did you see the light, Father? It was the spirit of the old buffalo. I saw him. The Great One sent him to keep me warm until you could find me.”
The mighty Sioux warrior chief hugged his son with matchless pride, lifted his head heavenward in the fury, and cried out his gratitude with a reverence Little Wind had never heard before. Then Ten Days Walking mounted his horse with Little Wind beneath his wrappings, gave the buffalo runner its lead, and let instinct carry it in the direction of home.
Little Wind never found his pony, but that day his testimony of the love of the Great Spirit soared as high as the eagles. Two weeks later his grandfather’s spirit made its journey to the lodge of the Great One. Fifteen years later, Little Wind would take his father’s place as chief of the tribe. And the story of that day, when the spirit of the old buffalo came to a young Sioux boy to return life for life, would be told and retold around the fires of every Indian nation for generations to come.

Zachary is a very kind little boy, and he is sensitive to the feelings of others. When Zac was attending preschool, a new little boy moved into town from another country and was in his class. Samuel*, the new boy, couldn’t speak English, a new language for him, and he was a little uncomfortable in his new class.
One day at school, Samuel was really sad and wanted his mom. The preschool teacher asked Zac if he would play with Samuel. Zac took Samuel by the hand, led him over to where the toys were, and they began to play together. Zac really tried to treat his classmate the way the Savior would want him to by becoming his friend.

When I was a student, one of my roommates asked me a lot of questions about the physical signs of the covenants I had made in the holy temple. In response, I invited him to attend sacrament meeting and Sunday School to learn more about things of eternal value that could bring him lasting joy.
At that stage of our lives, as a young man, he prioritized other activities that he felt could make him happy.
When we completed our studies, we both found jobs at the same company. I continued to lovingly counsel him without pressuring him. Seventeen years later, after he had been instructed by the power of the Holy Spirit, he agreed to join the Church with his wife and two children. A year later, he was sealed in the Accra Ghana Temple. So great was his joy that he never missed an opportunity to teach the doctrine of Christ and to invite others to come to Christ. I always showed love to my friend, to the point that I never condemned him when his heart was set on the pleasures of the world.

Ouch!” Caroline cried when she pricked her finger with a needle for the third time. Holding the quilt block to the light, she examined her progress. The rose she had been sewing with such tiny stitches bloomed bravely. She had one more block to sew, then she could begin sewing the quilt blocks together.
“Carrie,” her brother called excitedly from outside. The fresh salt breeze stirred her curls as she leaned out the window. The gray blue of Barnegat Bay was a beautiful sight with the wind ruffling the water and swishing the grass.
“Carrie,” Tom shouted again. “Father needs a message about supplies sent to Trenton.”
For three months Tom and Father had been passing information about King George’s soldiers up the coast to the patriots in Trenton, and she thought that Tom was sometimes carried away with the Revolution and their part in it.
Carrie and her family lived some distance from the center of their town with its white clapboard houses and tree-lined streets. As he mended nets or worked on his fishing boat her father was able to see things that others might miss. After he gathered information about ships or troops or supplies, he drove to Trenton in the wagon or sent Tom with a message. Tom thought it was a great adventure to saddle his horse Powder and deliver the latest installment of information.
Carrie worried that someone might discover the real reason for Tom and Father’s frequent trips, even though their messages were always hidden in barrels of salted fish, rolls of netting, or under Powder’s saddle blanket. Turning from the window, she crossed the room and picked up her sewing. She was busily unpicking a row of crooked stitches when Tom and her father came into the room.
“Carrie,” her father spoke quietly and quickly. “I’m afraid that the enemy suspects that Tom and I have been acting as couriers, so I’m asking you to take the message this time. We have a message that must be delivered. It’s a good thing that your mother is visiting Aunt Liza in Trenton so you’ll have a reason for going there.”
Carrie nodded her head in agreement while she repinned the applique pattern onto her sewing.
“Tom, hurry and saddle Powder while Carrie and I think of a place to hide the message,” Father urged.
Carrie listened eagerly as Father continued, “We can’t hide it on the horse or saddle. We’ve done that too many times before. Nor can we hide it in your boots or in the food or—”
Carrie, who was still working with the pattern for the quilt block, interrupted him as an idea came to her. “Father, I’ll finish unpicking the stitches around this rose, then we can slip the message between the rose and the quilt block. I’ll sew it up, pin the applique pattern on the top so the block will have a feel of paper, and it will be as safe as can be.”
Carrie showed her father where there could be a secret pocket between the rose and the quilt block. He took a folded paper from his pocket and slipped it into the hiding place she had made. Then Carrie quickly stitched the rose into place. Smoothing it, she put the block into her sewing basket and fastened the clasp.
“Quick, Carrie, there’s little time,” Father said as he took her dark blue cloak from the hook by the door and settled it on her shoulders.
“You are to ride straight to the Delaware Printing Shop on Front Street. John Grant will be watching for Powder. Give him the message and then ride to Aunt Eliza’s.” He looked into his young daughter’s eyes. “Tom and I will pray for your safe trip, my dear,” he said and gave her a quick hug.
Carrie picked up her sewing basket, gathered the cloak around her, and ran outside where Tom helped her onto the sturdy little horse that would carry her to Trenton. Tom squeezed her hand as he handed her the reins and then safely tucked the sewing basket and a packet of bread and cheese into the saddlebags.
Carrie pulled the hood of her cloak over her head and waved good-bye as Powder settled into a steady gait. Most of the journey would be along the lonely coast road. Powder knew this road so well that Carrie let him find his way while gulls wheeled above the boggy track. Just before Powder took the turn where the sandy path merged into the well-traveled main road, Carrie reined the horse in and offered a silent prayer for the success of the ride.
Powder’s hooves made an even beat on the hard surface of the road as they picked up speed and raced toward Trenton. Carrie was so concerned about her errand that she barely heard the shout of a soldier from somewhere in the gloom.
“Halt, young lady,” he repeated. The soldier was an older man who had a pleasant smile on his face as he stepped out of the shadows and greeted, “Hello, miss. What are you doing alone on this road so late?”
“I’m on my way to my Aunt Eliza’s in Trenton. My mother’s there and I’m to join her,” Carrie explained, shivering with cold and fear.
The soldier’s lantern made curious shadows when he held it up to look into Carrie’s face, then he said, “Well, miss, I’m sorry but I must search your saddlebags. Would you please dismount?”
The frightened girl scrambled down off the horse and stood beside Powder as his saddle was removed and his saddle blanket shaken. Then the soldier took the saddlebags and carefully unpacked them. He grinned when he found the bread and cheese, and handed them to Carrie whose mouth was so dry she knew she could never choke down the food Tom had packed for her. When the man lifted out the sewing basket, his eyes were eager. But his face fell when he opened it and saw only thread, needles, scissors, linen, and the quilt block. “What do you call that,” he asked, “knitting?”
Carrie held her voice steady as she shook her head and answered, “That’s a quilt block, and after I get the pattern right, I’ll sew some other blocks to it and then quilt them.”
“It’s pretty,” he said. “Back home we have a bush with roses as red as this one. I’m sorry that I had to stop you,” he added, putting the handwork back into the basket and repacking her saddlebags. Then he saddled Powder and helped Carrie onto her horse again.
Carrie breathed a prayer of thanks as Powder seemed almost to fly toward Trenton, carrying her and her father’s message safely inside the red rose of the Revolution.