Gospel Story Finder

I’d like to tell you about a former Lutheran minister who was baptized into the Church. He said he had found a pearl of great price and was prepared to give up everything for it. He was well settled as a minister of the Lutheran Church. He had a good home, a good job, and was well-respected by everybody. But he said when he found the pearl of great price, though it took some time, he was prepared to sell all that he had and accept that pearl of great price. I quote from a talk he gave after his baptism:

“A year and a half ago, an LDS family asked me to teach two of their sons piano. One of them played tonight during the sacrament meeting. Last summer, an LDS family asked me to teach three of their children piano. In dealing with not only these young people, but their parents, their families, I dealt quite closely with them. I began to realize that there was something very special about the Mormon people, a people somehow set apart as far as I could tell. I didn’t know what it was, but it was something that I began to want.

“What’s in a decision? The Holy Ghost, let me tell you, really works with young people. I think that they were probably the most active in our conversion because those young people didn’t do a super selling job—they were just themselves. They were simply fantastic. Those young people were thrilling to work with, and they still are. They did a tremendous job of evangelism.

“What’s in a decision? Brothers and sisters, there’s a world waiting outside for you and me. In Luke 10:2 we read, ‘Therefore said he unto them, The harvest truly is great, but the labourers are few: pray ye therefore the Lord of the harvest, that he would send forth labourers into his harvest.’ Are we going to sit back and take things easy? Are we going to sit by and do nothing? Or are we going to decide to help that world out there waiting for you and for me to decide on the greatest decision of their lives? If you and I allow the Holy Ghost to work through us, the impossible will become possible. Frustration will become peace, and the seekers will become finders. It happened to our family, and I am thankful to almighty God. I am thankful to the many people who were his tools that it did happen.

“What’s in a decision? It is the Holy Ghost working through you and through me. That’s what’s in a decision. I bear you my testimony tonight that this is the true Church. I believe it with all my heart. I bear you my testimony that we have living prophets today. They are revealing great truths from God to us this very day. I sincerely believe that Joseph Smith was a prophet. I thank God every day that we have the restored Church. I thank God every day that Jesus lives. I thank God that we have a wonderful Church filled with people, so that Jesus not only lives but he lives through these people. You and I have a great job to do, and I pray to our Heavenly Father that we will not let him down. The harvest is very ripe, and you can’t wait too long. I bear you my testimony that all these things are true in the name of Jesus Christ, our Savior. Amen.”

That was the talk given by a man who had heard of the Church a year and a half before and who had been a successful, well-respected minister in the Lutheran Church.

I have been asked many times why I joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and I have always told the story of meeting the missionaries at the house of a dear friend who had just been baptized. But with the passage of time, I have realized that before that first meeting many things prepared me to accept the gospel.
I was an active and energetic young woman, and my life was divided between spending time with friends and working out at the gym. Nothing else interested me. I had a passion for martial arts. I lived for the sport; it had become a way of life for me. In effect, it was my religion. I was very good and had acquired much skill. My pride increased as I became more and more recognized by others, especially since I was a woman in a sport dominated by men.
As time passed, I began to feel an unsettling sensation after each day’s workout. Often I felt out of breath, and my heart would race.
I soon learned that the continuous pressure of such a strenuous sport had aggravated a genetic predisposition toward irregular heartbeats. The pain intensified, and sometimes I could not even stand. Almost overnight I lost my self-sufficiency. A series of unfortunate medical decisions worsened my condition, and twice I came close to cardiac arrest.
Over a period of five years, I had two operations and made many visits to doctors and hospitals. Eventually I needed constant care from my parents.
While in the hospital I saw much suffering and pain, and I learned the necessity of loving others. I began to understand what was really important in life.
My soul had been changed, and I felt that someone was giving me a second chance at life. I started to wonder about God, who until then, I believed, had played no part in my life. I began to study various religions, and I was impressed by their common denominator of love. Then a friend told me about the missionaries who had brought her such happiness. I met with them and was baptized one month later.
Now I am thankful that I suffered, because suffering opened the way for me to hear the gospel. God truly has unusual ways of preparing His children.
Since accepting the gospel, I have had the privilege of sharing the truth with others. I have also been to the temple and have been greatly blessed. I am thankful to God to be able to work for Him. His gospel is truly a wonderful gift for me.

The summer I turned 12, just before I entered the seventh grade, I encountered the first doubts I’d had about the gospel. My parents seemed to know the Church was true, and so did the many Church leaders I’d had throughout my life. But I realized I couldn’t remember ever feeling the “warm, fuzzy feeling” that everyone talked about.
So for three months, I prayed hard every night to feel it too. I prayed for any sign that Heavenly Father was listening to me and ready for me to know. Still, no answer came.
I didn’t tell my parents, siblings, or friends about my inner turmoil. I was scared to think I was the only one without an answer, that I was the only one who didn’t know for sure that the gospel is true.
After those three months, at the end of summer vacation, it was time for our family’s annual father’s blessings. These were our “back-to-school blessings,” as we called them, so the things spoken for each of my siblings generally fit with that theme. My dad blessed my siblings with success in their schooling and academic goals.
When it was my turn, my dad laid his hands on my head. Just after he started the blessing, he spoke nine words without hesitation, in the surest voice I’d ever heard him use, which shocked me: “I testify to you that this gospel is true.” My dad didn’t even mention my academic life. Instead, he simply bore his testimony for the entire blessing.
My eyes welled with tears that confused the rest of my family—none of them, including my father, knew about the questions I’d been struggling with. However, as I learned then, my Heavenly Father did.
Since that day, I can testify that no matter how or when, whether it’s through a feeling or the words of another, Heavenly Father will answer every prayer.

Tragedy continued to follow Joseph F. in his childhood. Before his sixth birthday his father Hyrum and the Prophet Joseph were martyred in Carthage Jail. After his father’s death, Joseph F. helped his mother prepare for the trek west. Not yet ten years old, the boy drove two yoke of oxen from Winter Quarters to the Salt Lake Valley in the summer of 1848, a distance of over 1,000 miles. The journey was made even more difficult for the family since the captain of the train disapproved of Mary traveling without a husband, fearing that she would be a burden. But Mary was determined to ask for no special favors and promised that she would make the trip without his help and be the first to arrive in the valley. With fervent prayer and with the help of her young son, she kept that promise.

Chandradas “Roshan” and Sheron Antony of Colombo, Sri Lanka, decided to be sealed in the temple. Their friends Ann and Anton Kumarasamy were so excited for them. But they knew that getting to the Manila Philippines Temple wasn’t easy or cheap.
Roshan and Sheron had saved their money and booked flights months in advance to get a flight they could afford. Finally, the day came. However, during their layover in Malaysia, they discovered that to continue on to the Philippines, they either needed a visa or needed to fly on a different airline. It wasn’t possible to get a visa, and they couldn’t afford to buy tickets on another airline. But they couldn’t bear the thought of returning home without being sealed.
Unsure what else to do, Roshan called Anton. Anton and Ann desperately wanted to help. They were one of the few couples in Sri Lanka who had been sealed in the temple, and they knew what a blessing it was. But they had recently used their savings to help a family member in need, and they didn’t have enough money to help Roshan and Sheron buy tickets for a new flight.
In Sri Lanka it is customary for the groom to buy the bride a gold necklace so that she will have some money if her husband dies. Ann decided to sell her necklace to help buy the new tickets. Her generous gift made it possible for Roshan and Sheron to make their temple appointment in Manila.
“I know the value of a temple sealing,” Ann said. “I knew Sheron and Roshan would be a great strength to the branch. I didn’t want them to miss this opportunity.”3

Sir Tom Moore was 100 years old and recently passed away, but before he did, he decided to help frontline health workers during the COVID-19 pandemic. He walked 100 steps, using his walking frame, every day for 100 days in his garden. He raised 40 million pounds! He said: “One small soul like me won’t make much of a difference.” He proved himself wrong. His most famous quote is: “Tomorrow is gonna be a good day!”

A year ago last winter, a modern jetliner faltered after takeoff and plunged into the icy Potomac River. Acts of bravery and feats of heroism were in evidence that day, the most dramatic of which was one witnessed by the pilot of a rescue helicopter. The rescue rope was lowered to a struggling survivor. Rather than grasping the lifeline to safety, the man tied the line to another, who was then lifted to safety. The rope was lowered again, and yet another was saved. Five were rescued from the icy waters. Among them was not found the anonymous hero. Unknown by name, “he left the vivid air signed with his honor.” (Stephen Spender, “I think continually of those—” in Masterpieces of Religious Verse, ed. James Dalton Morrison, New York: Harper and Brothers Publishers, p. 291.)

Several years ago, I was selected to be honored as the Father of the Year in Utah. Each of our children was asked to say something special about their relationship with their father in a short video presentation.

However, one of my young sons approached me privately and confessed: “Dad, you know I love you, but I don’t think I really have anything I can say. Honestly, you spend so much time working and also serving in the Church, and the time that you do have seems to be spent more on my brothers than on me. I just don’t feel comfortable speaking on the video.”

To say the least, I was crushed by his comment. More than that, I was heartbroken that he felt less valued and loved by me, his father. My relationship with him meant more to me than any silly award. But somehow, in pursuit of my own dreams and aspirations, I was failing to focus on his needs. I vowed in that moment to change and to work harder to make him—and all of my children—a priority in my life.

My young friends, my wife and family are the abundance in my life. They mean more to me than any earthly possession. We certainly are not perfect, and we have had our share of adversity and heartache, but if we have done anything right in our lives, it has been to place the Savior and our sacred covenants at the center of our lives and to raise our family in the gospel of Jesus Christ. That has made all the difference!

Elder Hale returned recently from the California Ventura Mission. “I worked as a dietician’s assistant for two years. I made up the trays for the older sisters in a Catholic convent. I took them their food and helped them eat it. We enjoyed great religion discussions. They sent me researching history and facts. I loved the ladies like grandmas. I learned to respect them and their beliefs. My job in the school cafeteria led me to the convent job. I also raised rabbits and sold them through the pet stores for a commission.
“When I had enough money I loaned it out and received a steady income with interest. I put aside 10 percent for tithing and then another 20 percent for my mission.
“Work hard. The harder you work on a job, the harder you will work on your mission. It is difficult to be rejected at doors when tracting. Only the ability to work hard will keep you going back to one more door at the end of a long day.”

I came to a significant awareness of the power of my mother’s faith and prayers when I was 11 years old. During Christmas vacation our family took a trip to a nearby winter resort for a day of ice skating, tubing, and sleigh riding. Friends were included, and the group expanded to fill two cars. My father led the way, driving one car with his father, my older sister, and several of her girlfriends. My mother followed in our smaller car with my younger brother, Ron, and sister Gini in the front. Our Lamanite foster-sister, a girlfriend of mine, and I were in the back.
The road leading to our destination followed an icy and fairly rapid river. We were almost there and spirits were high in our car with lots of laughing and singing when an urgent, “Oh, no!” from my mother diverted our attention. Suddenly we were tumbled about and submerged in the freezing river. An important part of the steering mechanism of the car had broken, and the car had slid down the embankment and turned upside down in the river. The car landed on a big boulder and was not completely submerged, but only the wheels and parts of the underside were above water. Mother, Ron, and Gini were all thrown into the backseat. Several of the windows had been shattered, and water filled the car except for an occasional pocket of air that had risen into the floor wells and become trapped as we were beneath the water.
Meanwhile, on the road above, traffic stopped in both directions and people poured out of their cars. A man was first to get to the edge of the embankment, and as two more men came running up he observed, “It was clear full of people and they’re gone. They’re gone.” Not waiting to hear any more the second pair plunged down the bank and began struggling with the car doors. When they realized the doors on the shore side were jammed fast, they found a broken window, kicked away the broken glass, and reaching through found what must have seemed like countless floundering legs and arms.
Inside the car, on the opposite side, Mother managed to find an air pocket and gasped quickly, “Push against me.” Ron was the only one that heard and comprehended. He tried to help as she struggled to push the door open against the current. She got one leg and one arm through and then managed to pull herself and Ron out and push him on the top (which was actually the bottom) of the car. The pressure of the water pushing against the door left her leg and arm bruised black as coal for many days after.
By the time Mother got Ron and herself out of the car, Dad realized, up ahead, that something was wrong. Never dreaming it was his own family but knowing if there was trouble Mom would stop to help, he pulled over and ran back to see if he could help also. You can imagine the shock he felt when he saw his daughters being tossed from the river to the bank by the two men who had pulled us through the window of the back door. Ron was sitting on the bottom of the car and Mother was still clinging to the side in the middle of the river. Dad crashed down the bank to the river, and, ignoring a warning that it was deep, tossed Ron to the men on the bank and pulled Mother from the water. I remember seeing them standing on the bottom of the car with water churning around them counting us over and over as the people on the bank kindly wrapped us in blankets.
Miraculously we were all safe and no one was seriously hurt. It was a miracle and an answer to prayer. After we got home and the full realization of what had happened came, I walked into my parents’ room and found my mom crying quietly in Dad’s arms. One of the things she said that I will never forget was that when she realized she had absolutely no control of the car and we were slipping down the bank toward the water she only had time to pray silently, “O Father in Heaven,” before we hit the water. I had no doubt then, and have none now, that Heavenly Father heard the desperate beginnings of my mother’s prayer and answered the yet unspoken plea of a daughter who had been faithful and prayerful all her life.

The second message that I feel I should follow up on was delivered just last general conference, when I encouraged members to pray to be led to at least one person to whom they could extend an invitation to learn about the restored gospel before Christmas. Many Church members have shared with me some special experiences as a consequence of their asking the Lord for missionary opportunities.
One returned missionary, for example, specifically prayed to be led to “the one” he could reach. The name of a former college classmate came into his mind. He reached out to her over Facebook, and he learned that she had been praying for purpose and meaning in her life. He followed up just at the time she was searching for the truth, and in December she was baptized.
Many similar invitations were reported to me, but only a few people have followed up like this brother did.

Preparing to decorate our Christmas tree, I unpacked a box filled with Christmas decorations that I hadn’t seen or used in several years. As I pawed through the Christmas lights and linens, I discovered a dress box filled with Christmas ornaments I had collected when I was single and teaching school. I discovered a plain, cross-stitched ornament that simply said “Christmas Open House—1984.” My mind raced back to that year. I was unmarried and had apprehensively moved from a young single adult ward to a family ward.
I love the Christmas season, but some had been very lonely for me. Being in my 30s, single, and not having children, I sometimes felt left out. It was easy for me to feel sorry for myself, falling back into what I called the “poor little old me syndrome.” That particular year, 1984, I remember making a conscious decision to conquer the syndrome, to look beyond myself and see what I could do to make Christmas joyful for others.
I was relatively new to the ward and thought that opening my modest apartment to members of the Relief Society would help me celebrate the holidays and become better acquainted with the sisters.
As I reminisced about that open house, I remembered the small Christmas tree decorated with my box of ornaments, the smell of the shortbread cookies my single friends helped me bake, and the sweet taste of Mom’s “white Christmas punch” I served to the guests.
That conscious decision in 1984 to “lose my life” by looking outward was indeed a turning point in “finding” myself. As I pondered the past, I realized that many, in turn, had followed our Savior’s words and lost their life for me. Christmas ornaments had become a sweet reminder of Christlike friends.

A wealthy merchant builds a great palace with high walls to protect his beautiful daughter, Danina, from the sadness of the world. One day Danina hears the song of the wind and learns that the world beyond the walls is always changing—sometimes sad and sometimes happy, but different each day. Afterward the palace becomes a prison to Danina, but she keeps the song of the wind alive by humming to herself until they meet again.

Youth in the Mililani Hawaii Stake were up against the wall during their youth conference. In two-and-a-half hours they painted 38,000 square feet of cement fence along the Haleiwa Beach Park, on Oahu. They even restored the original Hawaiian graphics.
Along with workshops, speakers, and dances, there was another unique activity at the conference. The conference theme was Valiant Youth of Today, taken from Alma 53:20, and at one point “Captain Helaman” sent the youth off to “battle” just like the 2,000 stripling warriors. The battle consisted of dividing into groups and finding their way to various outdoor stations where they fought against evil by doing righteous activities like writing letters of appreciation to parents, underlining scriptures on faith and courage, helping each other through mazes, etc.
Just like the stripling warriors, not one soul was lost.

A few weeks ago I took my six-year-old granddaughter for a walk over at the new Timpanogos Hospital while we were waiting for her new little brother to be born. In the hospital entry there was a crisp, bright new American flag. She touched some of the gold tassels hanging from it and asked me, “Which is more important, freedom or family?” I really didn’t have an answer, but I thought about her question for a while. Family is central to the great plan of redemption. So is freedom, emancipation from bondage—the great theme of Passover.

All my life I had been taught that the Church was true. When I decided to gain a testimony of my own, I thought that I needed to approach things from a different angle than that of my teachers and friends. So I asked: What if the gospel is not true? What if my well-meaning friends and parents are misled? What if the Book of Mormon is a work of fiction? What if there is no living prophet today and families aren’t forever?
As such questions filled my mind, darkness clouded my thoughts. I felt as if doors were closing inside me and for a whole day I wandered around in a depressed stupor of thought, thinking and acting unkindly towards others.
The next morning I came to myself and realized that I was obviously getting nowhere. Then I remembered a seminary lesson I’d had on prayer. I knew that in Doctrine and Covenants 9:7–9 there were some guidelines on getting answers. [D&C 9:7–9] As I read these verses, I could see that I had asked the wrong question. When I studied my questions out in my mind and in my heart, I sincerely believed the things I had been taught were true. So I prayed again, this time asking if my beliefs were right: Was I really a child of God? Was there a celestial kingdom? Was the priesthood the power of God?
Light poured into my soul replacing darkness. The Spirit confirmed that my belief was not in vain. I felt as if doors were being flung open and I could see things more clearly.
I gained a desire to serve and share my testimony. The Lord had heard and answered my sincere prayer. Now I knew for myself that what I had believed all along was really true.

Winter is a cold time of year in the Russia Moscow Mission. To a missionary this sometimes seems true of not only the weather but also the people. They become introverted. Everybody seems to be rushing home after work. People are ill, the roads are terribly slick, and the cold ruthlessly bites every exposed piece of skin. Smiles are rare.
My companion and I found ourselves in these conditions during the winter of 2005. We wanted to cheer people up by sharing our message of faith, hope, and love, but nobody wanted to listen. And to be honest, my mood wasn’t all that great. I couldn’t help but feel discouraged. Day after day we walked the cold streets in search of people to teach, freezing our feet to the bone. In spite of the discouraging circumstances, we didn’t want to give up. Christmas was getting close, and we wanted to help people feel the Christmas spirit. But how?
One evening as we were on the train returning home, a small group of musicians walked into the railcar. They played wonderfully, but to my surprise, their performance didn’t have an effect on anybody. Maybe a person or two gave them some pocket change, but the rest just stared out the frosty windows. I felt bad for the performers and gave them a few coins.
Soon we arrived at the station near our apartment and ran home. As soon as I closed the apartment door, the phone rang. I picked it up and recognized the voice of our district leader. That day we were supposed to have thought of ideas for celebrating the Christmas season as missionaries. I had totally forgotten, but I didn’t want him to know that. Straining for an idea, I remembered the group of musicians and suggested that our district could sing Christmas hymns on the trains. I could accompany them on the violin. To my surprise and perhaps dismay, our district leader loved the idea. We decided on a day. “What was I thinking!” I said to myself, remembering that three of the missionaries in our district were tone-deaf.
The day came and the missionaries met on the platform. The sun had set long ago, and it was terribly cold. My feet were already numb. We rehearsed for about five minutes until the train crept slowly up to the platform. We gladly entered its open doors, getting out of the cold wind and snow. I took my violin out of its case and silently prayed that God would touch the hearts of the listeners.
As we boarded the train, most of the people didn’t pay any attention to us. My fingers hadn’t warmed up yet, so when I started to play, the tone of the violin sounded very simple but very piercing. Suddenly the mood in the railcar changed. It was almost as if something could be felt in the air. The passengers seemed to hold their breath. The other missionaries joined with me, singing the words to “Silent Night”:
Silent night! Holy night!
All is calm, all is bright
Round yon virgin mother and Child.
Holy Infant, so tender and mild,
Sleep in heavenly peace;
Sleep in heavenly peace.1
While I played and the other missionaries sang, nobody in the railcar spoke a single word. When we finished the hymn, I looked around at people’s faces. Everybody was looking attentively at us. Tears were flowing down the cheeks of several women. It was silent for a minute as nobody wanted to interrupt the moment. Finally a man standing in the back of the railcar exclaimed, “They are Saints, genuine Saints!” Everyone began to applaud.
As we walked down the aisle, many people wanted to give us money. When we didn’t accept it, they became all the more surprised. I heard somebody saying under his breath, “This just doesn’t happen.” One man even tried to give us a thousand rubles and was shocked when we refused the money. Instead, we offered him a pass-along card, which he gladly took. Soon other passengers began asking for pass-along cards. They also asked about the Church and us. It seemed like wherever we looked, our eyes were met with smiling faces and warm greetings. At the end of the railcar, we wished the passengers a merry Christmas and waved good-bye to our new friends.
On the other side of the door, we looked at each other in disbelief. “What just happened?” we asked. Then, with twice as much energy, we entered the next door. At first the passengers didn’t pay any attention to us, but after we performed the hymn, they had the same miraculous reaction. For the rest of the evening, we made our way through the railcars, experiencing the same thing in each one. Never before had I seen such acceptance and love.
Returning home that night, I realized that I had experienced a miracle wrought by music, a message about the Savior, and the spirit of Christmas. Even in the coldest times of our lives, we can be comforted by the Lord’s presence. How blessed I was to have seen how drastically people can change under the influence of the Spirit. I will always remember that evening and treasure it in my heart. May the Spirit forever work such miracles!

I was 14 years then and had not entered university. I got my first degree before going on a mission. I entered university life in Nigeria. University life was different and influenced me. Then the miracles began. After you get your degree, you are required to do a year of national youth service. When I was called to do my national service, I was called to Lagos. Normally, a lot of people pay money in bribes to the government to go to Lagos, but I didn’t pay anything. While I was in Lagos, I had a mighty change of heart and I prepared to go on a mission. From Lagos I was sent to Accra as a missionary. I met my wife and came back to Accra after my mission, and we got married in 2010.

The second story which, as I said, may or may not be related to the first, is told by President Spencer W. Kimball, then a member of the Quorum of the Twelve, in his October 1969 General Conference address:

"When I was a youngster, a stirring challenge came to me that moved me not a little I cannot remember who issued the challenge nor under what circumstances it came. I remember only that it struck me like a 'bolt out of the blue heavens.' The unknown voice postulated:
'The ‘Mormon Church’ has stood its ground for the first two generations—but wait till the third and fourth and succeeding generations come along! The first generation fired with a new religion developed a great enthusiasm for it. Surrounded with bitterness, calumnee of a hostile world, persecuted ‘from pillar to post,’ they were forced to huddle together for survival. There was good reason to expect they would live and die faithful to their espoused cause.
The second generation came along born to enthusiasts, zealots, devotees. They were born to men and women who had developed great faith, were inured to hardships and sacrifices for their faith. They inherited from their parents and soaked up from religious homes the stuff of which the faithful are made. They had full reservoirs of strength and faith upon which to draw.
But wait till the third and fourth generations come along,' said the cynical voice. 'The fire will have gone out—the devotion will have been diluted—the sacrifice will have been nullified—the world will have hovered over them and surrounded them and eroded them—the faith will have been expended and the religious fervor leaked out.'"
Then President Kimball declared.
"That day I realized that I was a member of the third generation. That day I clenched my growing fists. I gritted my teeth and made a firm commitment to myself that here was one 'third generation' who would not fulfill that dire prediction."
Young Spencer Kimball " could not be shaken."

I was raised on a small farm near the town of Cleveland, a rural area in southeastern Utah. In the region there were many stories of Butch Cassidy, a cowboy outlaw, that remained in the conversations of the older generation. As a 12-year-old boy, I, along with seven of my buddies, became intrigued by the stories and planned an adventure. We wanted to ride the trail of Butch Cassidy and explore his hiding places in Cedar Mountain.
After much persuasion, we talked our parents into letting us ride our horses to Cedar Mountain. Two adults would join us—one to ride with us, the other to drive a truck to a designated camping area carrying our bed rolls, food, and hay for the horses.
We arrived at our campsite at dusk and started to prepare for the night. I remembered the instructions given to me by my parents. They had taught me how to tie up my horse to a strong live tree; how to leave the rope just loose enough for him to feed from the ground, but not so loose that the horse might step over the rope. I also remembered them telling me, “Never eat your dinner until your animals have been fed.”
Everyone took care of his own horse before turning his attention to his own needs—everyone, that is, except one. In haste to fix his dinner, my friend Billy tied his horse to a small dead tree and hurried off to the campfire. By the time we finished our duties, it was dark. Billy finished his dinner and then turned his attention to his horse. When he approached his horse in the dark, the horse spooked. Billy then made the fatal mistake of striking a match too close to the horse’s face. The horse reared back and pulled the dead tree from the ground. The tree, attached to the rope, hit the horse, which sent him off on a dead run. I will never forget the sound of that horse running into the darkness and the crashing of the tree he dragged behind him. The noise continued for 10 to 15 seconds, and then there was silence … followed by a loud crash.
One of the adults had run after the horse and was first to reach him. We grabbed our flashlights and followed. After searching in the dark, we found the horse at the bottom of a 50-foot cliff. As long as I live, I will clearly remember watching that horse die.
We were a group of solemn boys as we worked our way up the cliff and returned to camp that night. Each one quickly and quietly bedded down. All that could be heard throughout the night was Billy’s sobbing and the rustling of nervous horses that seemed to sense what had happened. It was a very long night.
That experience became a life-changing moment. As I lay in my bed gazing at the millions of stars in the heavens, the events of the day passed through my mind. I began thinking about the advice my parents had given me as I was growing up. Suddenly it all began to make sense. I had come to a point in my life where I was responsible for my actions. The decisions I was making now not only affected me but those around me. I began to see that the results of my disobedience could be disastrous, especially to those who depended on me. My mother had entrusted me with her treasured horse. How grateful I was that I had been obedient to her instructions.