Gospel Story Finder

Every Christmas I learned to expect two kinds of gifts—those I wanted and those my parents wanted me to have.
I remember one Christmas in particular. I was an ordinary 15- or 16-year-old boy. I tried to act casual about my gifts, but inside I was crazy with anticipation. I was hoping for some new music, sports equipment, or maybe a movie. I pulled a small rectangular package from under the tree with my name on it. The size surprised me. I couldn’t think of anything I wanted that was that shape. Of course that didn’t stop me from happily ripping off the paper. Inside was a white box. The label glued to the top indicated a new set of scriptures. I didn’t think much of it. My parents often reused old boxes.
As I lifted the lid, I thought of the possibility that the label might be accurate. I hoped it wasn’t. I hoped against hope. I didn’t want new scriptures. I didn’t need them. I already had the set I received when I was baptized. Sure, they were getting old and the binding was falling apart, but for how much I used them, they worked just fine.
My heart sank. Inside the box was a beautiful compact set of maroon scriptures with my name embossed on the cover. I remember looking up to see my mom watching me. I’m sure she was nervous about my reaction. She said something like, “I know you didn’t ask for them and it isn’t the most exciting gift, but we thought you could use them.” I gave a polite smile, which I’m sure was completely transparent. I looked at the scriptures for a few minutes, trying to show appreciation, but eventually put them back in their box and gave my attention to my other gifts.
I tried not to think about all the things that I wanted more than new scriptures. I tried not to feel disappointed. I tried not to hypothesize about a way I could take them back without my parents knowing, but I didn’t try very hard.
I would love to report that later that Christmas day I opened those new scriptures and felt the great Spirit that comes through reading them. But I didn’t. In fact, I don’t believe I did anything with them other than put them in a corner of my room. I’d love to report that over the following weeks I gained a greater appreciation for my gift. I didn’t. About the only attention I gave them was during sacrament meeting, mindlessly separating the pages that were stuck together.
In all honesty, I don’t think I appreciated that gift for a long time. However, eventually I began to study them. I took them to church and to seminary. I began to read them on my own. They proved crucial to my decisions. At a time when I wondered if it wouldn’t be better to live what I thought was a more exciting lifestyle, like that of some of my school friends, I read Mosiah 2:41. I’m so grateful for that verse. I began to realize that only those who keep the commandments of God are truly happy.
Months later, my youth leaders challenged me to read the entire Book of Mormon before attending a summer camp. I agreed but procrastinated, and I soon fell behind. In a rush to catch up, I began to read for longer periods of time. I can still recall sitting on my porch reading for the better part of an hour. Before this, I was lucky to read for 10 minutes at a time. For the first time in my life, I lost myself in the scriptures. I realized that Alma the Younger was a real person. He wasn’t just a story my leaders taught me. He actually rebelled against his prophet father, and, through faith and the Atonement, was still able to change. I wondered what happened next. I had pieces of the story in my mind, but it hadn’t come together into a whole. I kept reading, watching him grow. For the first time I actually enjoyed what I read.
These experiences and many others began to build my small testimony. Yet, I still questioned. I questioned a lot. I decided to read the Book of Mormon daily and ask for confirmation that it was true. After many nights of reading and many prayers, I felt I received an answer from heaven. It was something I couldn’t create. There was no one else around to lead me to the feeling. I felt a warmth—almost like a light—in me. It somehow seemed to calm and excite me simultaneously. I felt that my Heavenly Father had heard my prayer. He sent a message through my thoughts that the Book of Mormon is true and the Church is His kingdom on earth. I also felt He wanted me to know that He had been answering my prayers continually throughout my life. I just hadn’t realized it. Where would my testimony be without the scriptures?
Later I read the same scriptures to calm my nerves on a plane to the mission field. I read them to inspire and motivate me through my college years. I read them to confirm if I should ask my wife to marry me. I read them for guidance in my career. I read them to find out how to be a better father. Every day I felt I learned and grew more. My testimony became stronger. I found the strength to trust in the Lord more and more.
The majority of my Christmas presents I received growing up were eventually packed in boxes, broken and discarded, or given to secondhand stores. But I still have those maroon scriptures with my name embossed on the cover. They are faded and worn. Some pages are torn, and the margins are filled with notes and quotes.
I cannot think of another Christmas gift that I have used more or one that has affected me more than what was in that little white box. Over time, it changed my life. It helped me come to my Savior Jesus Christ and learn to follow Him. It helped me gain a testimony of His gospel and motivated me to do my part in it. It has helped me become more like Him. What could be a more fitting Christmas gift? I thank my Heavenly Father that my parents gave me a gift I didn’t want.

When I was young, we moved. We had no idea we would be living on my great-great-great-grandpa’s farmland! I learned that he and I shared the same chore: picking rocks out of the garden. He said, “There were so many rocks, it was like the garden grew rocks!” I used to hate picking up rocks, but then I began to love it. It makes me feel close to him because we are so much alike and have the same chores.
Fay K., age 11, Utah, USA

The newly varnished hardwood floor resounds with the pounding of 20 feet and the intermittent squeaking of sneakers as someone does a quick pivot or makes a sudden stop. There is the normal assortment of shouts (“Over here!” “That’s the way!”) as the players put all their effort into the last crucial minutes of the closely scoring game. Suddenly the orange orb makes a satisfying swish as it falls, seemingly effortlessly, through the net at one end of the court, and as the buzzer jangles, a happy shout echoes through the gymnasium. The winning team crowds around the maker of the last-minute basket, hugging and congratulating each other.
Sound familiar? It would, if the shouts of joy weren’t decidedly high-pitched and feminine and if the hero was not a blonde, blue-eyed, and also decidedly feminine girl named Mechelle Hill.
Mechelle may be used to the fanfare of victory, but she doesn’t show any selfish pride as she rejoices with her teammates now. Her face is flushed with exertion, and she brushes her long hair off her shoulders to cool them, but her expression is not weary.
She is still not weary later as she sits in the shade outside the physical education building at the University of Utah, where she is participating in a girl’s basketball camp. This morning they had divided into teams for a tournament; this morning Mechelle had also been chosen to be on the camp’s all-star team, which included many other top high school athletes. It is the final day of the week-long activity, but Mechelle is going strong and is just a bit anxious to get back to the courts. “I like to be up and around, doing things,” she smiles.
The bright blue eyes sparkle a little as she says that, for few things could be truer. The Gunnison Valley (Utah) High School senior had just completed a first-in-state season on the basketball team, had captained a second-in-state softball team, and had been a star participant on the volleyball and track teams. If that weren’t enough, she had graced the boys’ games as well as she high-stepped to the band music at halftime as captain of the drill team. She doesn’t recite all her accomplishments at once but remembers them sporadically with an “Oh, yeah—” and a bit of surprise that anyone would be interested. “I just like to be active,” she grins in surprise at the lengthy list. And there is still more she will not remember until later, when her proud mother reminds her.
It is apparent, talking to Mechelle for the first time, that she has learned about more than slow-pitching and free throws in the course of her competition. She speaks of the excitement of winning, the sense of exhilaration when energies are spent and you’ve done your very best. But more than that, she emphasizes the personal growth that can be had from working together with a group of people for a common goal, of giving of yourself freely. Gospel principles come through as the conversation progresses and it becomes clear that multi-talented Mechelle has developed a philosophy to help her make the best of this expanding, exciting world of women’s sports. “A woman, especially, has to keep her perspective and remember who she is,” says Mechelle seriously. “You can still play basketball and be feminine.” She is living proof of that.
If Mechelle is a unique person, perhaps it is because of her unique position in her family. She is the third oldest of six children—and the only girl. Her father, Bruce, played basketball for BYU, and older brothers Jeff, 20 (now on a mission), and Greg, 18, set a precedent of athletic prowess. The year that Mechelle was a junior, Greg was a senior—and was voted the most outstanding basketball player on the boys’ team. He was also high scorer in the state tournament, in which his team placed fourth. Mechelle was high scorer in her own tournament, and the brother-sister team scored over 200 points in that small stretch of time. Younger brothers Ronnie, 15, Richard, 13, and Bryant, 11, show every indication of following suit.
Following in Mechelle’s footsteps would require a very busy agenda. As well as school sports, she likes to play tennis (“Especially on dates!”), water ski, and swim. Fall brings pheasant hunting (she outscored her brothers on a gun safety test) and dirt-bike riding in the canyons surrounding Gunnison. School itself is fun for Mechelle, who not surprisingly likes PE classes best, but she also enjoys home economics. In fact, she was elected president of the Future Homemakers of America chapter at Gunnison Valley High. Cooking and drawing “are a couple of the few things I will sit down for,” she laughs.
Competition does not take up all of Mechelle’s time and energy. “Winning is important,” she says, “only because it makes you want to do your best. Winning isn’t everything. If you play your hardest and still lose, then that is the way it was meant to be. You’ve got to learn from your experience.”
Learning, not only about the game but about people, is perhaps the best thing about playing on a team, believes Mechelle. “It helps you to get to know other people and to work with them, even though you might be shy. I was a delegate to Girls’ State last year, and I didn’t know a soul. I found my experience in team sports helped me to get involved.”
Team sports for girls are often criticized because of the feelings of rivalry between teams and the harsh attitudes that sometimes develop. Mechelle recognizes this and has learned to cope with it: “Some girls do get ‘tough’—there is a lot of strain and tension. But our basketball team, which is all LDS, tries to keep its cool. Once there was an awful lot of tension in a game, and we all felt it. Afterwards, I said, ‘Hey, you guys, let’s go talk to them.’ Now we’re really good friends with that team.”
The breeze lifts her hair away from her face, which is cooling as she catches her breath. She describes the special relationship her basketball team had, and though she is still animated, there is a serenity about her soft-featured face.
“We would say a prayer before every one of our games, and I would kneel beside my bed before I went, too. I could really feel the Spirit. At our last championship game, we said our prayer, and the Spirit was so strong that we all started crying. Things like that bring us closer together, and we are just like one person playing out on the floor.”
The girl who minutes before was bounding down the basketball court is now a little pensive as she leans her chin in her hands. “I see people in wheelchairs and I feel so blessed. I think if God gives you a talent you should use it; I’m so grateful for what I have, and I hope I can serve people in some way.”
Suddenly her features are lighted up again as she sits straight. “One way I am able to serve is in teaching Junior Sunday School. I’ve got the four-year-olds, and they’re so special! I really love little kids. I’d like to have at least four of my own, and have them grow up together the way my brothers and I did.” Suddenly the interview time is over, and as quickly as she appeared she is bouncing down the stairs back to the basketball court.
The Hill living room in Gunnison is cool and calm after the helter-skelter of the basketball camp, but Mechelle is still as vivacious. In one corner is a lace-covered table on which are propped pictures, trophies, portraits, and certificates collected by the family in the past few years; examination reveals many team photos of both sexes and of several sports. And there are snapshots of the Hill family, who seem to function as a team—without the competitors.
Out in the heat of a southern Utah midday, a box elder in the backyard flutters its leaves and casts a flickering shadow across a large cement square that has been a project of this special ‘team.’ Sister Hill promises that it will soon be a mini basketball court.
“We like to do and accomplish things together,” says Mechelle as she kneels on the grass to play with the family’s three dogs. “We have a camper up in the canyon that we use as a home base for dirt-bike riding, and we like to go skiing and golfing as a family.”
“It’s a lot of fun,” agrees Sister Hill. “Even when it’s hectic, we try to support them in all of their activities. One day we drove over 400 miles to attend both Greg and Mechelle’s tournament games! We feel we have really good relationships.”
Perhaps it was in this family setting that Mechelle first learned what teamwork means. Wherever that lesson was learned, home was the place where she began “never sitting still” as she played with her five brothers. “We always played running games, like cops and robbers, and later we’d shoot baskets and play catch,” she remembers.
As time went on, it became apparent that not only the male members of the Hill clan were endowed with athletic ability. When she entered high school and expressed an interest in basketball, her mother was wary. “It took me about a year to get used to the idea,” admits Sister Hill. “I guess I wanted her to be a dancer or something. But now (she looks at her daughter with pride), we can really see her talent and are thrilled about her success. And her brothers have gained a new respect for her.”
“They’re so funny,” giggles Mechelle. “At one of my games I had a foul called on me, and Greg jumped up and yelled at the ref, ‘That’s my sister, and she doesn’t make fouls!’”
If the brothers had any reservations about having a basketball star for a sister, they don’t now. Perhaps it is because she is still the generous, helpful sister she always has been, and sports have not made her lose that spark of lively femininity she has always had. And it has helped, not hindered, her eternal outlook. “A lot of girls would like to be professionals, and quite often I think it detracts from their desires for a family. Up until a couple of years ago, I kind of wanted to be a pro too, but I’d never do it at the expense of my family.”
It has altered one thing, though, and that is that Mechelle would like to marry an athletic man. “I’d like him to be involved in sports,” she smiles, “but not necessarily professional.” She enjoys dates with boys who play tennis and other coed sports and says that both have fun “no matter who wins!”
But marriage seems a little far away now as she enjoys another year of high school. After graduation she plans to attend college and major in—what else?—physical education.
Mechelle is excited about what the next few years will hold, both on the courts and off. She is a winner in more ways than one.

They taught us for a few weeks, and I really believed what they told me. But Mom was brought up in her religion and thought she was sinful thinking any other way. I don’t know if Mama asked them not to come back, or if the missionaries felt like they shouldn’t baptize an 11-year-old girl without her family, but they stopped coming.
I didn’t know where they had gone. I didn’t know where the church met or how to contact the missionaries. They had given me some books, A Marvelous Work and a Wonder and The Doctrine and Covenants. I sat down and studied these books carefully.
By then I was in seventh grade. I remember my teacher wanted us to give a presentation on any subject we chose, and I picked Mormonism. I remember studying for it so hard. I then got up and gave my presentation in front of all the students and the faculty, and I wasn’t even a member of the Church. I think I answered every question correctly.
About a year and a half after the first missionaries visited us, another set of missionaries knocked on the door. My family wasn’t home, but they gave me a Book of Mormon. They said they would be back in a couple of days to see what I thought about it. I was baptized the next week and have hardly missed a Sunday since.
I remember that I wasn’t very comfortable at church for a while because I didn’t have my family to go with me. I knew the Church was true, so I gave myself a year to get comfortable and see how I fit. By the time that year was up, I never wanted to leave church. Mama used to say, “Honey, why don’t you come home once in a while.” Every opportunity I had, I was at church. I loved it there.
A sister in the ward came up to me, just before I left on my mission, and asked me, “What kept you coming back to church, every Sunday all by yourself.” I really couldn’t give her a direct answer, but something pushed me toward church every Sunday.
I don’t think it was coincidence that missionaries hocked on my door at 9:25 that night during a storm when missionaries are supposed to be in at 9:30. It was their last house, and with the storm they could have easily rationalized going home five minutes early. Those missionaries never knew that the 11-year-old girl listening in the background joined the Church and became a missionary herself.
That thought made me a better missionary. I would say to myself, “One more door. I was the last door, so one more door.”

The five-foot whitecaps smashed relentlessly against the sandy shores of Shoshone Lake. Sam Christiansen and Darrel Gibbons, both in their mid 30s, peered nervously from Moose Creek Campsite on the south beach to catch a glimpse of a little fleet of five brightly colored canoes. They had seen the small craft on the lake before the storm began. Now, although they were grateful to be planted firmly on the shore, their concern for those on the wind-ravaged waters grew with every passing moment.
Both men, teachers at South Fremont High School in St. Anthony, Idaho, and high priests in their respective wards, held a wary respect for Shoshone’s windy temper tantrums. They had learned that failure to clear the lake at first breeze was asking for trouble.
Shoshone Lake is an old volcanic crater measuring several hundred feet deep. Its seven-mile length and three-mile width nestle at the foot of pine-forested mountains in the south central portion of Yellowstone National Park. It is an area of primitive beauty that abounds in wildlife and spectacular mountain scenery. Warm, sandy beaches invite the adventurer to enjoy a true wilderness experience.
Motorized watercraft are not permitted on the lake, and access to it must be by backpacking or canoe. Being expert canoeists, Sam and Darrel looked forward each year to spending a few days in solitude and relaxation doing some real canoeing and fishing for the big wild trout that cruise the lake’s shores. Little did they realize that this trip would be different. Thursday, July 20, 1978, was to have an eternal impact on their lives and the lives of many others.
The day had been cloudy, with intermittent rain, too miserable to do any serious canoeing, or for that matter, even much fishing. Open campfire cooking, mixed generously with dozing and relaxing in the six-man tent, was the height of the day’s activity. Darrel’s father, Ray Gibbons, a Utah dairy farmer, and Sam’s two boys, Craig, 12, and David, 8, accompanied them. Ray Gibbons had commented that the upcoming night might be a long one due to the extra shut-eye.
Earlier that same day, eight explorers and two leaders from the Wilford Idaho Ward had set out for Shoshone Lake. The Wilford area was the first to be hit by the devastating Teton Flood on June 5, 1976. These young men who had lost their homes in that flood were once again to face a life-and-death crisis.
As the day began, their small craft, loaded to the gunnels with food and camping gear, had glided across Lewis Lake, then up the Lewis River four miles to Shoshone Lake. Each canoe was navigated by a team of two. The teams consisted of Kim Bischoff and Brant Kerbs; Van Hansen and Lane Potter; David Bischoff and Wade Singleton; Daren Dayton and Darris Williams; and their leaders, Lane Reynolds and John Bischoff, Kim’s father.
The previous year these boys had been students in Darrel’s seminary classes and Sam’s history and U.S. government classes at South Fremont, making them all more than mere acquaintances. But neither group knew the other was at the lake.
About 3:30 a giant black cloud appeared on the western horizon, soon covering the surrounding mountains like a shroud. When the front hit the lake, it was almost as if an atomic bomb had been detonated in its depths. In seconds the clear glassy surface was whipped into a frenzy. The fierceness of this explosive storm was like nothing Sam or Darrel had ever witnessed before. They knew the canoeists on the lake were in trouble and a lot of it. Even a cabin cruiser would find the going rough. Keeping a flimsy canoe afloat was next to impossible.
From the moment the devastating winds hit, the boys and their leaders fought gallantly to stay afloat, keeping their bows headed into the wind. However, within minutes Daren Dayton and Darris Williams swamped. Clothes provided little protection as the icy wetness rushed to their skin. Their life jackets were securely fastened, but the huge waves slapped and jostled them unceasingly. With only their sopping heads above water, they clung tenaciously to their overturned canoe. The shocking cold made breathing difficult. Already the icy water was beginning its deadly work.
Brant Kerbs and Kim Bischoff were closest to Daren and Darris as they capsized, but any rescue would be impossible in these rough waters. The two still afloat shouted encouragement and promised they would find help and return.
Being closest to the north shore, Brant and Kim decided their best bet was to continue toward it. Icy beads of near freezing water pelted their faces. Their destination seemed hopelessly remote, with progress painfully slow, but 30 minutes found them only a stone’s throw from shore. Just 30 yards away they saw a determined Van Hansen and Lane Potter also paddling toward shore.
At their Moose Creek campsite, Sam and Darrel watched intently.
“Can you see them?” Darrel shouted. Sam and the others a few feet away could barely hear above the rushing winds.
“They’re in that direction heading toward the north shore. I can only see one or maybe two.” Sam strained his eyes, but high waves had all but hidden them from view. “Why are they fighting it? They’d be ahead to turn around and come with the wind.” The campers’ frustration grew as the determined paddlers struggled to reach the north shore.
“Even with a life jacket there isn’t a soul who could last more than an hour or so in that water.” Darrel’s recent training in hypothermia had taught him that prolonged exposure to these 45-degree water temperatures would rob body warmth and eventually cause the vital organs to cease functioning. In the advanced stages of hypothermia, a victim’s limbs become stiff, he loses the ability to reason, and finally drifts into unconsciousness and death.
As hard as Kim and Brant paddled, they couldn’t reach land. A cross wind was driving them foot by foot back toward the middle of the lake. Their muscles ached from want of a moment’s relief, but every second was a fight to keep their frail craft from turning sideways into one of the large waves. It was evident that beaching on the north shore was impossible. Disheartened at being so close and yet so far, the boys decided that they must somehow turn their canoe back toward the south. It was a tricky maneuver, one that had to be done with precision or end in disaster. They noticed a rhythm in the swells that caused a brief lull after every fourth or fifth wave. With flawless timing they made the 180-degree turn. Their old bedraggled canoe, the only one without air ballasts and with a bottom you could step through, was still afloat. It plowed a watery furrow before a wind that pushed it like a giant hand.
Several hundred yards away, the food-and-equipment-laden canoe of the adult leaders, Lane Reynolds and John Bischoff, lost balance and spilled both men and supplies into the frothy coldness. Luckily, David Bischoff and Wade Singleton, the least experienced of the group, had stuck close to their leaders all day. When the leaders’ canoe flipped over, the boys maneuvered their craft so Lane Reynolds could, with counterbalancing by Wade and David, pull himself aboard.
Since the two adults weighed over 200 pounds each, taking them both aboard would swamp the canoe. So John picked up the end of a rope that had been used earlier as a tow line and trailed along behind as they also started for the south shore. The heaviness of the canoe and the drag of John’s weight slowed progress to a turtle’s pace.
On the south shore at Moose Creek Camp, the campers continued their vigil. They had lost sight of all the canoes among the mountainous waves but maintained hope that they had reached the safety of the north shore.
Then they spotted it—a bright yellow canoe a half mile out being propelled through the water like a battleship. It was heading straight for them. Sam and Darrel rushed to the water’s edge where in minutes the little canoe and its two occupants were literally thrown on Moose Creek Beach.
As the exhausted boys climbed out, Darrel and Sam stared in unbelief into the fatigue-lined faces of their former students. The boys, in shock from their ordeal, couldn’t believe their eyes as they stared into the friendly faces of their high school teachers. Sam and Darrel hurried the two boys to the warmth of the campfire where they listened intently to the painful news of Daren Dayton and Darris Williams. Already these two young men had been in the water over an hour. Undoubtedly hypothermia was taking its toll.
“There’s another canoe coming this way!” someone shouted. Sure enough, half a mile out a canoe with three occupants was making laborious progress, pitching and yawing amid the swells. They anxiously watched several minutes as it struggled to within a quarter mile of shore. Suddenly a huge wall of water caught the canoe broadside, spilling everyone and everything beneath the angry surface. One by one they popped up like toast in a toaster. David Bischoff, Wade Singleton, and Scout leader Lane Reynolds were all bobbing around the floundering canoe. But where was John Bischoff?
Amidst the shock and excitement, John had apparently lost his grip on the rope. An hour and a half in the water had made his whole body numb from the cold. As soon as he lost his grip on the rope, the lake’s undertow immediately began pulling him back toward the middle.
Sam and Darrel raced to the water’s edge for a better look. The urgency of the situation allowed little time to think. They must now consider a rescue attempt, knowing that such an attempt, especially in a canoe, would be extremely dangerous.
Sam was overwhelmed at the thought of it all—the unbelievably wild lake, the boys in a desperate situation fighting for their lives, his own wife and family so dependent on him. Was such a risk justified? Was it possible in a 16-foot canoe?
Darrel, who was bishop of his ward, had experienced the influence of the Lord through prayer many times. Now he felt an almost desperate need for guidance—a spiritual assurance that a rescue would be possible. Sam, whose past included many faith-promoting experiences, also needed this assurance more than anything he could remember. Humbled by the heaviness of the situation, they knelt together on the beach and prayed for those in the water, earnestly petitioning their Father in Heaven for guidance, strength, and protection. The warm, positive reassurance they were seeking came immediately. They knew unmistakably that the Lord was aware of their plight and would sustain them in their rescue efforts.
Somewhat startled by the quickness of the answer, Sam and Darrel looked at each other without speaking and ran toward their two beached canoes. Darrel’s father Ray then made what proved to be the most important suggestion of the day. “If you’re going out there, you’d better lash your canoes together for greater stability.”
Relieved at this welcome idea, the rescuers grabbed three oars, placed them across the two canoes, and tied them down securely with rope, making a more stable, double-hulled craft.
Within minutes, Sam and Darrel launched toward the nearest victims, praying that the others could hang on a little longer. The launch was rough. The rescue canoe lurched almost straight up at the first wave, throwing Sam backward into the water. Drenched from head to foot, he made a quick recovery and climbed into the canoe more determined than ever.
After 20 grueling minutes, their forward progress totaled no more than 20 yards. Incredibly frustrated at getting nowhere, they began shouting at each other to paddle harder. Then, noticing a short lull between every few waves, they started timing their strokes for greater results.
Twenty-five minutes more brought them within reach of Lane, David, and Wade. David and Wade thought they were seeing heaven as they recognized the high school teachers reaching out to them. The three, in a state of shock, could not have been more relieved had the rescue craft been an aircraft carrier. One of the most dangerous moments in a rescue of this kind comes with pulling a victim into the boat, especially when that boat resembles a bucking horse. Sam leaned over one side while Darrel grabbed Wade Singleton and lifted him over the other. David Bischoff followed; then came Lane Reynolds, a challenging 200 pounds. Lane, exposed to the water twice, was virtually helpless from advancing stages of hypothermia. Darrel pulled him partway out of the water, grabbed a leg, and lifted it over the side. Again Sam leaned out over the opposite side as a counterbalance. With all the might Darrel could muster, he pulled the leader aboard.
“Where is the other one?” Sam questioned.
“We don’t know. It’s John Bischoff,” came the reply. “We’re afraid he’s dead. He couldn’t hang on any longer.”
Lane Reynolds needed immediate attention, the kind that could only be properly administered by the warmth of a campfire. Determined to return and look for John, they headed for shore. A hundred yards away John Bischoff, barely conscious, saw the canoe leaving and felt all was lost.
A warm fire and muscle massage followed by hot chocolate and a dry sleeping bag soon brought Lane out of danger.
As Sam looked over the lake to catch a glimpse of John Bischoff or Daren and Darris, a faint cry for help came across the water from more than half a mile away. Almost as if a tunnel of vision had opened, his eyes fell on a tiny orange object bobbing among the swells. Could it be John? It was so far away from where they had just picked up the other victims. The two men rushed to their double canoe and were soon stroking rhythmically toward the distant speck of color.
Sure enough, it was John, incoherent and unable to recognize anyone, but alive. With muscles paralyzed from over two and a half hours in the water, he could offer no assistance. Although he also weighed over 200 pounds, he was pulled to safety like a water-soaked log.
With aching but still powerful strokes, the rescuers propelled the double-hulled canoe toward shore. As they fought their way back through the towering waves, they worried about the boys still on the lake. Over three hours had passed since Daren and Darris had tipped into the water. Lane Potter and Van Hansen were last seen approaching the north shore. The rescuers hoped these two were safe and enjoying the warmth of a crackling fire. But if Darris and Daren were to be found before dark, it had to be soon. Praying for those still to be rescued, Sam and Darrel paddled desperately for shore.
Arriving at last, they beached the canoe and helped John to the fire where they quickly administered treatment. Kim was elated to see his father alive. As John slowly began responding to treatment, the rescuers prepared to go out to find Darris and Daren.
As Darrel looked to the northwest across the lake, the waning rays of the sun reflected like a spotlight off two tiny objects one and a half miles out. Could it be Daren and Darris? Spotting someone so far out in twilight was miraculous, especially when earlier it had been difficult to see even 100 yards.
Again the little lifeboat was launched. This time Ray Gibbons and Kim Bischoff accompanied Sam and Darrel. The wind was beginning to subside, and with extra paddlers they soon pulled alongside Daren Dayton and Darris Williams, who, although unconscious, still held a death grip on their canoe. Their exposure covered an incredible four and a half hours. Suffering advanced hypothermia, the young men unconsciously fought to live. Daren was pulled to safety first, but Darris fought to hang onto the canoe as if it were life itself. Finally Darrel loosened Darris’s grip and lifted him into the boat. As the rescuers turned toward the beach, they began administering first aid immediately by rubbing the boys’ muscles.
Beside the warm fire the group worked over the two young men. Darris began to show signs of reviving while Daren, convulsing and foaming at the mouth, showed little. After 30 minutes, Darris regained consciousness, drank hot liquids, and was soon able to talk, but Daren fought their attempts to help. Two of them held him down while the others continued to administer warmth and massage. After several minutes Daren opened his eyes and said, “Brrr, it’s cold.” The whole group was elated.
“Those are the best words I have ever heard!” Sam exclaimed. They continued the process for another 15 minutes until Daren was fully conscious and somewhat limber.
The night was black except for the flickering fire on the beach as the group ate a tasty, soul-warming supper of hamburger, soup, fried potatoes, and hot chocolate. Each recounted his close brush with death.
Daren and Darris had miraculously escaped death’s grip. Even a few minutes longer in the water might have proved too many. They recounted that for the first hour or two they had talked of family and friends and encouraged each other to hang on. As the numbing cold spread throughout their bodies, they became more and more depressed, talking of death and expressing hope they would have a good funeral. Wise canoe instructors had ingrained in them the fact they should stay with their canoe no matter what. So they locked their arms under the end seats in a death grip, determined not to let go. After three hours they began passing in and out of consciousness, finally blacking out and remembering nothing until regaining their senses by the fire. After preparing for death, it was wonderful to be safely on the beach.
It was 11:30 P.M., and Sam lay in his sleeping bag. He couldn’t remember when anything had felt so good. He still wondered about Lane and Van but felt some reassurance since they had been seen close to shore. Then he remembered Ray Gibbons’s prediction that he wouldn’t be able to sleep that night. Sam smiled and drifted off to sleep.
The next morning Darrel and his father arose early and walked along the beach. The sky was still a little cloudy and the air chilly. Along the shoreline they discovered some of the supplies lost from the canoes in the storm. Then they saw it—the overturned green canoe of Van and Lane. They had never made it to the other side. The nightmare returned. Darrel stared at the canoe in utter disbelief, then pulled it ashore. Heartsick, they walked back to camp.
Sam was devastated by the news, but they refrained from telling the other boys just yet until they were sure. Maybe by some miracle the two had survived. The morning was solemn as they prepared breakfast, silently reflecting upon the unbelievable nightmare of yesterday.
As the sun began to peek above the distant mountain horizon, Sam and Darrel canoed to the east end of the lake to the temporary ranger station where they might find a radio, but the log cabin was locked up tight.
A backpacker passing through the area agreed to go for help by hiking to the ranger station at Grants Village several miles across the mountains to the east. By midmorning a helicopter appeared and circled the lake. It hovered for a moment at a spot near the outlet, then landed on the beach at Moose Creek Camp. The ranger stepped out and confirmed that a body had been found. It was later identified as Lane Potter. Van Hansen’s body was to be found the following day. Lane Reynolds, their leader, felt deeply responsible. He sat with his head in his hands, wondering how he could face their parents and what he could say.
The lake was still and smooth. It was hard to imagine that such a peaceful place could have been so ferocious. The group packed their gear in their canoes and headed for home. The serene quiet was interrupted only by an occasional trickle of water from a paddle as the canoes slid silently toward the outlet in single file.
Sam meditated upon the last 24 hours and with wonderment began to analyze the many unusual circumstances.
Could it be coincidence that Sam and Darrel, avid softball players, felt they should go on this camping trip rather than play in a stake championship game? Their two ward teams were playing each other the night they were camped on the Shoshone.
Was it coincidence that Darrel insisted his father come on this outing? It was Ray Gibbons who suggested that the canoes be lashed together. Any attempt to make a rescue in a single canoe would have been doomed to failure.
Was bringing an extra 100 feet of rope just coincidence when normally it would far exceed their needs? It was needed to lash the canoes together.
Was it only by chance that Kim and David managed to guide the only canoe without air balasts all the way to the north shore, then back across three miles of raging waves to land squarely on Moose Creek Beach, literally at the feet of the only two people who could help?
Could receiving a two-day permit to camp at the Moose Creek campsite rather than the normal one-day permit have been a coincidence? Moose Creek site is used as a staging area for incoming campers who move on to a more permanent camp the second day. A one-day permit would have forced a relocation to a spot around the lake where the canoes could have gone unnoticed.
Was it only chance that the two rescuers had been trained in the treatment of hypothermia, were in the best physical condition they had enjoyed for years, and were well rested for the almost superhuman effort?
Could it be coincidence that three of the victims were spotted nearly one and a half miles out when conditions made it difficult to see an object even 100 yards away?
A ranger shook his head in disbelief when told the young men survived four and a half hours in the frigid waters of Shoshone Lake. He said it was impossible.
For those involved in the rescue, the explanation is obvious. The Lord, in his divine wisdom, inspired two worthy priesthood holders to prepare for and perform a perilous rescue. Their sincere, humble prayer was heard and answered with divine assurance that they would be sustained in their efforts. Sam and Darrel had also exercised their priesthood and faith by administering to each hypothermia victim, all of whom recovered.
Everyone affected by this experience agrees it has built testimonies and added depth and meaning to many lives. Four years later, four of the young men who survived that day are serving missions. Another has been married in the temple, and one is serving in the armed forces.
As for the two young men who did not survive, it is a hurt that does not soon fade for family and friends. But the scriptures reveal that our Heavenly Father is aware of every sparrow that falls to the ground, and that every hair of our heads is numbered (Matt. 10:29–30). Surely he knows what is best for each of his children in his eternal plan.
Sam Christiansen and Darrel Gibbons continue enjoying dedicated Church service. They share a quiet gratitude to the Lord for their success and safety in the rescue, for had they failed, all would have perished.

Since I now listened to special music with no din of radio and not even a newspaper, I decided to go a step further. I’d try no television on the Lord’s day. In my early days I would have cried, “Fanatic!” or other such things. I mean, what is really wrong with television on Sunday? Nothing. But this step seemed logical to me, and I know the Spirit was guiding me. After I, who had supported Sunday TV for so many years, had taken the giant step, I noticed that without fail the “cream of the crop,” yes, only the most wonderful movies, were shown on Sunday. But I had decided, and I stuck by my guns. Those movies couldn’t uplift me. A whole new world unfolded in my life. Some of the most special moments I have enjoyed have occurred on Sunday evening as I have basked in the spirit of the day and shared my feelings with friends and loved ones instead of rushing home from sacrament meeting to watch my favorite western. Maybe there’s not really a definite commandment about not watching television on Sunday, but what choice experiences I’d have missed by going along with the crowd.

We see cases of kidnapping, when children are taken away. I remember years ago, I think it was in 1932, when Colonel Lindbergh’s little boy was kidnapped and a note was left asking for $50,000. He would gladly have paid what they asked if he could have gotten his boy back again. And yet here we come along with the knowledge of life eternal. Brother Marion G. Romney quoted this morning the revelation of the Lord where he said that in the resurrection children would come forth and grow up without sin unto salvation. (See D&C 45:58.)

There are those of us who have laid away our little ones in the grave, and we had that responsibility. A little daughter was born to us over in Holland while I was president of the mission there, and we kept her until she was three and a half years old. My wife has said time and time again that she knew the angels brought that spirit to her because she felt their presence, and yet we laid her away in the grave. If we had to feel that that was the end, we would have given anything in this world to have her back again. And then we come to this great knowledge that we have in the restoration of the gospel, that she will be ours in the eternal world and we will have the joy of seeing her grow up without sin, unto salvation. Sometimes I have thought that probably some of these choice spirits did not need the experience here in mortality like other children, and that is why the Lord has seen fit to call them home.

We had four daughters before we had a son. We were sent to California to preside over a stake down there, and our boy went out with a member of the high council and his boys, and he lost his life in an accident. That is the greatest sorrow that ever came to us, but now we are getting up on the top of the ladder, so to speak, and we look forward, knowing that these love ties are intended by God, our Eternal Father, to endure throughout the eternities. It takes the sting away from death to know that we are going to meet those who are so dear and sacred to us. Thank God for this knowledge! I want to see our foundation here so laid that we will be worthy to stand with our loved ones and with the sanctified and the redeemed of our Father’s children.

It was when he turned 18 that Enoch faced a bigger challenge. Wanting to grow his knowledge and understanding of the gospel by learning what the world thought of his faith, he began to encounter ideas and philosophies that caused him to question his beliefs. He began to wrestle with his testimony, becoming more and more confused by what he was finding. He tried to find his own answers to resolve the growing confusion, but they were not forthcoming. He turned to others with his questions, but they couldn’t resolve his doubts. Finally, he approached the missionaries, challenging them to answer his questions, but they declined to give him easy and quick answers, which he found surprising. Instead, they returned the challenge and gave him a Book of Mormon with the promise that if he read with a sincere heart, asking God in faith, his confusion would be resolved. He accepted their challenge.

Enoch devoured the Book of Mormon in 10 days. Frequently, as he encountered stories of conversion such as those of Alma, King Lamoni, and others, the Spirit moved him to tears. In his reading he recognized the same Spirit he had felt in reading the New Testament in his youth. He felt a calming comfort that helped him remember and renew his relationship with his Savior, and his confusion began to fade. The answers to some of his questions never came, but he didn’t worry as he realized that his questions didn’t have to be answered. What mattered was his knowledge of the truthfulness of the plan of salvation and of the divinity and role of Jesus Christ, and especially of the Saviour’s love for him. He regained his footing on the covenant path with a newly strengthened relationship to God.

By December 1827 there had been several attempts to steal the plates, so Joseph decided to move with Emma to the home of her parents in Harmony Township, Pennsylvania.

When Joseph and Emma arrived, Joseph allowed Isaac Hale, Emma’s father, to heft the plates in a box. Isaac later stated, “I was allowed to feel the weight of the box, and they gave me to understand, that the book of plates was then in the box.” Yet he was unconvinced and dissatisfied with the situation. He told Joseph to either show him the plates or remove them from his house. Joseph hid the plates in the nearby woods until he and Emma moved into their own home on the Hale property.10

It was a real feeling of fear, she explained, that gave her “more than the usual desire to be ‘in’.” When Pat Terry Holland was 16, she moved with her family from a small rural town to a larger city. Recalling the anguish of that experience, she said, “I felt overly sensitive, very awkward, afraid, and unaccepted. I remember being really hurt at that time because my fear and hesitancy was mistaken for conceit and stand-offishness. It hurt so much to have people think I was stuck-up just because I was afraid to be outgoing and friendly.”
This timid young girl, in spite of her beauty, her intelligence, and the strength of her family, experienced the anguish of feeling left out and alone. She was hurting inside. “If I could just be really popular,” she had thought, “that would help me feel confident and happy. If I could just be a class officer, if I could be a cheerleader, if I could enter a queen contest and win, then I would be a really happy teenager.” These thoughts kept flooding her mind at that time when it appeared to her that no one else was suffering those terrible left-out feelings.
Years later, and still looking like a queen, but now more confident and happy, this young mother recalls those times as she relives and suffers a bit with her own children who are now facing the challenges that are so much a part of growing up. “You know,” she said happily, “all of those things did eventually come to me (class officer, cheerleader, and campus queen), and they did bring a lot of attention. But to my great surprise, I discovered that they, in and of themselves, were very empty experiences.”
She now draws strength from a more lasting and dependable resource, she explained: “Those honors, while rewarding, did not bring the real confidence and happiness that I was sure they would.”
There is unquestioning evidence that somewhere along the way Sister Holland has found the key, the source, and the secret to confidence and happiness. Her dark brown eyes radiate joy, peace, anticipation, and enthusiasm as she shares her thoughts and feelings so freely.
“What is it?” I asked, eager to hear her tell of what is better than those things she had one time yearned for so much.
“Well,” she said, her expression intense, her voice soft, but confident, “I remember once being very inspired by a talk given by President N. Eldon Tanner. He quoted from the scriptures, ‘Seek ye first the kingdom of heaven.’ I realized then, even at a rather young age, that if I would seek first the kingdom of heaven, everything else would be added unto me. That left a great impression on my mind,” she explained. She also remembered the theme from Mutual that year and recited it with conviction: “‘Be thou humble; and the Lord thy God shall lead thee by the hand, and give thee answer to thy prayers’ (D&C 112:10). That I clung to like it was gold,” she said, clasping her hands in front of her.
Sister Holland spoke of another very memorable experience that became “a real turning point in my life.” She said, “My parents had allowed me to come to Salt Lake City and live with a group of girls for the summer while I worked. They were all about my age. We had many happy times together, but in our apartment at one time we felt despondency and discouragement, and I remember feeling it so strongly one day that I decided to fast and pray about how to be happy, how to find the peace and security and confidence that a person needs. That evening my roommates and I decided to go to a movie. We first went to a grocery store to get some treats to take with us. At the store we pulled our car in right next to Elder ElRay L. Christiansen, then an Assistant to the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. He walked right over to our car. He chatted with each one of us. He seemed very interested and asked us our names. I was so excited, I couldn’t believe this was happening to me.”
As if she were reliving that experience and sensing again the impact of that memorable occasion, she bore testimony: “Just before Elder Christiansen got ready to leave, he paused, looked right at me, and said, ‘Pat, the only way to be happy is to be obedient.’”
There was silence for a moment, each pondering the magnitude of this simple counsel and the direct answer to fervent prayer. She recalled her feelings on that occasion, “First of all, just to see a General Authority was a highlight in my life. It was the first time I had ever had any personal contact with Church leaders like that.”
This young girl, anxious to find the right answers and inspired by the counsel of a General Authority, had no way of knowing then that later, as the wife of Jeffrey Holland, former Church Commissioner of Education and now President of Brigham Young University, she would find herself in close and frequent association with many of the General Authorities. “To have my prayers answered so directly was another turning point in my life,” she said. “I realized right then and there that truly the greatest thing that I could cling to, the only way to be confident and happy, is to be obedient and live by the Spirit.”
While yet a teenager she discovered “there is just no substitute for obedience.” While obedience had not been a struggle for Pat, still the impact of receiving such an immediate and direct answer to her earnest supplication, and to receive it from one of the Lord’s chosen servants, a General Authority in person, was just more than she had ever hoped for.
Pat met Jeffrey Holland between her junior and senior year at high school. With a twinkle in her eye, she expressed much more of that sweet relationship than was spoken. “And that continues to be the best thing that has ever happened to me,” she said enthusiastically. “He continually amazes me, and it’s a wonderful privilege and blessing to be his wife.” Feeling the joy and happiness that she was expressing made it difficult to realize that she had ever had youthful feelings of discouragement or fear.
Speaking of their early friendship, she recalled that when he left for his mission, they so wanted to have a “forever kind of love.” Together they decided that they would do three things that would unite them even in his absence: (1) Read the scriptures every day. (2) Fast once a week. (3) Pray really often. “These have become habits that we have continued to this day,” she said humbly and gratefully, thinking of the far-reaching rewards of that early decision that kept them close while they were far away.
Her countenance and the tone of testimony in her voice gave me reason to believe that the unlimited reservoir from which she now draws strength and confidence has been filled through diligent obedience to this early commitment that has now become a habit. “And has that taken away all of the difficult times?” I inquired, since the spirit in her home seemed to be so peaceful and void of any stress. “Oh, no, not always,” she said, smiling. “I remember one time I had become very concerned,” she confessed. “I felt the pressures were great. For the first dozen years of our married life, Jeff was either a student or a teacher. We moved 12 times in 13 years. One of those moves was to Connecticut.”
At this time her young husband was a student at Yale University working on his Ph.D. He felt the pressure to do well as one of the very few Mormon students there. He was called to serve as counselor in the stake presidency, which required considerable travel within the boundaries of a very large stake. He also taught institute at Yale, which helped supplement their meager income. Sister Holland was called at that time to be the ward Relief Society president. She had two small babies. “The pressure was so great, I really wanted to give up,” she admitted. “It wasn’t easy.” Thinking back to her husband’s counsel, which seemed so hard to follow at that time, she explained: “He knew of my concerns and gave me direction.”
“Read your scriptures more meaningfully,” he gently but fervently counseled his young wife. “Because,” he said, “the only way we will survive (feeling considerable pressure himself) is through spirituality. We will survive through the strength of the Spirit.”
She said, “I tried hard to follow my husband’s counsel in righteousness, but I remember thinking, ‘That’s easier said than done.’” With the lesson on obedience deeply anchored in her soul, she was prepared to try. In an attempt to do just what he said, hard as it was, she told of fasting and praying one day. “His words kept coming to my mind about reading the scriptures more meaningfully. I remember walking over to my scriptures with the attitude, okay, we’ll just see if there’s something to this. And of course there was. The answers were there.”
Now, leaning forward, she spoke reverently of that very special experience: “That’s how the Lord uses the scriptures to talk to us,” she said. “He can’t be everywhere in person, but he guides us as we diligently search the scriptures, and he knows at what point in our lives certain passages will have meaning for us. That way he can provide the answers to things we earnestly seek.” Again she repeated, “That’s how the Lord uses the scriptures to talk to us.
“Truly, that was another turning point,” she said. In following her husband’s counsel, the scriptures had provided the answers she so much needed at that time. “It’s not always easy,” she explained in a cheerful, happy tone. “We’ll continue to have challenges and we’ll continue to be purified, but the time of greatest challenge is also the time of greatest spiritual blessings.”
“What kind of blessings?” I asked.
She paused thoughtfully, and while I waited for her response, I observed the beauties of her home and thought of her many and varied accomplishments. Her beautiful grand piano reminded me of her exceptional musical gifts and talents. She began her musical training very young and at one time was encouraged to go east and study, which she did briefly. But then she realized that she had to make some important choices.
“I faced what a lot of young women face—the choice between a career and marriage. I made the right decision. I have a wonderful husband, three beautiful children, and some music. My music alone would be a poor substitute for my family I love with all my heart.”
Speaking of that incident she said warmly, “Jeff was my first choice!”
Of his wife Brother Holland says, “She’s incredible! Absolutely stunning! She can lift an entire day’s burden with the curl of her smile and dry a child’s tear with one touch. She refuses to speak ill of anyone, trying always to understand and empathize and forgive. She’s funny and free and full of faith. I’ve never known a more spiritual, more disciplined, more gentle woman all rolled up in one beautiful package.”
Now interrupting the brief silence, Sister Holland was ready with her response. “About the blessings,” she said, “the greatest ones are really not tangible. It’s that peace and happiness and confidence that I was speaking of before.” Then, clasping her hands together to give emphasis to her response, she explained, “It’s a oneness with each other, with our children, with our neighbors, and with God. It’s as though the windows of heaven have been opened.” She glanced upward. The spirit of her message could be felt. She spoke of all the gloriously happy times with her husband and her beautiful children.
To be near Sister Holland is to experience the radiance of a truly good and happy person. She seemed so confident and at peace, I was prompted to ask just one more question: “Sister Holland, do you have any particular concerns at this time?” Her countenance changed. “Yes,” she said, “I’m saddened by some of the philosophies I hear. I hope our young people and everyone can sacrifice enough to receive the blessings, to give up things that might seem important right now for the greater things. I hope we will always be willing to pay that kind of price and in return receive the boundless blessings that are promised.” There was evidence of her intense desire for everyone to be happy, and her personal knowledge of the key to this great blessing is something she is so anxious to share.
Sister Holland, as a leader and teacher of youth, reaches out with deep love and understanding. She has genuine concern for their confidence and happiness—just as she had for herself at that age. As a final expression by way of testimony, she emphatically concluded, “Sacrifice brings forth the blessings of heaven; there is no other way.”

Ali smiled as she closed the last bright blue envelope. Her eighth birthday was next week! She had spent the whole morning making invitations for her birthday party.
“Ready to go?” Mom asked.
Ali nodded. They were taking an invitation to her friend Tiffany in the hospital.
“I think Tiffany will be glad to see you,” Mom said as she and Ali climbed into the car. “Her mom told me they had to shave off some of her hair for the surgery.”
Ali’s eyes got wide. “But school is starting soon! How can she go to school with no hair?”
“They didn’t shave off all her hair—just a little bit,” Mom said. “And taking care of our bodies is much more important than how we look.”
Ali ran her fingers through her own long hair. It almost reached her waist. “I feel sad for Tiffany.”
“That’s why we’re going to visit her,” Mom said. “It’s part of bearing one another’s burdens.”
Ali scrunched up her eyebrows. “What does that mean?”
“It means helping others when they are going through a hard time,” Mom said. “It’s something you’ll promise to do when you get baptized.”
Ali smiled. Her baptism was coming up! “So I guess helping Tiffany feel better is one way I can practice doing that?” she said.
“Yeah,” said Mom. “That’s a great way to think of it.”
When they got to the hospital, Ali followed Mom to Tiffany’s room. They walked down a long hallway with brightly painted walls and open doors. Inside the rooms, Ali could see children resting in big white hospital beds. Some of them didn’t have any hair.
Finally they got to Tiffany’s room. Tiffany was happy to see Ali.
Ali saw that Tiffany had a bandage on the side of her head. “How are you feeling?” Ali asked.
“Pretty good,” Tiffany said. “The doctor says the surgery went great.”
“Yay! I’m so glad you’re OK,” Ali said.
Then Ali held out a bright blue birthday invitation. “When you’re feeling better, I hope you can come to my birthday party! And maybe you can even come to my baptism.”
Tiffany gave Ali a big hug. “Thank you!”
When it was time to go, Ali walked back down the hallway with Mom. Ali noticed a poster hanging on the wall. It had a picture of a girl holding a long ponytail of her hair. She was smiling. The top of the poster said, “Donate Your Hair for Wigs.”
“Mom,” Ali said. “Can I do that?” She pointed to the poster.
Mom turned to read it. “But Tiffany doesn’t need a wig.”
“I know,” said Ali. “But there are lots of kids at the hospital who do!”
Mom smiled. “I think that’s a great idea.”
On the morning of Ali’s birthday party, Mom took Ali to get her hair cut. After lots of combing and snipping, Ali looked in the mirror. Now her hair reached just to her chin. She felt happy inside when she imagined a girl sitting in a hospital bed, putting on a wig made with some of Ali’s hair.
“How do you feel?” Mom asked.
“So happy that I made up a joke,” said Ali. “Want to hear it?”
Mom nodded.
“I’m getting a head start on my baptism promises!” Ali said with a laugh. She couldn’t wait to keep helping others bear their burdens.

I remember, as a small boy, sitting on my dad’s lap and hearing him tell me about when he was a boy and how afraid he was of the dark, and how he would wake up in the night and be so frightened that he would jump out of bed and run to his parents’ room. There Grandma would always let him get in bed with her and then everything was alright. I don’t know if it was because of Dad telling me about this or not, but I grew up a total coward. I had, and still do have, a great fear of the dark. I understand why the scriptures relate darkness to that which is not good. My biggest challenge day after day as a boy was going to bed each night because I would have to turn out the light and then get clear across the room and into bed before a booger could get me. I knew they were in the closet and under the bed and behind the curtains. I got so I would start to run, hit the light, take one step inside the room, and then take a huge leap and hit the bed—most of the time! Mother never did know why the springs were broken on that side of the bed. Once in bed, up would go the covers over my head, and there I would lay paralyzed until I went to sleep.

Invariably I would wake up in the middle of the night and figure for sure I was a goner. Finally, when I just couldn’t stand it any longer, I would throw back the covers and leap out of bed so the boogers under the bed couldn’t grab me, race past the closet that must have always had a couple in there, and then run down the hall to Dad and Mother’s bedroom. That hall seemed like it was as long as a football field. Now that I think about it, it was only about ten feet long. But I had to go past the bathroom, the door to the kitchen, and the door to the living room, and you know who was lurking at each of them! Once in the bedroom I could see my dad’s big arm raise in the air with the bed covers in his hand and I would jump in beside him. Down would come the covers and his arm over me. Then I knew there wasn’t a booger in the world big enough to get me. I have often wondered what would have happened if one night my dad would have said, “Bobby, you big boob, get back in your own bed!” I’m afraid it would have caused permanent damage, But he loved me, he understood, and I knew I was safe and secure in the arms of my dad and that he would never turn me away.

For me, taking upon myself the name of Jesus Christ means remembering that His Spirit can always be with us and that we must choose to do what is right. Once at a birthday party, my friends were drinking, and they offered me an alcoholic drink. I said no. Then one of my Church friends came and told them that we do not drink alcohol because of our religion. Remembering the Savior always brings the Spirit close to me and keeps bad things away from me.
Miguel C., 16, Paraná, Brazil

You’re Rosalie Pakiding, you’re 18 years old, and you’ve just graduated from high school. You’ve been accepted at the University of San Carlos in your native Cebu, Philippines, and you’ve decided you want to major in political science. You’ve got the world in front of you, and you can’t wait to tackle college. You’ve got big plans.
Then the next thing you know, you’re withdrawing from classes and telling your family and friends you’ve decided not to go to school for six months. Attending school right now just doesn’t feel right. You say it’s a feeling you have, but you really know it’s the Holy Ghost speaking to you. It doesn’t make sense to many people. But it does to you, and that’s all that matters.
So you’re left waiting for the second semester to start, which is still six months away. Half a year with free time on your hands. What do you do? You could apply for a job, so you check around to see what’s available. You’re offered a position working in a factory assembling parts to telephones. But working all day means you’d miss your institute classes, and since you enjoyed seminary so much when you were in high school, you turn the job down because, as you say, “Institute is more important.”
Then some things happen that help you understand why you had the feelings you did about going to school. It begins to make more sense.
You meet with Mrs. Itomay from your neighborhood. Her six-year-old daughter, Queenie Ann, is in kinder-one in school, but she has some troubles. She was born with a defect in her tongue that limits her ability to speak. Mrs. Itomay works all day, and she is worried. She knows Queenie Ann needs a tutor who can give her individual attention in the areas that are hard for her. But Mrs. Itomay doesn’t know who could provide that help. To compound matters, she doesn’t have much money to pay a tutor.
So you look at Mrs. Itomay and say, “I think I have an idea.”
You volunteer to be Queenie Ann’s tutor, and Mrs. Itomay is so relieved. What little money she does have she offers to you, but you turn it down. Although you could use the money you realize those seminary lessons about service really did sink in.
Suddenly you’ve got things to do, and life is going to be a bit different. It seems a little odd that instead of sitting in college classes as you planned, it’s you and this six-year-old working on the alphabet.
But you settle into a routine. You do your household chores in the morning and then pick up Queenie Ann. You have word exercises for her to do, you help her write her letters, and you take her to school. She’s a bit of a slow learner. But when she writes out a letter or says a word, you feel so good inside. You also discover she likes to sing. She’s shy around strangers, but you’ve quickly become her best friend. She sings to you a lot. Things are going so well that Queenie asks you if you’ll teach her more. You can tell she’s really learning. And she seems very happy. Whether you’re learning words or stopping for a soda pop break at a store outside the school, it doesn’t matter. She just likes being with you. And you know what? You like it too.
“I’ve learned to love her,” you say, not the least bit surprised by your response.
Taking a semester off, you also figured to have some free time when you weren’t with Queenie Ann. But then your ward, Mandaue II, is asked to produce a road show about the Book of Mormon for a stake activity. It’s a big project, and your bishop is looking for a person to serve as the scriptwriter. Everybody is so busy with school except you, so you volunteer for the assignment. Again, it just feels right.
There have been times when you wondered if you made the right decision, delaying school and everything. You’ve watched while friends progressed in school without you. You’ve asked your Heavenly Father for a confirmation that what you were doing was what he wanted and what was best for you. Eventually those feelings of doubt leave and you say, “I understand now.” And you really do.
Your testimony continues to grow, and you are so excited when you learn new gospel concepts. You’re a bit short on money, but that doesn’t seem to matter. “The knowledge I have learned from institute class cannot be exchanged for the money I could have earned if I had worked,” you explain when someone asks why you’re doing this. Then you continue. “I’m very happy about it.”
It’s then that you look down at Queenie Ann, who’s holding your hand. She looks up at you while squinting in the hot Philippines sun. She smiles, and as you smile back you realize that while dropping out of school for one semester would not be the right decision for most people, it was one of the best decisions you’ve ever made.

I recall listening at length to a couple who sat across the desk from me. There was bitterness between them. I know that at one time their love was deep and true. But each had developed a habit of speaking of the faults of the other. Unwilling to forgive the kind of mistakes we all make, and unwilling to forget them and live above them with forbearance, they had criticized one another until the love they once knew had been smothered. It had turned to ashes with divorce. Now there is only loneliness and recrimination. I am satisfied that, had there been even a small measure of repentance and forgiveness, they would still be together, enjoying the companionship that had so richly blessed their earlier years.

As a young boy, I was motivated to read a large-print copy of the Book of Mormon because it featured illustrations by Arnold Friberg. Although the images were sparse in comparison to the prose overall, my goal was to start from the beginning and read the pages in-between, looking forward with great anticipation to the next picture. These included Samuel the Lamanite preaching with outstretched arms, perched on top of the city wall, unharmed by a flood of arrows, and an aging Lehi and his family crossing the sea.

An incentive for reading the Book of Mormon in my teenage years was food, promised by teachers at church. Later as a missionary in South Carolina I memorized dozens of scriptures to learn the fundamental doctrines of the gospel. At BYU-Provo, I sought out specific religion professors, ones who could offer substantive insight. My focus of study changed as a mature adult once I began to prepare lessons for youth and gospel doctrine classes. Now, as a YSA bishop, I find myself reading differently than ever before, carefully searching out individual words and passages that may have been glossed over earlier.

Comparable to a layered understanding of the scriptures, our view of the temple changes too, throughout our lives. When we first go through for ourselves, we may not fully grasp the meaning of the endowment. But, after giving our best efforts and staying true to what we've learned, our confidence and resolve expand. We refine our ability to seek answers through revelation. Eventually this sustained effort, over a period of years, helps us grow into our covenants. Looking back, we begin to sense our Heavenly Father's steady, yet unseen, hand and the wisdom of His intervening at particular times and places.

When I was eleven years old, my family moved from Salt Lake City to Spokane, Washington. Not long after we moved there, I signed up for a paper route.
My bedroom was in the basement of our house, and every morning at about 4:30 my mother would get up and come downstairs and open my door and say, "It's time to get up. Rise and shine." Now, I know that the basic purpose of those words was to get me out of bed and out the door so I could do my route. But I have the feeling now that when my mother said, "rise and shine" she had much more in her mind and heart than getting a paper route done. I think she saw with a mother's eye of faith that, that young boy would someday be a missionary, a husband, a young father, a Church leader, and a man of God. And he would need to know how to get up and get going. He would need to rise to the purposes and destiny God had prepared for him, and he would need to live so the light of the gospel would be in his eyes and in his heart. He would need to "rise and shine" all of his life. And so, she got up early and said those words to that boy, for which I will be eternally grateful.

The English poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772–1834) once heard a farmer say that he hoped his children would grow up to be God-fearing, prayerful, righteous people, but that he would never prejudice them in favor of religion by imposing religious principles on them or taking them to Church. He said they would grow up and decide for themselves. This same farmer was famous for his productive farm, his well-cared-for gardens, and his intelligent children.
Coleridge answered the man, “Bravo! This is a very progressive idea. Why do you not apply it also to your fields and orchards and gardens in the future? Do not prejudice them by seeding, weeding, and cultivating the soil, by pruning and thinning the trees, and by planting the gardens. Why not see if they will grow up and just decide to be what you hope they will become?”

I will never forget that family night. My dad taught the lesson. He sat down at the piano, raised his hands in the air, and then brought them down hard on the keys, banging out a terrible sound. We all covered our ears and frowned. The noise was terrible.
After a moment, he lifted his hands to the keys again. This time he played a beautiful melody. The sound was lovely and refreshing. Then he turned and faced us.
“Harmony,” he said, “is a group of notes working together. It creates a beautiful sound.” We all agreed. He challenged us to make our home a house of harmony—working together, avoiding contention, and creating beautiful music.
That lesson left a profound impact on me. Even today when I hear quarreling among family members, I remember the terrible noise he made on the piano and the beautiful contrast of harmony.

There is someone else at school counting on Michelle to do what’s right. Her younger sister, Melissa, 15, also attends Manzanilla High, and she has seen what her big sister’s example can do.
“It helps me to have a sister who stands up for what she believes,” Melissa says. “It makes it easier for me to do what’s right.” They see each other during the day and talk about how they’re getting along, and that helps both of them to stay strong.
“For example,” Michelle recalls, “one day some other girls were making fun of Melissa, saying unkind things about our nationality.” At lunch they talked it over, and Michelle was able to reassure Melissa, reminding her that she is a daughter of God with divine nature and of infinite worth. “That helped me feel better,” Melissa says. “It helped me remember who I am.”