Gospel Story Finder

Most of us recognize that God speaks to all His children in their own language. We have likely seen how He communicates with us in our language and how He communicates with others in their own language. This is especially noticeable if we have had the opportunity to live in a country other than our own. I initially became aware of this principle as a young missionary when my first companion and I taught the gospel of Jesus Christ in standard Italian, a language that was not our native tongue.

During our time together in Lugano, Switzerland, my companion and I found and taught a family from Sicily, Italy. We spoke Italian, but the family spoke Sicilian, which is distinct enough from standard Italian that it is considered a separate language. The local branch members spoke a different variation of Italian that is even less well-known: Swiss Italian. Yet the branch members used their native Swiss Italian to help us fellowship and teach this young family.

Despite the differences between standard Italian, Swiss Italian, and Sicilian, the Lord spoke to and through each of us by the Holy Ghost, according to our language and understanding. Eventually, this young family entered the waters of baptism and were confirmed members of the Church.

When our son Eli was in fourth grade, his class set up a mock government where he was elected by his peers to serve as class judge. One day a sitting judge from the Utah Second District Court visited, put his official robes on Eli, and then administered an oath of office for their class. This ignited in Eli’s young, impressionable soul a passion for studying law and the Lawgiver Himself, Jesus Christ.
After years of diligent effort, Eli received an invitation for an interview with one of his top choices for law school. He pronounced, “Mom, I was asked 10 questions. The final question was, ‘Where do you derive your moral compass?’ I stated that throughout history humankind has derived systems of morality by patterning their lives from archetypes. The archetype of morality I strive to pattern my life from is that of Jesus Christ. I stated if all of humanity abided by the teachings of Jesus Christ in the Sermon on the Mount, the world would be a better, more peaceful place.” Then the interview ended, and he thought to himself, “There go my childhood dreams. No one in secular academia wants to hear about Jesus Christ.”
Two weeks later, Eli was admitted with a scholarship. Before committing, we visited the campus. The law school looked like a castle and was set high on a hill overlooking a beautiful lake. Remarkably, as we walked through the magnificent library and stately corridors, we found on banners and carved in stone attributes from the Sermon on the Mount.

The second experience is from a BYU graduate:
As a sophomore, I had a roommate named Krista. She ministered to me by just being a loyal and kind friend. She asked about my life and always listened. She noticed what my talents were and suggested a field of work I never would have considered—the next 15 years of my life were altered because she noticed my skills and abilities and I took her advice related to a career. She could have noticed my inabilities and weaknesses—maybe she did, but she never commented on them. She just helped me be the best person I could by believing in me.

In Madison, Wisconsin, Mark Hasler recently chairmanned a mammoth three-day workshop for college students in the region. A swinging committee set up housing with local Church members and catering services with the Relief Societies. The students invited insightful and busy Latter-day Saint leaders and teachers to a confrontation on Church-related problems—all the familiar, hard questions that had been smoldering in the minds of some students who hadn’t sought the opportunity to get answers firsthand. It was a healthy experience and a great undertaking geared to help the students get a new light on spiritual living. This unselfish effort was accomplished in lives already crowded with collegiate studies.
And it worked.
In a letter to the New Era, written six weeks following the conference, Chairman Hasler reported that the institute program has gained tremendous momentum since then. Classes have jumped from a hard-come-by eight persons to thirty-eight. Some missionaries used to dread the Madison assignment because of the lack of support from the students. Now the missionaries are swamped with referrals from students and ward members. In the past weeks, committees have been set up to work out a find-and-fellowship operation for Latter-day Saint students “in hiding” on campus. More than thirty-five have already been found and are being worked with on a buddy system with active Latter-day Saint students.

Whether or not a boy can whistle hardly seems like a matter of life and death, but to Oliver it was. He wanted to whistle in the worst way, but he couldn’t! No matter how much he puckered and puffed, drew and blew, or wheezed and squeezed his breath through his lips, he couldn’t whistle. It seemed as though he’d sent enough air in and out of his mouth to turn a windmill, but he still couldn’t make one note of the simplest tune.
Even so, when he heard that the Church leaders in Nauvoo were recruiting young boys for a whistling and whittling brigade, he hurried downtown to join. If there was one thing he could do, it was use a pocketknife. Oliver knew how to carve almost anything he set his mind to. He only had to look at a piece of wood to see what shape was hidden inside. Then he would carefully cut the wood away until he’d freed the polar bear or squirrel or flying eagle trapped inside. It was exciting to watch it happen. No one else understood how he did it. He might be just the boy the brigade needed to do some carving for them.
The youngsters in Oliver’s neighborhood met behind the blacksmith’s shop to find out what this whistling and whittling group was all about.
“Boys,” Brother Johnson began, “we need your help. Ever since the mobbers in Carthage killed the Prophet Joseph Smith and his brother Hyrum, they’ve been trying to force the Saints to move out of Nauvoo. Now they’ve repealed the city charter, and we don’t even have any police to protect us from these ruffians. We need a little more time to get ready before we can leave, and you boys can help give us that time.”
“We’ll be glad to help,” Oliver said. “What can we do?”
“Just walk around town whistling and whittling,” Brother Johnson answered.
“We already do that,” Will Baines said.
“Exactly!” Brother Johnson replied. “It doesn’t seem like anything out of the ordinary. Whistling is a happy sound, and whittling is a harmless pastime. Who could object to that?”
“But what good will it do?” Ezra wanted to know.
“Plenty,” Brother Johnson explained, “because while you are doing it, you will be watching and following any strangers who come into town. With so many eyes watching them, they probably won’t do too much damage.”
“What if they don’t like it?”
“What can they do? You’re too little to pick on and too many to lick.”
“So all we do is whittle and whistle and watch?”
“That’s all. Don’t answer any questions and don’t ask any. Just keep up the noise. It will warn everyone who hears it to be alert.”
It sounded like an easy job—even fun. The boys began buzzing with eager anticipation.
“Just one more thing,” Brother Johnson began, waiting until all the boys were quiet. “We need to decide on a signal to call you all together when someone spots a suspicious-looking character.”
One of the boys let out a long shrill whistle, followed by two short ones.
“Perfect!” Brother Johnson said. “Now let’s see if all of you can do that. The boys tried out the warning one at a time.
That’s when everyone found out that Oliver couldn’t whistle—and when Oliver found out that whistling was more important than whittling in this brigade. Anyone could hack away at a stick with a knife and pretend to be making something. For that matter, he could pucker up his lips and pretend to be whistling too. But if he got in a tight place with a stranger and couldn’t send a signal, it might very well be a matter of life and death!
Oliver hurried to his thinking place in the grove by the river and cut off a length of green willow to whittle on. Looking it over, he thought, Oh, good—the sap is running! A pleased smile crossed his face at the thought of what this stick would become. He sat down and began to carve.
Carefully choosing the right spot on the wood, he sliced the narrow end straight across. A little way down he notched out a crosswise hole that removed a leaf node. Three or four inches below this, he sunk his blade just the depth of the bark and made a ring around the branch as he turned it. Next he tapped the bark gently with the handle of his knife to loosen it so the bark would slip off easily.
Suddenly Oliver heard the slap of oars in the water below him and the muffled sound of rough voices. Quickly he looked for a place to hide, but there was none. He froze his movements and wished he could become invisible. Even more, he wished he could send the whistle signal to the other boys.
The rowboat pulled in to shore, and a coarse-looking man jumped out.
“You’ll have to hustle,” the man in the boat warned, “to get it done before anyone sees you. They won’t be expecting anybody to come from this direction. I’ll wait for you around the bend.”
The boat glided away, and Oliver held his breath as the man climbed the slope toward him. He came closer and closer.
A flicker of fright in the man’s eyes betrayed his surprise at seeing the lad. Then his face turned hard. “What are you doing, boy?” he demanded.
“Just carving this stick,” Oliver told him.
“Into what?” the man wanted to know.
“I’ll show you.”
“Haven’t got time to watch,” the man said gruffly, eyeing the knife.
“It’ll take less than a minute,” Oliver assured him, watching carefully to see if his delaying tactic was working. The boy gave the bark a gentle twist, and a tiny craaack told him it was loose from the inner wood. He slid the bark tube off quickly, then began to deepen and lengthen the notch in the wood, forming a plan of action in his mind as he did so. He must not make an error.
“I happen to need that jackknife you’re using,” the man said in a threatening tone. “It just might come in handy.”
Handy for what? Oliver asked himself. Hurting someone?
“I’m nearly through with it,” he said as calmly as he could, folding the blade back into the handle and sliding the knife into his pocket. He slipped the bark tube back onto the whistle he had whittled.
“All finished,” he said. “See?” He held it out to show the stranger.
“What is that thing anyway?” he asked. “Looks like a whistle.”
Oliver gulped at the lump in his throat. What he was going to do next might very well be his last act on earth. Whether it was or not, he had to do it!
“Let’s see if it works,” he said to the man. He took a deep, desperate breath and put the whistle to his lips. Then, with all his might, he blew a long, shrill blast followed by two short ones.
“Yep, it does,” he said in a pleased voice.
But the man was not pleased. He grabbed the whistle with one hand and the back of Oliver’s collar with the other. He shook the lad like a cat shakes a mouse.
“You be quiet, boy,” he growled. “And give me that knife!” Quicker than Oliver believed possible, the man had the knife open at his back and was shoving him up the slope. “You and I have some work to do in this town.” His crazy laugh terrified Oliver. “And when we get done,” the man continued, “I’ll make sure you get all the credit.”
As Oliver stumbled up the bank, he hoped with all his heart that the boys had heard his signal. His ears were keenly tuned for the sound of their answering whistles. Just as he reached the top of the hill, he heard them. He blinked away a tear of relief and said a silent prayer of thanks that the Nauvoo Whistling and Whittling Brigade was on duty to escort this stranger through the city. No one ever found out what mischief the stranger had in mind because he was soon surrounded by noisy, curious boys and quickly decided it was time to leave town.
He had been right about one thing, though. Oliver did get all the credit.

My third example highlights the importance of recognizing and accepting the will of God in our lives. Several years ago there was a young father who had been active in the Church as a boy but had chosen a different path during his teenage years. After serving in the military, he married a lovely girl, and soon children blessed their home.

One day without warning their little four-year-old daughter became critically ill and was hospitalized. In desperation and for the first time in many years, the father was found on his knees in prayer, asking that the life of his daughter be spared. Yet her condition worsened. Gradually this father sensed that his little girl would not live, and slowly his prayers changed; he no longer prayed for healing but rather for understanding. “Let Thy will be done” was now the manner of his pleadings.

Soon his daughter was in a coma, and the father knew her hours on earth were few. Fortified with understanding, trust, and power beyond their own, the young parents prayed again, asking for the opportunity to hold her close once more while she was awake. The daughter’s eyes opened, and her frail arms reached out to her parents for one final embrace. And then she was gone. This father knew their prayers had been answered—a kind, compassionate Father in Heaven had comforted their hearts. God’s will had been done, and they had gained understanding. (Adapted from H. Burke Peterson, “Adversity and Prayer,” Ensign, Jan. 1974, 18.)

As I reflected upon this subject, a story that I had recently heard by an unknown author came to my mind.
Many years ago in the foggy city of London a young man supported his widowed mother and five brothers and sisters by going to the train station at night and meeting people and then guiding them to their various destinations with his lantern through the narrow, foggy streets. On one occasion the young man was approached by a stranger who asked to be taken to a particular area of the city. It was extremely foggy and the cobblestone streets were dangerously slippery. The boy agreed to the proposition, even though it meant placing his own life in jeopardy. The two of them started out, the boy, lantern in hand, leading the gentleman. After hours of walking they arrived at their destination. Once there the gentleman gave the young man the promised reward. The lad graciously accepted his earnings and walked briskly back to the station. He no sooner arrived at the station than several people came forward out of the fog, each giving the young man a like amount of money. At first the boy refused to accept the money because he felt he had not earned it. Finally one of the strangers explained: “We were all lost in this fog and had no idea where we were. Then we saw your lantern and followed your light in the distance. We only wish to repay you for guiding us to safety. Had we not followed you, we would still be lost out there in the fog.”

Jean A. Stevens, first counselor in the Primary general presidency, told a story about a boy who had missed the last bus of the day and was walking home (page 81). With many miles left to go, he got scared and knelt to pray. Minutes later, Sister Stevens was prompted by the Spirit to stop and help him. Can you think of times when Heavenly Father answered your prayers? How have you helped answer someone else’s prayer?

The Sunday before Christmas I woke up to the sounds of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. That’s how Mom gets us up on Sundays. From then on, the day went downhill. To begin with, my hairbrush was missing. I suspected my three-year-old brother, Jeffy, had taken it, and sure enough, I found it in his toy box. “Mom,” I complained, “I’m getting sick and tired of this little shrimp getting into my things!”
Mom was busy giving the baby a bath, and she acted as if she hadn’t even heard me. “Amy,” she said, “we’re going to need to change our plans for tonight’s family Christmas program. Daddy just called from church, and that new family, the Hansens, are still living in a motel. He’d like to invite them for dinner and to spend the evening with us. There’s nothing less like the Sabbath than the Silver Moon Motel.”
“But Mom, you can’t do that!” I wailed. “You know I’ve planned this for two months, and it’s just for our family. All the parts are taken.
“Besides,” I went on, getting louder and louder, “they have a bunch of little shrimps who’d probably tear the whole house apart.” Then I started to cry.
Mother wrapped the baby in a towel and turned to face me. “Amy, I had no idea that it meant this much to you. Please don’t be so upset. I’ll just tell Dad when we get to church, and he can tell the Hansens that it won’t work out.”
All during sacrament meeting I watched the three Hansen kids—two-, three-, and four-year-old boys—climbing all over the benches and squirming across their parents’ laps. Brother and Sister Hansen looked pretty tired by the time they’d taken each boy out about five times. It’s just as well, I thought to myself, I can’t even imagine what four little boys would do to my bedroom!
I felt relieved all the way to Primary. On the way down the hall, I noticed that it had started snowing outside. It was going to be a perfect family night.
When I got to class, Sister Martin, my Merrie Miss teacher, wanted to know what we thought it might have been like to be strangers in a strange town, like Mary and Joseph were when they went to Bethlehem. All of us had an answer to that question. Even Mandi Perkins, who hardly ever says anything, said, “I bet they felt lonely.”
Then Sister Martin asked us why we thought the innkeeper hadn’t let this poor, lonely couple stay at his house. We really had to think about that for a while. The innkeeper had always been one of the side characters in the Christmas story. But I’d never thought about him having feelings.
“Well,” I suggested, “he probably felt busy with all his other company.”
Jenny Peterson thought the innkeeper might have been thinking that this couple, who were soon going to have a baby, would be too much trouble. That’s when I started to feel a little uncomfortable.
“He probably had things planned the way he wanted them, and here came some people to mess up his plans,” my best friend, Rachel, added. Suddenly this wasn’t a Christmas story that happened two thousand years ago. This was something that was happening today.
Mandi Perkins added the final blow—“The innkeeper missed the whole thing, didn’t he? The two most important guests in the world came to his place, and he wouldn’t let them in.”
“Do you suppose, girls,” said Sister Martin, “that we ever act like the innkeeper? That maybe we become a little selfish and miss helping someone? Look with me in your Bibles at Matthew 25:40 [Matt. 25:40]: ‘And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.’”
By that time my eyes were so filled with tears that the words seemed to be swimming across the page. Here were the Hansens without a place to live, and I was acting like the innkeeper, not wanting them to bother me. I knew how I would act if the Hansens were Mary and Joseph and the Baby Jesus, and I knew that Heavenly Father would want me to treat them the same way.
Luckily Sister Martin didn’t ask me to give the prayer, because I was having a hard time swallowing. Afterward I hurried out of the room as quickly as I could and headed down the hall to where I saw my parents. I heard my dad saying to the Hansens, “We’re awfully sorry, but our daughter—”
I didn’t even think. I rushed up and blurted out, “There’s room at the inn!” and then I blushed deep red.
Dad saw my red eyes and must have guessed what had happened, because he just continued: “As I was saying,”—he put his arm around me—“our daughter has planned a very special Christmas program for tonight, and I think she wants to warn you that you’ll be having a part in it!”

A year after her baptism, Erika received her mission call to Hungary. “I was happy to be called to serve my own people in my own language. But I worried whether I was worthy to be the first Hungarian citizen to serve in Hungary and if I would be able to give the people what they needed. I prayed about it and felt many special feelings that night. I knew that God loved me and my family. I felt very close to God.”

Allow me to share some of the miraculous blessings from letters and accounts I have received over the past four years. A humble couple from Idaho met fear with faith when the Lord called them to Russia. They wrote the following acceptance letter: “No one would have imagined we would be called to this assignment. We have no idea how we will learn the language or manage to be of service, and although we accept with much trepidation, going completely on faith, we know that the Lord and His prophet know more than we do where we should serve.” Ten months later the Stockholm Sweden Temple welcomed 30 Saints from a small branch in Russia led by this couple from Idaho who had barely begun to learn the Russian language. The scriptures tell us, “God has provided a means that man, through faith, might work mighty miracles.” Thus, God’s work is carried out by His children, “that faith also might increase in the earth, … that the fulness of my gospel might be proclaimed by the weak and the simple unto the ends of the world.”

Another sister, a recent convert, was startled one Sunday when a sister in her ward spoke about dressing with the intention to someday go to the temple and receive one’s endowment. “That sister’s counsel made a strong impression on me,” she says. “As I thought about it, I felt a desire to find out just how I should dress if I had been to the temple.” She later discarded her revealing or inappropriate clothing, and she made future purchases with Church standards in mind. Two years later, when she received her endowment, her wardrobe did not need to be changed; it was both modest and attractive.

One of these experiences began a few years ago when I was assigned as a home teacher to a young man who had been raised in a faithful Latter-day Saint family. After he left home to attend school, he chose other paths. Month after month my home teaching companion and I visited him without success; it seemed he didn’t even hear what we said to him. But when the tempests came and he was confused, not knowing what to do to resolve his problems, it was his home teachers he sought out.
At the time I was his stake president. He told me he remembered something his mother had taught him: “The Lord hears the prayers of those who sincerely seek Him.” As he confided that he had returned to praying and reading the scriptures, I saw with joy that the Lord had touched him.
I decided to follow up with him more closely, so I asked that he be assigned as my home teaching companion. Each month he and I visited four homes, and each month I prepared four different messages in an effort to strengthen my friend and help him in his return to gospel activity. Eventually he made the decision to repent, to faithfully attend his meetings, and to sincerely partake of the sacrament. The Lord’s sacrifice was having an effect on his life.
Today the family remains active and totally integrated in the ward, and they have been sealed in the Lord’s temple. My companion continues to progress rapidly in the gospel. He married a wonderful young woman in the temple, and they now have two children. They are happy and contribute valuable service to our ward and to the Church.
Six people were converted to the gospel as a result of that experience. A collective miracle! I felt the joy described in the scriptures:
“And how great is his joy in the soul that repenteth!
“Wherefore, you are called to cry repentance unto this people.
“And if it so be that you should labor all your days in crying repentance unto this people, and bring, save it be one soul unto me, how great shall be your joy with him in the kingdom of my Father!
“And now, if your joy will be great with one soul that you have brought unto me into the kingdom of my Father, how great will be your joy if you should bring many souls unto me!” (D&C 18:13–16).

I will always be grateful I had the opportunity of growing up with the welfare plan. My father was a bishop at the time of its beginning. He had a remarkable way of involving his family with him in his Church assignments. At an early, impressionable age I was taught the blessings of Church service.
I will always remember the dignity and patience he exhibited towards those in need. I particularly remember a little old man who had lost his wife and some of the soundness of his mind. My father not only filled the role of his bishop, but also that of his friend. To the family, however, this little old man was considered to be somewhat of a pest. When he would become lonely he would make his way to see my father. It didn’t matter whether it was ten o’clock at night or five-thirty in the morning, Father would always welcome him into our home, give him some nourishment, and then he would drive him back to his place of residence.
I remember at his passing seeing Father reading a letter addressed to “My friend, Bishop Perry,” as a final thank-you for taking an interest in his life when he was an old man. I saw the tears roll down my father’s cheeks as he read the letter. It was then I think I recognized for the first time an understanding of the rewards of gospel service.

Years ago, I worked as a senior managing partner at one of the world’s leading private equity firms when my wife and I were interviewed by a senior member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. He called us to serve as mission leaders for the Church in Africa. We had many things going on in our life at that time. We were involved in some very challenging family dynamics. We were heavily engaged in large humanitarian efforts across the world while also managing a large and rapidly growing global investment business. As we sat there that day with this beloved Apostle and reflected on our personal situation, we both politely said that this was probably not the best time for us to serve a mission.

Without hesitation, this member of the Twelve turned to my wife and said, “Lynette, you are going to make a great missionary and companion to your husband.” He then turned to me and said, “You really don’t get it. The Lord is calling you to save your life. You are either going to live your life by covenant or convenience. There is never a convenient time to serve. This is a matter of faith. You either believe that the Lord will bless your life with the blessings you need, as you do His priorities, or you don’t.”

Those words changed my life. I left my company, went to Africa, and later found all that we had worried about was answered and resolved.

Alison Numkena and Jandi Hernandez want to set the record straight.
The girls, both Laurels in the Pinetop-Lakeside Arizona Stake, speak perfect English (in fact, it’s really the only language they speak). They watch television, go to regular high school, and when they attend stake dances, they don’t ride horseback to get there.
“It’s funny what people think about us sometimes,” says Jandi. “Since we’re Native Americans and we live on the reservation, people sometimes get funny ideas about what we’re like. But I think we’re pretty much like everybody else.”
And just like many young women in the Church, Alison, Jandi, and the rest of the girls on the Fort Apache Reservation look forward to girls’ camp in the summer.
However, for a long time, these girls had to wait two years between camp experiences. The stake hosts girls’ camp every other summer, and in the alternating summers, girls attend camp with their own wards and branches. But with just a small handful of active LDS girls, the reservation branches never had enough people for individual camps. Until this year, that is. By combining the girls from all three branches on the reservation, there was a large enough group for a small camp. So the girls and their leaders made it happen.
At the age of 18, Olivia Nez has been around the longest of any of the girls in the Young Women program on the reservation. She has played a large part in helping to plan this first girls’ camp, working closely with the leaders to make sure that all the girls had the equipment and skills necessary to have a great time. Even though her senior year was chock-full of activities, including being the student body president, Olivia made time to act as the youth camp director.
“Since I just graduated [from high school], this is my first and last camp with our branches,” she says. “The girls in my branch and the other branches face a lot of challenges, and this is a good opportunity to learn more about the gospel and recommit ourselves.”
Jandi and Alison, who are also Laurels, wanted to make a meaningful contribution to camp too. Jandi’s mom, Glenda, is the camp director, so she had plenty of things they could do to help out, including setting up camp and helping organize and execute a fund-raiser. They also put together binders for each girl containing information about each day’s activities, words to campfire songs, and camp certification information. Even with a relatively small group coming to camp, it was a big job.
“We worked right up to the last minute,” says Jandi. “The day camp started, we were still putting some of them together. We finished just in time!”
Many of the most important aspects of camp are the same for the girls on the Fort Apache Reservation as for young women anywhere else. Like any girls’ camp, there is a mixture of learning camping and hiking skills and learning about the gospel. There were afternoon workshops—many taught by the girls themselves—on the common challenges of keeping the Word of Wisdom, chastity, and church activity. Many of the other activities and campfire speakers also focused on these topics.
“Sometimes you get intimidated by an older person telling you what you need to do,” says Jandi. “Learning it from a friend is different; it’s easier to hear.”
There are differences, too, things that make this camp unlike any other. These girls are proud of their Native American heritage and have found ways to incorporate it into their camp experience. Most evenings there is something to eat that is unique to this camp—fry bread and Navajo tacos, for example, or a special cornbread that requires all the girls to help mash several ears of fresh corn and then take turns cooking the pancake-like bread over the fire.
But it’s not just the food that’s unique. One night’s campfire features several of the older leaders telling stories of their younger days on the reservation and of their conversion to the gospel. There is an emphasis on feeling good about being LDS and being a Native American and finding ways to make the two work together.
“Prayer is an important part of our culture, both as members of the Church and as members of the Apache tribe,” says Jandi. “It’s in our blood to pray morning, noon, and night. Heavenly Father and Jesus are important in our culture. Our tribal chairman and our tribal council often ask us to pray. You hear it in the Church and out.”
When camp ends, there are the usual comments about being eager to get home and have a hot shower, eat twig-free food, and sleep with something other than a rock for a pillow. As the girls take down tents and roll up sleeping bags, they talk about what was great about camp (seeing a baby elk from a distance of just a few feet) and what could be improved next time (more blankets for the near-freezing nighttime temperatures). But mostly they talk about how grateful they are that they were able to come to camp at all.
“We’ve gotten closer at this camp than we’ve ever been,” says Taren Webster, a Beehive. “Camp gives us time together away from home. I think that’s really important.”
Next year the girls from the reservation will join the other girls in their stake for camp. And the year after that? This group is still small, but they pulled it off once, so the next time should be a little easier. They’ll build on traditions they started this year, and maybe even come up with a few new ones. Just like this year, they’ll have a great time getting to know each other, becoming better campers, and learning about the gospel.
And that makes them pretty much like young women everywhere.
Are you heading off to girls’ camp soon? If so, you probably already know what to bring, and the activities are probably planned. Here are a few last-minute tips from the girls in Fort Apache for making a good camp great:
Be ready to share your talents, your ideas, and your testimony. Most camp activities require lots of group participation. Remember you’re among friends, so don’t be shy.
Maintain a cheerful attitude. Some parts of camp probably won’t be as much fun as others (being on dish-washing duty, for example), but putting a smile on your face and being a good sport make the time go quickly.
Look for opportunities to be kind. Does your tent mate need help with a certification skill? Is there a first-year camper who is homesick and could use a shoulder to cry on? Find people who need help and help them.
Remember what you’ve learned. At camp you often draw closer to the Lord, as well as to the other members of your Young Women group. Instead of letting those good feelings fade, build on them throughout the year.

Almost a decade ago, I read a letter from a returned missionary who described this process in his life. He had written to thank those who direct missionary work “for daring to send me where the Lord required rather than where I had deemed appropriate.” He had come, he said, “from a background of proud, competitive intellectualism.” Before his mission he was a student at a prestigious university in the eastern United States. Quote:
“I guess out of a sense of obligation and inertia, I filled out my [missionary] papers and sent them in, extremely careful to mark the column indicating greatest desire to serve abroad and in a foreign language. I was careful to make it apparent that I was an accomplished student of Russian and fully capable of spending two years among the Russian people. Confident that no committee could resist such qualifications, I rested confident that I would enjoy a wonderfully mind-expanding cultural adventure.”
He was shocked to receive a call to serve in a mission in the United States. He didn’t know anything about the state where he would serve, except that it was in his own country speaking English rather than abroad speaking the language he had learned, and, as he said, “The people I would work with would likely be academic incompetents.” He continued, “I almost refused to accept the call, feeling that I would be more fulfilled by enlisting in the Peace Corps or something else.”
Fortunately, this proud young man found the courage and faith to accept the call and to follow the direction and counsel of his fine mission president. Then the miracle of spiritual growth began. He described it thus:
“As I began to serve among the uneducated people of [this state], I struggled mightily for several months, but gradually the sweet workings of the Spirit began to tear down the walls of pride and disbelief that had wrapped themselves so tightly around my soul. The miracle of a conversion to Christ began. The sense of the reality of God and the eternal brotherhood of all men came more and more powerfully to my troubled mind.”
It was not easy, he admitted, but with the influence of his great mission president and with his growing love for the people he served, it was possible, and it occurred.
“My desire to love and serve these people who in the ultimate scale were at least my peers, almost definitely my superiors, waxed stronger and stronger. I learned humility for the first time in my life; I learned what it means to make our valuations of others [without relying on the] irrelevant details of life. I began to feel swelling within my heart a love of the spirits that came here to earth with me” (letter to General Authorities, Feb. 1994).

Laysa belongs to a group of astronomy lovers in Brazil. One day a group member shared a link to an opportunity to analyze telescope images to look for asteroids for NASA. Laysa signed up.

“They send images from the Pan-STARRS telescope at the University of Hawaii,” she explains. “I used the astrometric software to analyze these images, and I was looking for some point movement with the characteristics of an asteroid.”

After scouring images and sending reports for analysis, one day she got a confirmation. She had found an asteroid. For now, it’s called LPS0003. But eventually she’ll have a chance to choose a permanent name for it.

David O. McKay loved to play baseball. Once, when he was at bat, the umpire called, “Strike two.” The pitcher thought that it was strike three and became angry, threatening to crack the bat over David’s head. Calmly David replied, “The umpire called only two strikes. Go back to the pitcher’s mound and try to get me out. You have one more chance.” On the next pitch, David got a two-base hit and then scored the winning run! Everyone cheered for him. They were glad that he had stood up to the bully when he knew that he was in the right.

One of the most difficult times in my life was during my sophomore year in high school. My brother Sid was the greatest big brother. We were really close even though he was seven years older. I basically lived to be with my dad and older brother, and Sid served the big-brother role perfectly. I was just a tagalong, and he didn’t mind at all.
Sid had quit high school so he could work to help put food on our table and help Mom and Dad with the bills. To show you what kind of brother Sid was, he would work these long days on his construction job, then come home and work out with me. He would be wearing his big heavy boots from his job and still run patterns while I played quarterback and threw the ball to him. Here was my brother playing receiver for me after a long day at work when he probably would have rather gone in and relaxed. But that’s the kind of brother Sid was.
One weekend in November during my sophomore year, my family went to a small family reunion in Washington. Sid and I stayed behind to work around the farm. We spent the whole weekend together and had a really good time.
When my family returned, Sid left to take a friend to Sun Valley (Idaho). On his way back from dropping his friend off, he had a head-on collision and was killed. I’ll always remember sleeping on the floor of our trailer home when a knock came at the door at two in the morning and the most terrible feeling coming over me. An off-duty policeman had come to tell us Sid had been killed in an accident.
That was the hardest thing to have to go through. And it was tougher for my parents because they had already had their two-year-old daughter die because of a bronchial problem, and a baby boy die of crib death before I was even born.
And although there is pain for the loss of a loved one, I understood. I understood the plan of salvation and the eternal perspective. When I lost Sid, I asked why it had to happen. I also asked Heavenly Father, Why me? How could things get any harder in my life? Sid had always told me I would make it in the National Football League, and his death made me more determined to do that.
Within two years, I had grown to six-foot-three which made me attractive as a football player. I had always hoped to be a quarterback and was named the starter as a sophomore. This caused a lot of resentment among the juniors and seniors, and I ended up playing on a team with a bunch of guys who hated me. It made it very hard to succeed. I knew if I was going to play college football, I had to get out of that town.
After my junior year, I moved to St. Anthony (Idaho) to live with my sister and attend high school there. I knew I would be living in a Mormon community, where a lot of the kids at school were Mormon. I thought all my problems were finally behind me. It didn’t work out that way. Again I was the new kid on the block. I immediately tried out for the football team and was named the starting quarterback. That was great for me, but I beat out the guy who had started at that position the year before.
Nobody seemed happy about the new competition, and hardly anybody was friendly to me during the football season. When I finally broke into their circle and made friends, the season was over.
Since St. Anthony is close to Rexburg, home of Ricks College, I decided I would try to walk on Ricks’s football team. The coaches there wouldn’t give me a scholarship, so I practiced with them for a couple of weeks hoping to prove myself. When they still wouldn’t give me a scholarship, I had to quit. I just didn’t have enough money to pay tuition.
I now had a decision to make. Some guys I knew from St. Anthony told me about a good-paying job up in the woods cutting trees. Instead, I told them I was going to stay in Rexburg and get a job there so I could lift weights every night at the college. I told them I was going to play football the next year. They just laughed and thought I was crazy. After making the decision to stay, I never regretted not going with my friends.
During that year, I worked at a job throwing 50- and 100-pound grain sacks for nine hours a day. My pay was $3.60 an hour. After I got off work, I’d go down to the weight room and lift weights until ten at night. Everybody kept telling me I was crazy, and even my family questioned what I was doing. My family still supported me, but I think I was the only person in the world who thought I could make it—well, besides my girlfriend, Roxi, whom I later married.
That next year I earned a scholarship and played for Ricks. By this time I weighed 230 pounds and had switched from quarterback to defensive lineman. After Ricks, I had coaches from Ohio State, Alabama, Georgia Tech, Arizona, Kansas, Texas, Texas Tech, and BYU recruiting me. I chose BYU, and I’m glad I did.
After my senior season with the Cougars, I knew I was going to be drafted by an NFL team, and it turned out to be the Cincinnati Bengals. By the end of my second season I was starting in the Super Bowl. In my third year with the Bengals, I led the team in sacks. Everything seemed great. But for some reason, at the beginning of my fourth year, I was sitting on the bench.
It seemed the coaches wanted bigger guys playing the defensive line positions, leaving me to stand on the sidelines. I knew I wasn’t in Cincinnati’s long-range plans, and sure enough I was cut toward the end of fall camp. The 1991 season was about ready to begin and I was out of football. All the other NFL teams had their rosters finalized, so I had to wait and hope a team would pick me up.
This was another terrible period in my life. I knew I was still good enough to play, yet I wasn’t being given the chance. A few weeks into the season the Seattle Seahawks seemed interested in signing me to a contract. Instead, they took another guy, which was one of the hardest blows of my career.
I came back to my home in Utah not knowing what to do or what was going to happen. I wasn’t giving up, but I was really down. To take my mind off my situation, I went to play golf by myself. It was fall, in the middle of the week, and nobody was there playing. I was out on the back nine all by myself crying and thinking about what I was going to do. I stopped my cart and had a word of prayer.
When I finished, I went from tears and this distraught feeling to the most wonderful, calm feeling that told me everything was going to be okay. That Sunday, I got a phone call from the Washington Redskins. They told me they had some injured players and needed a replacement.
It was amazing. One day I was crying, and the next thing I knew I was playing for one of the best organizations in the NFL. I left behind the Cincinnati Bengals, who finished 3–13 in 1991, and went to the Redskins, who went on to win the Super Bowl. I finished my first Redskin season with 12 tackles, three quarterback hurries, and one and a half quarterback sacks. Plus I earned a Super Bowl ring. Things couldn’t have turned out better.
I’ve learned much in my life through all these experiences. The greatest lesson is that in order to know happiness, you have to know sorrow and pain. That’s why Nephi’s testimony means a lot to me. If you always put God first, work hard, and hold up your end, you’ll be led through those difficult times.
It’s sure worked for me.