Gospel Story Finder

One day around Christmas, I was with my dad at the store. My favorite singer’s new album had just come out, and I begged him to buy it for me. Dad explained that he and Mom had already bought presents and didn’t have a lot of extra money to spend. Still, I was upset I couldn’t get the album.
When we reached the check-out line, I noticed a mother in front of us trying to buy some sparkly shoes for her little girl. She didn’t have enough money to pay for them, and she left looking very sad as her daughter began to cry.
When it was our turn to check out, I was surprised when Dad picked up the sparkly shoes and bought them. He ran to the parking lot to give them to the mother. Through her tears, she thanked him and said the shoes would be her daughter’s only Christmas present that year. She had prayed she might find a way to buy them.
The album suddenly didn’t seem so important to me. I was glad my dad followed the Spirit and helped someone else, even though it was a sacrifice. That day, I learned that giving is better than receiving.
Makenna L., Utah, USA

The youth of the Huntsville Utah Stake couldn’t all go to the Nauvoo temple for last year’s dedication, so they decided to bring the temple to them. As part of their youth conference on temple work and worthiness, the youth and their leaders built a replica of the Nauvoo Illinois Temple. It was about one-fifth the size of the original Nauvoo temple, and the youth worked on it in rotations, between workshops, speakers, and activities. The youth and their leaders also completed more than 1,000 ordinances for the dead in the Ogden Utah Temple.

They learned how to saw wood and staple fabric, but more importantly they learned how they could lay strong foundations for their testimonies of the temple and their worthiness to go there.

My Story
Finally, how do we “keep singing” when we can’t see the Conductor or feel His presence? Bear with me as I tell you a difficult personal story.

In 2009, after a spiritually powerful performance tour with the choir, I suffered a massive crisis of faith, triggered by something I read that raised questions I couldn’t answer. What I read isn’t important; I’ll just say, it was convincing enough to destroy some weak links in what I thought was a secure testimony. I have since called this the problem of plastic parts. You know how things you buy are only as strong as the plastic parts the manufacturers put in intentionally so your item breaks right after the warranty expires? That’s a topic for another day, but it sums up the problem with my faith: it was built with too many plastic parts, meaning, even in my 40s, without realizing it, key parts of my testimony were still based on opinions of men, including my own youthful attempts to reconcile my understanding of science and the gospel. When those plastic parts failed, the whole machine fell apart. I went into a deep spiritual funk that lasted three years. I was seldom happy, my family suffered; I doubted the reality of my soul, even the existence of God.

At this moment of spiritual crisis, I realized, I had felt the Spirit and knew I had, including many times on the choir tour that year. I also recalled times in my younger life when I had unmistakably seen God’s hand, answering prayers and honoring priesthood blessings in miraculous ways that couldn’t be explained away no matter how hard my tortured mind tried.

Even in my pain, I remembered that God knew me personally, exactly as Brother Michael Lewis taught us so beautifully last week. I knew He knew my name. Through an experience too sacred to share here, I knew He even knew my phone number. Even if I couldn’t “feel so now,” I had heard and sung the song of redeeming love, and it was not imaginary.

I realized then that to be truly intellectually honest, I couldn’t dismiss my own storehouse of spiritual memories, even though I couldn’t yet answer a few hard questions. That thought—those memories—made me push the pause button and say, “Wait. Let’s give this a fair trial.”

And so I began to rewrite my song—starting with “I Am a Child of God”—which at that moment was all I felt I knew for certain. I began to build a new foundation for my faith, this time without the plastic parts.

I still believe in miracles, but not in every second-hand miracle story I’m told. I’m rebuilding my faith on the smaller but more solid blocks of daily, authentic, personal experiences with God that nobody can take away from me. Claims of “indisputable evidence” against the Church or its leaders have also lost their power to faze me. I’m imperfect, so what if my leaders are too? I’ve met many of them, including President Russell M. Nelson. They are good people, serving the Lord the best they know how, just as I am. Their mistakes, real or imagined, have nothing to do with my personal quest to learn the Lord’s song and sing my part.

I can’t be certain, but I think that it was in the summer of 1948 when I had my first BYU experience. I would have been seven years old. We were driving back to St. George in a 1941 Plymouth from one of our rare trips to Salt Lake City. As we came down old highway 91, I saw high on the side of one of the hills a huge block Y—white and bold and beautiful.

I don’t know how to explain that moment, but it was a true epiphany for a seven-year-old, if a seven-year-old can have an epiphany. If I had already seen that Y on the drive up or at any other time, I couldn’t remember it. That day I probably was seeing it for the first time. I believe I was receiving a revelation from God. I somehow knew that bold letter meant something special—­something special to me—and that it would one day play a significant role in my life. When I asked my mother what it meant, she said it was the emblem of a university. I thought about that for a moment, still watching that letter on the side of the hill, and then said quietly to her, “Well, it must be the greatest university in the world.”

My chance to actually get on campus came in June 1952, four years after that first sighting. That summer I accompanied my parents to one of the early leadership weeks—a precursor to what is now the immensely popular BYU Education Week held on campus.

The back windows of our home overlook a small flower garden and the woods which border Little Cottonwood Creek. The north side of the garden is the gable end of another part of the house. Except for a large window in the middle, this wall is thickly covered with English ivy.

Every year this ivy has been the nesting place for house finches. They are small birds dressed as drably as sparrows except in the springtime, when the male puts on a bright red cap and neckerchief as his costume for the serenading that he will do during the nesting season. The male house finch is one of the best soloists in the bird world. The nests in the vines are safe from the foxes and raccoons and cats that are about at night.

One day there was a great commotion in the ivy. Desperate cries of distress brought eight or 10 finches from the surrounding woods to join in this cry of alarm. I soon saw the source of the commotion. A snake slid partway down out of the ivy and hung in front of the window just long enough for me to jerk it out of the ivy and slam it against the ground. The middle part of the snake’s body had two bulges—clear evidence convicting the snake of having taken two fledglings from the nest.

Not in the 50 years that we have lived in our home had we seen anything like that before. It was a once-in-a-lifetime experience—or so we thought.

A few days later there was another commotion, this time in the vines covering our dog run—we heard the same cries of panic and saw the same gathering of the neighborhood finches. Now we knew what the predator was. A grandson climbed onto the run and pulled out another snake that was still holding on tightly to the mother bird it had caught on the nest and killed.

I said to myself, “What is going on? Is Eden being invaded again?”

We do not destroy the snakes every time we see them, for they help to control insects and rodents. But we had learned a lesson this time.

For years I had thought the vines were perfectly safe for the birds, but the lesson was much too obvious—too clearly obvious. I reflected upon Adam and Eve and the serpent in the Garden of Eden as recorded in the book of Genesis.

Now if this story of birds and serpents is an unpleasant way to begin a sermon and makes us uncomfortable, it was meant to do just that. I have read the plainspoken words of the prophets. Some of their teachings are not always comfortable to read. But while this example is unpleasant to talk about, I hope that the principle will be more plainly understood.

The day after I learned that Brent had been killed, one of my former bishops gave me a blessing that changed my perspective. In his blessing, he said that my purpose as a wife, mother, and daughter of God had not changed. Then he promised that Brent’s purpose as my husband and our children’s father had not changed either.
After the blessing, I remember chanting in my mind: “My purpose has not changed. My purpose has not changed.”
The next morning, as I repeated those words to myself, a phrase came into my mind: “Only the details have changed.” And as I tried to accept the fact that the details of my life had changed from what I thought they would be, another impression came: “God is in the details.”
The Lord was giving me line-upon-line revelation. When He does this, it’s not because He is keeping secrets from us. It’s because He is going at our pace.
In the months after Brent died, I was anxious about what would come next. But I knew that I could take one step forward at a time and that I could trust that the Lord would give me one line of revelation at a time. It might not be the line I thought He was going to give me, so I had to keep making a conscious choice to trust Him with the details of my life.

In that old home, we knew that our father loved our mother. That was another of the great lessons of my boyhood. I have no recollection of ever hearing him speak unkindly to her or of her. He encouraged her in her individual Church activities and in neighborhood and civic responsibilities. She had much of native talent, and he encouraged her to use it. Her comfort was his constant concern. We looked upon them as equals, companions who worked together and loved and appreciated one another as they loved us.

She likewise encouraged him, did everything in the world to make him happy. At the age of fifty, she developed cancer. He was solicitous of her every need. I recall our family prayers, with his tearful pleadings and our tearful pleadings.

Of course there was no medical insurance then. He would have spent every dollar he owned to help her. He did, in fact, spend very much. He took her to Los Angeles in search of better medical care. But it was to no avail.

That was sixty-two years ago, but I remember with clarity my brokenhearted father as he stepped off the train and greeted his grief-stricken children. We walked solemnly down the station platform to the baggage car, where the casket was unloaded and taken by the mortician. We came to know even more about the tenderness of our father’s heart. This has had an effect on me all of my life.

I also came to know something of death—the absolute devastation of children losing their mother—but also of peace without pain and the certainty that death cannot be the end of the soul.

Shortly after the death of Sister LeGrand Richards, I was assigned to be Elder Richards’ junior companion to assist him in creating the Atlanta Georgia Stake. As we were flying toward his beloved Southern States Mission, he said to me, “Brother Ballard, I am not afraid to die; the only thing I worry about is, will I be able to find Mommy over there.”
I was impressed to say to Elder Richards that in his case that could be a real problem. Immediately, I had his full attention. He looked me directly in the eye and said, “What do you mean by that?”
With my emotions near the surface, I answered this great missionary, “Elder Richards, when you die, so many people there will be anxious to greet you because you introduced the gospel to them that you might have difficulty finding Mommy in the crowd.” His response was, “Oh, you don’t mean that.”
We all might ask ourselves the question, Who will be there to greet us?
Oh, that I could have the power to touch your hearts that you would have the faith to take the simple steps that will bring the light of the gospel to many more of our Father’s children. The more I am involved in this work, the more I realize that Satan would have you and me believe that we cannot succeed in sharing the gospel. He lies to us. In fact, he is the father of all lies. Do not listen to him. Listen to the prompting of the Holy Ghost, and then act in faith in sharing the gospel.
I testify to you, my brothers and sisters, that I know the Lord lives. I know that when we are willing to seek his help and guidance, when we trust in him completely, he will bless us to understand what to do and how to proceed in the wonderful work of sharing this glorious message with others.
We do appreciate all you have done in the past. The leaders of the Church have great faith that, united together, the members and the missionaries of this Church can do much more in the future to build the kingdom of God.
May the Lord bless us all with increased faith to move his work forward, I humbly pray in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Last summer my family and I visited Helen, Georgia. We were having a wonderful time sightseeing, tubing down the river, and shopping. In my favorite shop, my sister and I tried on rings and admired all the pretty jewelry.
Late in the afternoon, a storm started gathering and we decided to head on home. About ten miles outside of Helen, I looked down at my hand and realized that I was still wearing a ring from my favorite shop. I was shocked, and my heart started to beat really fast. I hadn’t meant to take the ring! To make matters worse, we were right in the middle of a very bad storm. “Mom,” I yelled from the back of the van, “we need to go back.”
“What?” my mom asked.
“I accidentally stole a ring, and I need to return it or go back and pay for it.”
Mom didn’t know what to do because she didn’t want to drive all the way back in the storm. She asked if I could remember which shop the ring had come from. I told her, and she was very relieved. When we had been in that shop, she had picked up one of their business cards. She told me it had the shop’s address on it and that I could mail the money with a note to the owners when we got home.
Once home, I immediately got out my stationery and wrote a letter of apology, put the money for the ring into the envelope, and mailed it the next day. I felt much better inside. A few days later, I got a letter from the shop owners saying how glad they were that I had been honest. I was glad too!

“Along in the early fall, we used to find wild fruit such as choke cherries, service berries and little red berries called buffalo or squaw berries, all of which we enjoyed very much. One day I decided to have a reception that evening. So after we camped I asked some of the girls and boys to come and spend the evening at our camp fire after their chores were done. Verbal invitations and short notice never gave offense then. All were delighted to come, no regrets.
“In the meantime, I had asked mother to let me make some buffalo berry pies. Of course, she did. Pies were a great luxury and seldom seen on the plains. I wanted to surprise my guests with the sumptuousness of my refreshments. And I did. Well, I had hardly gotten the ox yokes and some other things artistically arranged before my company arrived, not so fashionably late as now. After we had chatted a while and sung some songs, I excused myself to go into the pantry (a box under the wagon) and brought out my pies. In passing the pie, I rather apologetically remarked that they might not be quite sweet enough. One gallant young man spoke up very quickly, saying, ‘Oh anything would be sweet made by those hands.’ And I believed him.
“After serving the company, I joined them with my piece of pie. Well, the first mouthful, oh my, it set my teeth on edge, and tasted as if it had been sweetened with citric acid! That ended my pie making on the plains. I often wondered how they could have eaten it, but etiquette demanded it. I don’t think there was enough sugar in the camp to have sweetened that pie.”

In October 1984, I was working as a quality control supervisor for a paper mill in Orani, Bataan, Philippines. Like most paper mills, ours recycled waste paper. One day, the book Meet the Mormons was included in a load of magazines. I got curious, took it into my office, and started reading it. I learned about Joseph Smith and his vision, and I readily accepted that God would reveal himself to a boy. I did not understand the section on the priesthood hierarchy, but I liked the Relief Society section. I read the book several times.
For many months, I had been trying to find more meaning in life. I had always been an active Catholic, and had even attended several meetings to become a Franciscan nun. Still, I felt like a piece of wood drifting in the ocean.
Two weeks later, I was inspecting the raw material in one of the delivery trucks when I noticed a blue book. It was the Book of Mormon! I asked the driver if I could have it. I took it back to my office and started reading. Inside the front cover were the steps of prayer. “Maybe I should try praying this way,” I told myself. It also listed the pages that told of Christ’s visit to America. I eagerly turned to those pages. Here were the Beatitudes and other teachings Jesus gave to the Jews! Were these chapters not copied from the New Testament? Then I realized that he was the very same Christ. Surely he would give the same teachings. I wondered if Christ might have come to the Philippines, too. I turned to 1 Nephi. Who were Lehi, Nephi, and Laman? They were such strange names. I treasured both books.
Then, in late November, a friend introduced me to Karen Gerdes, a Latter-day Saint from the United States who was serving as a Peace Corps volunteer in the Philippines. Karen was working in the area of Pantalan Luma, which had been hit by a tidal wave.
There was something about Karen that I had not seen in others. It wasn’t just that her eyes were blue. Her smile and her whole countenance were different. I could feel her sincerity. Happiness and love radiated from her.
I wondered why she would leave the comfort of her home, live in a poverty-stricken area in hot, humid weather, and eat foreign food—all without a salary. Why would she care? Were all Mormons like her?
A few months after I met Karen, I told her, “I am ashamed, because I should be helping my people.” I asked if there was anything I could do to help with her projects. That started our friendship. I would ask her questions about religion. I knew she understood me, because she had also been a Catholic. She did not try to convince me, but she answered my questions and gave me Church pamphlets.
Then in March 1985, Karen invited me to a fireside. At the fireside, I noticed a poster about baptism for the dead. That was new to me. I memorized the scripture reference. The sister missionaries showed a filmstrip called Run and Not Be Weary. I accepted the Word of Wisdom right there. Then they showed The Windows of Heaven. I had never known that a tithe meant ten percent. I resolved to start giving ten percent and to not cheat God.
I found myself explaining to the members how I viewed tithing: “It is like when you go fishing. You use bait—tithing—and then you catch a fish—a blessing.” Then I used another comparison: “When you remove the sweet potato tops, they produce more tops and sweet potatoes, too.”
But I did not like being called an “investigator,” and I didn’t like to be pushed. When members asked if I would like the missionaries to teach me at home, I said no. But I invited the sister missionaries for dinner the following Saturday. They came and showed slides of a refugee camp where they worked, but nothing about religion was discussed. Before they left, they gave me several pamphlets, which I promised to read.
The next week, I went to visit my mother in Manila. I asked her where I could find a priest to answer my questions. She suggested that I go to a Bible class my brother and sister were attending. I did as she said, praying in my heart that I would be able to ask my question. To my surprise, the priest began to explain the importance of baptism. I wasted no time, but raised my hand and asked, “Was there baptism for the dead before, as stated in 1 Corinthians 15:29 [1 Cor. 15:29]?” He read the verse aloud, then looked at his watch and dismissed the class. He said, “I will talk to you in my office.” He got his Greek translation of the Bible and other books, then started explaining the Resurrection. I said, “That is not the issue; I believe in the Resurrection.” After more than two hours of discussion, I was still not satisfied. He lent me two books to read.
The next day I asked the same question of an older priest. He told me that baptism for the dead was no longer necessary.
On April 1, the paper mill was temporarily shut down. I was reading a pamphlet called The Plan of Salvation when I began to feel a certainty that what I was reading was true. The Holy Ghost was bearing witness, making everything clear to me. I knew that Joseph Smith was a prophet, that the Church was true. I was crying. I had found something so precious. I wanted to tell my co-workers, but they would not understand. I went home early and found Karen at my home. “I know that the plan of salvation is true,” I told her, “and I want to be baptized.” She arranged for the missionaries to teach me.
The following day, I had my first discussion with Elder Johnson and Elder Barangan. I had such a strong desire to be baptized that I went to their home very early the next morning. When I told them of my desire, Elder Johnson told me that to be baptized I must obey the Word of Wisdom and attend church. I said, “I started obeying the Word of Wisdom when I saw the filmstrip, and I have attended the church several times.” They taught me three more discussions. Then on Easter Sunday, 7 April 1985, I was baptized. I felt that this was the very moment I had waited for since I was born.
That day was also Fast Sunday. I fasted, shared my testimony in sacrament meeting, and paid my tithing for the first time. After sharing my testimony, I had an even stronger conviction that I had made the right decision. I felt complete—no longer drifting, but with sure direction. I know that the Spirit bore witness to me.
Since my baptism, I have served a mission and have been an ordinance worker in the Manila Philippines Temple.
I feel so blessed to have the gospel in my life. I know that the Book of Mormon I rescued from the trash is the book that rescued me.

Every four years my stake has a trek. We dress up in pioneer clothing and are only allowed to bring certain items with us. The whole experience is fun. When we did it this last July, the weather was great. Once we hiked to the valley, we had pioneer games and a hoedown with pioneer music and modern music. There was also a testimony meeting. People felt the Spirit, and their testimonies were strengthened. Bonds were forged with new people, and new friends were made. I’m glad we could celebrate Pioneer Day through trek.
Emily H., Washington

This point struck me several years ago when I realized that my wife and I have done several things we never intended to do! These things were never part of our plans—short or long term. For example, we never planned to settle in Houston, Texas. I never intended to be a financial consultant or to start a business. We did not set out to have nine children. We never envisioned serving seven years in Brazil—as mission president and then in the Area Presidency. As a matter of fact, it was a surprise to be called as a stake president, then a mission president, an Area Seventy, and especially a General Authority.

On the other hand, we had firm plans that I would do the joint JD/MBA program after graduation from college. I had been accepted to Harvard Business School to start that four-year program. The new J. Reuben Clark Law School at BYU was not even on the radar screen. But in the end I attended and graduated from BYU Law School! I have never done the JD/MBA program.

Once I was in the financial consulting business, I found it so flexible that my plan was to never retire but just slow down to an acceptable level. As it turned out, I retired at age fifty-nine. In that business I learned about the tax advantages of a mortgage. As a result, we decided never to pay off our house. But a few years ago, with the counsel of prophets reminding us, we asked the Lord for guidance, and He directed us to pay off the mortgage. We did it as quickly as possible.

So how did all of this happen?

Decision Points

Each time my wife and I came to a decision point, we would think it through, counsel together, and make a decision. Then we would pray to seek the Lord’s confirmation. We always followed the promptings of the Spirit. If the Lord was silent, we would do what seemed best to us in light of what we already knew.

On a daily basis we asked in our prayers for the Lord to guide and direct us. We emphasized, as did Jesus, not our will but Thine be done (see Luke 22:42). Sometimes direction would come when we didn’t even realize we were at a decision point—such as when we paid off our home mortgage.

Our experiences have taught us over and over again that God knows best. For example, we succeeded in paying off that mortgage in 1998. It was on January 21, 1999, that President James E. Faust telephoned us in Houston with the call to be a mission president in Brazil. Because our home was debt free, we had the option to keep it while we served. We much prefer to do things the Lord’s way.

There have been times when I found myself acting more like a judge than a teacher. When I was a young father, I volunteered as a coach for my children’s soccer teams. I remember one game in particular—I was shouting from the sidelines, pointing out mistakes, and expressing frustration when players were out of position or lost the ball.

At the time, I did not understand that a more effective way to motivate and inspire is to recognize what people are doing right, not just what they are doing wrong. As I began to change my approach, I noticed something important: the players responded differently. They trusted me more. The attitude and atmosphere changed. I moved from being a judge and a critic to being a supporter and a teacher.

Cammon Randle got his first video camera when he was only eight years old. Now that he’s at BYU, he’s doing what he has always wanted to do—tell stories.

“I’ve always been interested in movies and how you can tell a story by showing it,” he says.

So how did this enterprising student go from an eight-year-old with a camera to a film student with his own production company? Well, first he tried.

Starting with small Claymation projects when he was nine, Cammon kept filming and editing through high school. He eventually decided to go to BYU and major in media arts. He has worked on films like The Best Two Years, a film about missionaries in Holland, and on some commercials and TV shows. Recently, he worked on The Work and the Glory, a film based on Church history, with Chantelle and Jimmy.

He says the secret to getting where you want to go is hard work. “People can see when you’re working hard and you’re doing your best, and they like that.”

In going into his line of work, Cammon realized he would face some challenges. Not the least of these is that the movie industry can be morally challenging. He says to stay spiritually strong in any working environment, you have to do a few key things: First, he says, “Know you are a son or daughter of God.”

Second, Cammon knows that, no matter what career you go into, you will likely face some faith-challenging situations. “Be prepared for it,” he says. “You have to decide beforehand what you’re going to do and stick it out. You just have to follow the Spirit, as always.”

I testify that one right decision can bring about a multitude of blessings. That has been my experience. Up until I was 18, good choices were hit and miss, mostly miss. At 20, while many small decisions led up to it, against all odds, I decided to serve a mission. That was the turning point for me. In His tender mercies, the Lord plucked me out of darkness and sent me on a mission to Korea. I left an entire family who was less than less active. You heard the story of my mother's return. The same happened to my entire family. They all came back to Church and entered the temple, partly because of my decision to serve a mission. Only the Lord could do that. I am eternally grateful. Now, I'm trying to keep my commitment to be and do whatever the Lord commands.

Later, while trying to get a transport to the chapel, I used the full name of the Church to direct the driver to where we were going. I was careful not to omit “Jesus Christ.”
I was surprised when the driver told us he didn’t know the place. When my companion asked the man if he had heard of the LDS Church, he said, “Yes.”
Because we had been saying “Mormons” and “LDS” all along, people did not recognize the full name of the Church. I resolved to pray that we members of the Church would realize our mistake. While thinking about this, I remembered the prophet. I understood that only the prophet can speak for the Lord to the whole world, so if a change was going to happen, it would need to come from him.
But I thought to myself, “How is this even possible? Even the Church’s website is abbreviated ‘LDS.org.’ How will that be changed?”
In our prayers, we earnestly pleaded with Heavenly Father to inspire His servant, the prophet, to guide us in this important matter. I had faith that God truly does reveal His will to His prophet.
I was scheduled to be released from the Nigeria Benin City Mission in September 2018. But my release date was changed to October—the same October that President Russell M. Nelson gave an important message to the worldwide Church:
“For much of the world, the Lord’s Church is presently disguised as the ‘Mormon Church.’ But we as members of the Lord’s Church know who stands at its head: Jesus Christ Himself. …
“… The rest of the world may or may not follow our lead in calling us by the correct name. But it is disingenuous for us to be frustrated if most of the world calls the Church and its members by the wrong names if we do the same.”1
You can’t imagine how surprised and happy I was! President Nelson’s message was so clear, and I felt that our prayers had been answered. I was grateful beyond words.
This experience added to my testimony that prayers are answered and that Heavenly Father does inspire His prophets. That this is the Lord’s Church, and that He knows what to do in His Church. Even the Church’s website, which I thought wasn’t possible to change, was updated to ChurchofJesusChrist.org.
I know that President Nelson is called of God. I also know that the Prophet Joseph Smith did not name the Church that was restored through him. Neither did Mormon. It was the Savior Himself who said, “For thus shall my church be called in the last days, even The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints” (Doctrine and Covenants 115:4).

When I was in my final year of elementary school, all of the students went camping in Negros Occidental, Philippines, before our graduation. We pitched our tents at the campsite and had a good time exploring among the guava and mango trees. When night came, my parents came to check on me. They told me to be very careful, and then they left.
One of my classmates invited my friends and me to take a ride with him and his older cousin. His cousin drove us around, and we had fun until—to my surprise—my classmates brought out beer and cigarettes. We parked the car near the campsite, and they began to drink the beers and smoke in the car. They invited me to join them, but I refused.
I said I wouldn’t join in because smoking would shorten my lifespan. I also said that it is against my beliefs, because I have been taught the Word of Wisdom. I told them that the Word of Wisdom is a law that teaches that we should keep our bodies clean, because they are temples of God. I told them we must avoid smoking; drinking alcohol, tea, and coffee; and taking drugs. My best friend and I left the group and slept in our tent.
When I went home, I was happy to tell my dad that I had not joined my classmates but instead had taught them about the Word of Wisdom. I was happy the Holy Ghost was there to guide me and give me the courage to speak to my friends.
From this experience I learned that our obedience will be tested when we are on our own, without parents or others to support us. I feel grateful for the Word of Wisdom and am committed to obey it. When I am old enough, I will go on a mission and teach many people the importance of the Word of Wisdom.

One of the darkest chapters in the history of our people occurred in 1838 when they were being driven from Missouri. The incident to which I refer is known as the Haun’s Mill Massacre. In that tragic happening Amanda Smith lost her husband and her son Sardius. Her younger boy Alma was savagely wounded. In the darkness she carried him from the mill to a shelter in the brush. His hip joint had been shot away. Through the night she cried out in prayer, “Oh my Heavenly Father … what shall I do? Thou seest my poor wounded boy and knowest my inexperience. Oh Heavenly Father direct me what to do!” She later wrote in her journal concerning what happened: “I was directed as by a voice speaking to me.

“The ashes of our fire [were] still smouldering. We had been burning the bark of the shag-bark hickory. I was directed to take those ashes and make a lye and put a cloth saturated with it right into the wound. It hurt, but little Alma was too near dead to heed it much. Again and again I saturated the cloth and put it into the hole from which the hip-joint had been ploughed. …

“Having done as directed I again prayed to the Lord and was again instructed as distinctly as though a physician had been standing by speaking to me.

“Near by was a slippery-elm tree. From this I was told to make a slippery-elm poultice and fill the wound with it.” (In Edward W. Tullidge, The Women of Mormondom, New York, 1877; reprint, Salt Lake City, 1957, 1965, p. 124.)

She was able to get the injured boy to a house. With a mother’s love and a mother’s faith, she said to him, “The Lord can make something there in the place of your hip.” She had him lie on his face, and there he remained while a miracle occurred. Of that miracle she wrote, “So Alma laid on his face for five weeks, until he was entirely recovered—a flexible gristle having grown in place of the missing joint and socket, which remains to this day a marvel to physicians.

“On the day that he walked again I was out of the house fetching a bucket of water, when I heard screams from the children. Running back, in affright, I entered, and there was Alma on the floor, dancing around, and the children screaming in astonishment and joy.

“It is now nearly forty years ago,” she concluded, “but Alma has never been the least crippled during his life, and he has traveled quite a long period of the time as a missionary of the gospel and a living miracle of the power of God.” (Ibid., p. 128.)

“It was in the fall of the year 1857, as I remember, and a small group of Mormon pioneers were late starting across the plains. They got caught in an early snowstorm, and it slowed their travel. Many of them had become ill with colds, fevers, and pneumonia. They traveled as fast as they could, but because of the cold and sickness, they were just plain worn-out from pulling handcarts and carrying the smaller children.
“One day they came to a river that they had to cross. Everyone was so tired that the river seemed an impossible challenge. It seemed too wide, too deep, and too cold to the exhausted pioneers. One weary lady stood on the bank of the river, holding her baby as the tears silently streamed down her face. She didn’t have the strength to face one more trial that day. For a minute it looked like the journey might end right there for the small band of weary pioneers.
“Then, without saying a word, a young man waded into the cold river and made his way to the other side to see how deep it was. The icy water came up to his waist. He was certain that the handcarts were too small and too heavily loaded to carry children and those who were sick across safely. He knew what needed to be done, and he didn’t have to be asked. He knelt down with the rest of the pioneers and led a prayer, asking for strength to get everyone across safely. He was seventeen years old, and he was tall and strong, but he knew that he would need the help of the Lord to deal with the numbing cold of the river.
“The boy jumped up from the prayer and carried his sick mother across first, then his younger sister, and finally his three-year-old brother. When they were safe, he started carrying other children across. Another boy, a little younger but just as strong and nearly as tall, joined him in the cold river. The two youths carried across all the children and others who were too weak to make it through the icy water on their own. When everyone else was safely on the other side and the handcarts were across, the boys came out of the river to get dry and to warm themselves by the fire.
“Their legs and feet were blue from the cold. They got into dry clothes and wrapped up in blankets. Everyone thanked them for their help, but the boys said that they had just done what needed to be done. That night they sent everyone else to bed while they stayed by the fire to get warm. They talked about how things were going to be when they got to their new homes, but their conversation was often interrupted by muscle cramps and violent shivers. The cold water had chilled them more than they thought possible. The next morning they were still sitting there, wrapped in their blankets. When the leader of the group walked over to talk to them, he was saddened by what he found. During the night the boys had both died as they sat by the fire.
“The youths were buried right there on the edge of the river. They had lost their lives while helping others. The older boy, the one who had prayed for strength to get the others across safely, was one of your relatives. His name was Floyd. His three-year-old brother was your great-great-grandfather. When I was a little boy and Grandfather was in his nineties, he told me this story. That was when I learned that Floyd meant courage, relying on the Lord, and helping others.”