Gospel Story Finder

Although the scriptures are meant for all of Heavenly Father’s children, they can speak to each of us in a very personal way when we ponder them and apply them to our particular challenges. I found this to be the case several years ago when I faced a painful situation.
My husband and I were experiencing a challenging time in our lives. He had recently lost his employment, so we were struggling financially as we tried to survive on my meager salary. Fortunately, our difficulties were tempered by the love we had for each other and by the love of some special friends in our ward.
Then things took a turn for the worse.
One day at work a coworker phoned for me to come to his office. I went, assuming he wanted to see me about some of the projects we were working on jointly. To my surprise, he proceeded to express strong disapproval for an action I had taken. Although I apologized, he continued to berate me, pointing out some of my personal characteristics he said he couldn’t tolerate. I was dumbfounded; I had great respect for this man’s abilities and had thought we had a cordial working relationship. Moreover, I could not understand why he felt he had the authority to chastise me when I was a couple of steps above him in the company structure.
His ranting continued until I was reduced to tears. After the whole experience, I still couldn’t understand what had made him so upset. Apparently his own life had become filled with misery, and I was the unlucky person on whom he unloaded his feelings.
When I reported this to my supervisor, I received little satisfaction. The whole experience left me feeling discouraged, alone, and vulnerable. My husband and I were already worried about his not being employed, and now I wondered what would happen to us if I lost my job.
When I arrived home that evening and explained to my husband what had happened, he opened the scriptures and read from Psalm 37, commenting that he now understood why he had felt impressed to read it that day during his scripture study.
“Cease from anger, and forsake wrath,” the psalm states. “Fret not thyself in any wise to do evil. …
“The wicked have drawn out the sword, and have bent their bow. …
“But the salvation of the righteous is of the Lord: he is their strength in the time of trouble.
“And the Lord shall help them” (Ps. 37:8, 14, 39–40).
Although I had read this psalm many times before, I was amazed at how much it seemed to apply to my circumstances. Had my husband not read this passage of scripture to me, I would likely have become angry and bitter because of my experience at work. However, the message Heavenly Father conveyed through the scriptures healed my heart as it taught me that I should be calm and free of bitterness. It gave me great hope to realize the many blessings I would receive if I heeded that message.
I returned to work the next day with joy and forgiveness in my heart and was better able to overlook the shortcomings of coworkers.
The spiritual growth that resulted from this experience has proven to be a valuable source of strength that I have drawn upon many times since. How grateful I am for both the universal and the personal nature of the scriptures!

When I had a chance to start graduate school in Florida, I was faced with another important choice. I had researched my professors and understood they would not share my ideals. One of my first classes was taught by a professor I knew did not share my political, educational, or religious values. Her first assignment was to write an essay describing our ideas for the best possible K-12 education policy. I knew honestly explaining my ideas for good education policy would be in direct conflict with hers.

To complicate matters, I was not yet admitted to the program and had to take a full-time student load for one semester, including her class, before the department would consider admitting me. I was working full-time, serving in a challenging calling, and was wholly unsure of success.

However, as an educator, I knew I would learn much more by honestly engaging with this and other similar activities. I decided to approach it honestly and was profoundly impressed when she and other professors chose to respect my ideas and challenge my reasoning rather than my integrity. This led to an amazing opportunity for growth that lasted throughout my graduate studies.

I received another important truth as a young man in a meeting in the tabernacle when President David O. McKay was giving one of his memorable addresses. In his talk he made the statement, “Sow a thought, reap an act, sow an act, reap a habit, sow a habit, reap a character, sow a character, reap an eternal destiny.” Then he proceeded to explain that no one ever commits any sin or wrongdoing unless they have thought about it ahead of time; and it is the mulling over or retaining in our minds the evil thoughts that ultimately result in our carrying them out. This statement worried me because my friends would occasionally tell dirty jokes, and the ideas expressed would stick in my mind and I would mull them over. I did not want to do the things that they suggested, remembering that they were contrary to the will of the Lord. Again, having an understanding father was a real asset to me because, as I explained my concerns to him, he told me that it needn’t be a problem if I recognized that you cannot think of two different things at the same time. He said that while we can’t keep out of our sight and hearing things that are evil, we can kick them out of our minds if we are willing to think of something else to displace them, like being in some special place doing the kind of thing we would most rather be doing at that particular time.

I decided to test this. The next time such a thought was planted in my mind, I began to think of being carried in an airplane over Mount McKinley in Alaska with all my ski gear on and with a parachute attached. I would bail out of the plane and gracefully land on top of that majestic mountain, take off the parachute, and then begin to ski down through the magnificent snow fields, spraying powder snow up behind me as I made elegant turns and enjoyed the special joy of making “galaenda sprungs” off mighty cliffs, landing safely in the snow below as I made my way down the mountain. Needless to say, the original thought vanished. As a matter of fact, as I’ve recounted this technique I have found it difficult to refocus on the basic theme of my talk!

As the breeze calms down and the fire burns brighter, Sterling Garns expresses his gratitude for the brotherhood he felt in his Aaronic Priesthood quorums before he left to attend Brigham Young University.
“A lot of us have been in this ward since we were deacons, and I feel like we’ve always been pretty close. We’ve done a lot together and our leaders have taken good care of us,” he says. “I feel blessed to have had good friends and a good family.
“Right now, you’re probably in your comfort zone with the ward, the school, your family, a lot of what you do. Until you leave, you may not realize how much you rely on your family, especially your parents, for spiritual strength. But once you are out on your own, you can feel like there is no one but yourself to rely on to stay strong in the Church. It’s so important to get close to the Savior, to read your scriptures, to pray, to do all those things you’ve been taught to do. It’s easy to drift if you don’t stay anchored. Do the right things now and it will make them easier to do later.”
Sterling also talks about his desire to serve a full-time mission.
“You talk about it your whole life, and then all of a sudden the decision is here. Like one of our ward leaders said, time passes in a blink. I think a mission is a good thing to do. There are things we can learn and do that we won’t have an opportunity to do at any other time. The rest of the world may think we are crazy to do it. But if you really believe in the Church and the Lord, it’s the right thing to do.”
Sterling sits down and hugs his younger brother Tyler, one of the graduating seniors. These are brothers who’ve been close—surfing together, quarterback and cornerback at the same high school, not a lot of fighting and disagreeing, just good interaction.
“He’s going on his mission,” Tyler says quietly. “In ten months, I’ll be going on mine.” Reality is starting to set in, that missionary service will likely separate these brothers. But the closeness they demonstrate also shows that the separation will be merely geographic, and the eventual reunion full of joy.

Even President David O. McKay went through this mental process as a teenage boy. He has told us about kneeling by a serviceberry bush as a boy in Huntsville to find out once and for all about the truth of the work. May I quote President McKay as he tells of that occasion:
“I knelt down and with all the fervor of my heart poured out my soul to God and asked him for a testimony of this gospel. I had in mind that there would be some manifestation; that I should receive some transformation that would leave me absolutely without doubt.
“I got up, mounted my horse, and as he started over the trail, I remember rather introspectively searching myself and involuntarily shaking my head, saying to myself, ‘No sir, there is no change; I am just the same boy I was before I knelt down.’ The anticipated manifestation had not come. …
“However, it did come, but not in the way I had anticipated. Even the manifestation of God’s power and the presence of his angels came; but when it did come, it was simply a confirmation, it was not a testimony.” (Treasures of Life, [Deseret Book Co., 1962], pp. 229–30.)

My husband successfully stretched three years of schooling at BYU into five, so you can imagine how thrilled we were when he finally graduated and got a real job in Texas. We were surprised when a coworker suggested that he should not wear his wedding ring in certain settings with young professionals because it might limit his opportunities for success. The deception behind this thought was distasteful and countered everything we had worked for in our celestial marriage. Needless to say, Ron never left our little apartment without wearing his wedding ring!

Elder Cornish told about a time he was very tired and discouraged while learning to be a doctor. He started crying and wondered if he could ever be a good doctor. Just then, one of the senior doctors asked how he was doing. Elder Cornish told him how he was feeling. The doctor said that he was proud of him and believed he would be an excellent doctor one day. The doctor believed in him even when Elder Cornish didn’t believe in himself. Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ always believe in us and don’t want us to give up!

Gradually and painfully Peter became more stable. With his arms and legs tied up to prevent bleeding and his eyes bandaged, the doctor told him what had happened. In the accident, he had dislocated an arm and a leg; had broken three ribs, seven or eight fingers, and his jaw; had a serious concussion; had lost 50 percent of his skin; and had another 40 percent with first and second degree burns. But Peter had one big question. Since the gas splashed into his eyes, would he ever see again?
I could hear the doctor leaving. He hadn’t answered my big question. I got my arm swinging. I must have caught his attention because he came by me and asked, “What is it, Peter?” I could only say, “My eyes, my eyes, my eyes.” He just squeezed my arm and didn’t answer. He knew what I meant. There was just the unspoken answer that there was no chance I would see again. He started to weep a little, and I could tell that things were very serious.
Peter spent months in the hospital slowly recovering. In fact, he would spend one year as a full-time patient and many more months in and out of the hospital as he underwent dozens of operations. One of the first operations to be performed was to remove the scar tissue from his eyes. Following the operation, while he was in the recovery room, Peter knew that the moment of truth would come that following morning. Then the bandages would be removed and his eyes tested.
Awake and alone in the middle of the night, Peter thought about what was to come.
I couldn’t cope with the thought of that scene when my eyes would be uncovered. On the one hand, if I could see, what a grand moment it would be! But on the other hand, what if I were blind? All hope would be gone.
Awkwardly, because his hands were wrapped in bandages, Peter started to remove the wrappings from his eyes. He managed to maneuver a pan from beside the bed onto his chest. His plan was to reflect the light from his overhead bed lamp into his eyes. He flipped the switch, and the light exploded in his eyes. He could see. As his eyes adjusted to the dimly lit room, he lifted the shiny, metal pan once more.
There in all my excitement was this horrid face. Because my family had been told that I didn’t have a chance to live, they hadn’t told me about some other things. They hadn’t told me that I had lost one ear and all my eyelids and all my facial features. My nose was gone; all my mouth was gone. In my excitement to see, I hadn’t thought about what I would see. I couldn’t cope with it emotionally. I let out a big scream.
Now faced with new dilemmas, Peter spent all night with a sympathetic nurse asking her about what could be done. What plans had been made? What was going to happen to him once he got out of the hospital? What was it going to be like going to a store? What about going to a dance? What if he wanted to dance with a girl? What if he liked a girl? What if he wanted to give her a kiss? Abruptly, he started to laugh. The nurse wanted to know what was so funny.
Now here I was in the hospital remembering how silly I had been. Here I was having fought for my very life and having fought for everything I had, even though it didn’t look very good. In fact, it didn’t look good at all. Yet, I knew I could see. I took a little moment to say a prayer of thanks to my Father in Heaven because he had answered that prayer. There really had been no chance that I would see again. But I’ll never forget how silly I was about that blemish.

When the former Governor of Missouri, Lilburn Boggs, was shot, Porter Rockwell was charged with the crime. Without any evidence of his guilt, Porter was taken prisoner and kept in an unheated dungeon without any bedding for over nine months. He was given food that even the dogs refused to eat. Without his natural stamina, Porter never would have survived the ordeal.
One day a Sheriff Reynolds came to the jail and offered Porter a large sum of money if Porter would take him to Joseph Smith so that the Prophet could be captured. “I will see you damned first,” responded Porter.
After Porter’s release from jail, he walked most of the way to Nauvoo, Illinois. He arrived at Joseph Smith’s house on Christmas Day in 1843, as the Prophet and his friends were having a supper party. “During the festivities,” Joseph recounted later, “a man with his hair long and falling over his shoulders, and apparently drunk, came in and acted like a Missourian. I requested the captain of the police to put him out of doors. A scuffle ensued, and … to my great surprise and joy untold, I discovered it was my long-tried, warm, but cruelly persecuted friend, Orrin Porter Rockwell.” (History of the Church, 6:134–135.)
It is believed by those who knew Porter Rockwell best that it was on this occasion that the Prophet Joseph promised Porter that if he remained faithful to the Church and didn’t cut his hair, he would never suffer death from a bullet. From then on, Porter wore his long hair braided and tucked into a bob at the back of his neck.
The sight of Joseph and Porter riding together out to the Prophet’s farm was not uncommon. And when Joseph went to Washington, D.C., to see if government authorities could help right the wrongs suffered by the Saints at the hands of the Missouri mobs, Porter went with him.
It may have been supposed that Porter was only a bodyguard to the Prophet Joseph. However, frequent mention was made of his attendance at council meetings with Joseph Smith and other Church leaders. And when Joseph decided to leave Nauvoo and go west to help lessen the persecution of the Saints, Porter and only two others went with him. Afterward, when the Prophet learned that his departure was thought by many to be an act of cowardice, he said, “‘If my life is of no value to my friends it is of none to myself.’” Turning to Porter, he asked, “‘What shall I do?’ Rockwell replied, ‘You are the oldest and ought to know best; and as you make your bed, I will lie with you.’” (History of the Church, 6:549.)
After Joseph and Hyrum were killed in Carthage Jail, Porter went west with the first party of pioneers. He believed that the Prophet Joseph would have wanted him to do that. His services as a scout and game hunter were invaluable.
In 1849 Porter Rockwell was appointed deputy marshall of Great Salt Lake City, and he was a peace officer in Utah until his death. When pursuing lawbreakers, Porter was relentless, and his endurance was legendary. He would follow a trail at a gallop in his buckboard where others would walk their horses, searching for clues.
Detractors make much of the fact that Rockwell could neither read nor write. Yet he was remarkably successful in a number of business enterprises. It should be remembered, too, that illiteracy was not uncommon in the nineteenth century.
Porter remained loyal to his family and friends, and he was generous to others who needed his help. A touching act of Porter’s charity, recorded in a letter, was the gift of his shorn hair to the widow of Don Carlos Smith, the brother of Joseph Smith. The woman had lost her hair when she had typhoid fever, and Porter’s hair was used to make her a wig. When Porter’s hair regrew, he wore it in a bob again.
Porter traveled thousands of miles on horseback in service to the Church as a scout, guide, and expert in solving problems with Indians. When he died during the summer of 1878, he had been a member of the Church longer than anyone else then living. At his funeral service, Elder Joseph F. Smith of the Council of the Twelve said, “He had his little faults, but Porter’s life on earth, taken altogether, was one worthy of example, and reflected honor upon the Church. Through all his trials he had never once forgotten his obligations to his brethren and his God.”

I grew up in what some of you might call a boring farming community: Virden, New Mexico, population 135. One summer night when I was a boy, my cousins, some friends, and I were looking for ways to create some excitement. Someone suggested we play a harmless prank on a neighbor. My conscience whispered it was wrong, but I didn’t have the courage to resist the enthusiastic response of the group.
After performing our mischievous act, we sprinted down the dark country road to make our escape, laughing and congratulating ourselves as we ran. Suddenly, one of the group stumbled, crying out, “Oh no, I kicked a cat!” Almost instantly we felt a very fine mist settle over us. It carried a horrible odor. What my friend thought was a cat was actually a skunk. It had sprayed us in self-defense. Very few odors are as nauseating as skunk spray, and we smelled terrible.
Dejectedly, we went home in search of a little parental comfort for our pitiful plight. As we stepped inside the kitchen door, Mom took one sniff and shooed us out into the yard. We were cast out of our home. Then she launched the cleansing process. She burned our clothes. Then, it seemed that every home remedy or concoction in the community was volunteered in our behalf. Among them, we endured a variety of baths: first tomato juice, then cow’s milk, and even harsh homemade lye soap. But the stench remained. Even my dad’s powerful aftershave lotion could not overpower the stench. For days we were condemned to eat outside under a tree, sleep outdoors in a tent, and ride in the back of the pickup truck.
After a while, naively thinking the smell was gone, we tried to approach some normal-smelling girls. They would not allow us within yards, shattering our fragile teenage egos!

When Brigham Young returned from enlisting men for the Mormon Battalion at Mt. Pisgah and Garden Grove, the Parkinson twins and their father came with him. Sister Parkinson had died in Garden Grove, and Brother Parkinson had traveled to Council Bluffs with the children. He wanted to enlist in the Mormon Battalion if he could arrange for Eliza and Elija to stay with Tommy’s mother until he returned.
“Tommy and I have been wondering who we could get to drive the other wagon while his father is away, and Betsy has been wanting a sister for a long time,” Tommy’s mother smiled.
All was arranged, and Brother Parkinson joined Tommy’s father as a member of the battalion. On July 20, to the accompaniment of Pitt’s Brass Band, the battalion started for Fort Leavenworth and the long march to California.
As Tommy watched the battalion march away, he remembered the words of his father: “I am not leaving you alone, Tommy. The brethren will help you, and our Heavenly Father will be as near to you as you will let him be.”
When the battalion was out of sight, Brigham Young stood on a wagon box to speak to those who were left behind. Tommy listened to him announce:
“We are not going any further west this year. Instead, we will establish a winter camp across the river. Wild peas grow there in abundance for winter feeding of the stock, and these will satisfy the needs of our cattle. We can also harvest the tall prairie grass for them.
“The Indians have given us permission to stay on their land and use their timber and water. In return we are to help harvest their corn and trade with them when possible.
“It will take the dedicated effort of every able-bodied man and boy to harvest the prairie grass, plow and plant the fields, and build houses before cold weather sets in.
“We will start moving across the river tomorrow. The ferry will transport the wagons and the people, but the thirty thousand head of cattle, sheep, horses, and mules will have to swim across.
“We have a big task ahead, but with God at the helm, we cannot fail.”
The next day Tommy and Elija waited a turn to drive their two wagons onto the ferry. Then they unhitched the oxen and took them down to the river’s edge. Eliza and Betsy and her mother were there waiting with Old Nell, the family cow.
Tommy’s mother was fearful. “It is so far to the other side, and the water is deep and black. With so many cattle in the river, who knows what might happen! Surely someone else can take our cattle across for us.”
Tommy was thoughtful for a minute and then asked, “Don’t you remember, Mama, that Brigham Young said the boys must accept their share of responsibility?”
“We will help each other,” said Elija. “And there will be others who will help us if we need it.”
Tommy’s mother gave each boy a hug and then returned to the ferry with the girls.
Tommy and Elija coaxed the animals into the water. They each jumped on one of the lead oxen. At first the oxen were frightened and the boys found it difficult to hang on to them, but after a few minutes they were swimming steadily forward.
All around were oxen belonging to those whose wagons were being ferried across the river. Everything went well until one animal became frightened. Tommy tried to push the ox away with his foot, then he tried talking to him in soothing tones, but nothing did any good. The frightened animal bumped into Tommy’s ox, and Tommy almost fell into the river. The owner of the animal shouted, “Reach for his horns, Tommy!”
Tommy looked down and saw that the animal was so close that if he could just get hold of his horns, he would be able to slide over on his back without falling into the river. Elija called out, “Now, Tommy! Now!”
Tommy let go of the horns of his own animal, grabbed for the horns of the frightened ox, and caught them. Another moment and it would have been too late. Tommy was able to pull himself over onto the back of the ox and was able to calm him. Soon they were making their way to the other side of the river.
When the animals were safely out, Elija exclaimed, “Tommy, you were terrific!”
The owner of the ox was grateful. “If it hadn’t been for you,” he said, “we would all have been in trouble.”
Tommy was pleased, but he knew that without the help of the owner and Elija, he would never have tried to do what he did. And without the help of his Heavenly Father, he could not have succeeded.
He thought again of his father’s words when he left with the battalion—“I am not leaving you alone, Tommy. The brethren will help you, and your Heavenly Father will be as close as you will let him be.”
For the first time since his father left, Tommy knew that all would be well.

When I was president of the Southern States Mission, I remember going to a conference down in west Florida. It seemed to me as if we traveled a hundred miles and never saw a house, and when we arrived at one of those little chapels, there it was filled with 250 people, and I said, “If you didn’t come out of the holes in the rocks, I don’t know where you came from. The Lord may know, but I don’t!” Well, that was literal, and we see that being fulfilled right before our very eyes.

Some have the gift of being a friend, of being selfless and thoughtful and lifting those around them. Speaking of the most treasured spiritual gift of charity, Paul in 1 Corinthians 13:5 says it "seeketh not her own." That certainly means that someone with the gift of charity isn't always looking out for himself or herself, isn't overly concerned with his or her own self-interest. But I learned something of charity from someone with such a gift of friendship. After graduate school we moved to Southern California. We moved in on a Saturday, a call came on Sunday, and on Monday I was surprised to find myself the new early-morning seminary teacher, facing a group of 30 high-school juniors and seniors. They were delightful. As I got to know them I particularly noticed one young man. Everyone wanted to be around him. It was interesting that there was nothing superficially exceptional about him: he didn't have a great car, was not a big athlete. So I observed, and I learned. For example, when most of us go into a fireside, who do we look for? I think we would agree, for our friends, for those with whom we're comfortable. Not my friend Sean. Though everyone was saving him a seat, Sean would look for the person who was alone, who needed to have someone to sit by. He was not seeking out his own buddies, not seeking out his own. When you walk into a dance, who do you look for? Well, you'll have to answer that one for yourself; but I suspect some of you might have been thinking of physical descriptions of people in the room. My friend Sean was looking for whoever might feel a little lonely or awkward. Sean's goal was to see everyone had a good time. He wasn't seeking his own pleasure or gratification, he wasn't seeking his own. And I can tell you his gift had a significant affect, on the love and the unity of our Stake, and a richness came into his life.

The airplane’s engine made a final sputtering sound, and then there was nothing but a dreadful silence. Andrew sat stiffly, pale and frightened. While his father worked frantically to restart the engine, the plane glided earthward in ever-descending circles. Suddenly the engine roared back to life, and Andrew’s father quickly nosed the plane up to gain altitude. But again the engine stopped, and nothing his father could do would make it start.
“Are we going to crash?” Andrew asked.
“No, son, don’t worry. This little plane can practically fly itself, even without power,” his father answered. “Look ahead there; we can glide far enough to land in that snowfield.”
Through the haze Andrew could see the mainland snow and ice at the edge of the Arctic Ocean. And as they glided closer and lower he could see the mouth of a large river.
“That must be the Mackenzie River,” his father said. Then motioning behind them he added, “We have plenty of emergency food back in the cabin—enough to last until someone comes looking for us.”
Andrew’s father had intended to land in the Canadian town of Inuvik within the Arctic Circle, but he had taken a detour and flown the oil company’s plane over the Arctic Ocean so that his son could see it.
Soon they were gliding low over the snow and ice. “Look!” Andrew cried. “There are two igloos and some Eskimos down there!”
“Some dogs too,” his father added. “I hope they have a sled. I’m going to land this ‘bird’ close to the igloos.”
Under his father’s steady hand, the plane landed about fifty feet from the Eskimo homes. Immediately its passengers were greeted by the smiling faces of two women, two men, and a boy about Andrew’s age.
“Kabluna,” the older man said.
“That means ‘men with bushy eyebrows,’ and that’s how they think of all white men,” Andrew’s father explained. “Before knowing about our race, they believed that they were the only people in the world and called themselves Inuit, meaning The People.”
The Eskimo boy said, “Akshunai, pikatigikpugut,” and then he translated for Andrew. “I said, ‘Hello, we are friends.’”
“Nakorami (Thank you),” Andrew’s father answered, and then he turned to examine the plane’s faulty engine.
“Where did you learn to speak English?” Andrew asked the boy.
“At the government school in Inuvik. My name is Ootah.”
While the boys talked, Andrew’s father made arrangements with one of the men for transportation to the closest settlement. A sled with a walrus-hide harness was soon pulled around in front of one of the igloos and the dogs hustled into place.
“I’ll have to get a mechanic, son. This young man is going to drive me into Inuvik; it’s about seventy miles from here,” Andrew’s father explained. “You stay with the plane, and I’ll be back in six days.”
Andrew was a little apprehensive, but he smiled. “OK, Dad,” he said. “I’ll be all right. But I’ll miss you.” Feeling lonely and a little hungry, he waved good-bye as his father left on the sled.
“Come to my father’s igloo,” Ootah invited Andrew. “My mother will give us something to eat.”
When the boys were close to Ootah’s home, Andrew saw an old man and Ootah’s mother crawl out of the low entrance and struggle over a bag of flour. The old man won and marched to his igloo with the flour, muttering to himself.
Ootah was deeply upset. His face flushed and he looked down at his feet. “My grandfather is taking charge of all the food,” he explained. “We’ve had a bad hunting and trapping season and we haven’t had much to exchange at the trading post. We’re short of food.”
“That’s OK,” Andrew said. “I have some food and I can eat in the plane.”
Andrew turned back and climbed into the airplane’s small cabin. Although his father had taken some of the food on the sled, there was still a lot of canned goods left—much more than he would need. As he ate, Andrew thought of taking some food to the Eskimos, but he decided against it. If his father were delayed for some reason, the boy would need the food for himself.
When he left the plane, Andrew found Ootah waiting for him. “Come and see what my grandfather has,” Ootah said.
Ootah led him into his grandfather’s igloo. The old man grunted at the boys, and the old lady smiled. The first thing Andrew noticed was the smell of dried fish and meat and burned seal oil. Then he followed Ootah to a large box against the snow wall. In it were five Husky puppies, climbing all over each other.
Andrew fell in love with a little brown and white one. “Do you think your grandfather would sell it?” he asked. “Maybe my father will buy it for me when he gets back.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Ootah said. “My grandfather will never sell any of his dogs.”
The old man left the igloo. “He’s going to set snares for the Arctic hare,” Ootah told Andrew. “Do you want to go fishing?”
Andrew loved to fish, so Ootah got fishing lines and hooks for both of them, a hatchet, some bait, and a coil of rope.
As the boys walked toward the Mackenzie River, Ootah looked like a bear in his karlik, attigis, mukluks, and puelluks (fur trousers, parka, high boots, and mittens). Andrew was warm in his modern thermal underwear and outer clothes.
“What’s the rope for?” Andrew asked.
“Just in case,” was all Ootah would tell him.
Near the river the Eskimo boy chopped two holes through the ice. After fishing for several hours Ootah finally caught three small fish. He offered one to Andrew. “For your supper,” he said.
“Thank you, but I have food in the cabin of the plane,” Andrew reminded him.
On their way back to the igloos the boys’ talk was suddenly interrupted by the sound of muffled shouts, and they both began running toward the noise.
“Grandfather has fallen through a snowbridge into a crevasse!” Ootah shouted. “He can’t see too well.”
They found the old man floundering in soft snow at the bottom of a fairly deep hole in the ice, but he appeared to be unhurt. Ootah threw one end of the rope down to him, and together the boys pulled the old man out of the hole.
“Nakorami, Nakorami,” he kept repeating.
Andrew felt terribly lonely when he returned to the plane and fixed something to eat. Before eating he prayed for his father’s safety and quick return. And as he prayed he remembered that his father had taught him to treat others as he would like to be treated. Guiltily he thought of the kindness of the Eskimo who had offered to share his fish even though they were all short of food.
Andrew flung open the cabin door and shouted for Ootah. When he came running, Andrew began throwing cans of food down to him.
On the sixth day an airplane mechanic flew in with Andrew’s father. While the mechanic repaired the plane, Andrew said good-bye to his Eskimo friends. He and Ootah solemnly promised to keep in touch with each other.
As the plane soared above the igloos, Andrew felt something pushing against his leg. He reached down and with a rush of joy picked up the little brown and white Husky puppy Ootah and his grandfather had left in the plane for Andrew to take home.

When I was the Presiding Bishop and one of my counselors, Bishop Ashton, died, I asked for Brother [Thorpe B.] Isaacson. He was then at the head of a large insurance business that he owned and operated. And when President George Albert Smith asked him if he was willing to serve as my counselor, he said: “Yes, but I would like to go back East and arrange with my company to appoint a manager, because you know in the insurance business so much depends on renewals. But,” he said, “if they won’t let me do it, I’ll tell them to take the business.” I happen to know that the tithing he had been paying was just about the equivalent of what his allowance was when he became a counselor in the Bishopric! And not only that, for the first six months after he received his allowance, he turned it back to the Church. He said: “I’ve never been on a mission, so it is about time I did something.”

When I was a small boy I soon realized that many who bore their testimonies in Sacrament meeting ended up crying. I began to believe that if I had a testimony I should cry too. I remember wanting to cry when I bore my testimony. It wasn’t until later in my life that I learned the following about the relationship between tears and a testimony. Alvin R. Dyer relates the following incident he had with President Spencer W. Kimball.

You don’t have to cry about the gospel to have a testimony! Many times we think that we don’t have a testimony unless a few tears flow. Nothing could be further from the truth. It is not necessary or needful for a person to have tears streaming down his face to have a testimony of the gospel. I went to a meeting with Spencer W. Kimball and a man got up and bore his testimony and he cried all the way through it. After the meeting, Brother Kimball called him over and said, ‘Brother, I wish you’d stop crying when you bear your testimony. You don’t have to do that to tell the people you love the Lord.’

The telephone rang and another experience was shared.

“I know it’s late, but I couldn’t wait to tell you.”

It was the voice of Sister Byrn from a branch with few members.

“I knew it would be a good experience,” she said, “but I had no idea how wonderful. You see, Marty has been a girl with some serious problems and is now a class president. I was anxious to provide every opportunity possible for her to experience the gospel in action. We discussed matters of concern that we both shared and then kneeled in prayer together. We discussed the situation further, and before separating we kneeled again, and this time Marty spoke to the Lord in our behalf. Together we whispered amen. Marty’s eyes got big, and in a humble but excited whisper she said, ‘Sister Byrn, I’ve never felt like this before. I know that Heavenly Father listens to prayer.’

“Oh, I love these youth.” Sister Byrn’s voice showed evidence of this. “They are responsible, and the Lord is working through them as we, their leaders, help them to understand their responsibilities.”

As young married students, Holly and I were approaching graduation. We planned to move to Chicago for graduate school. We had traveled there twice and had put in deposits for my program and for an apartment. When we were back in Provo, one morning I awoke with what I can only describe as a revelation to pursue a completely different path and to take a job for which I wasn’t even being considered. I had no offer; I hadn’t even sent in a résumé. Talk about quixotic! All of this might seem irrational or unreasonable to the uninitiated, but reason itself demanded that I acknowledge the reality of this revelation.

Reason, then, together with revelation—the head and the heart—allowed Holly and me to jointly pursue this new path with faith. And although I was frequently tempted to waffle in the weeks that followed, in hindsight, Holly and I are immensely grateful that we did not fall prey to the false dichotomy of choosing either reason or revelation alone. It wasn’t until years—and a few jobs—later that Holly and I connected the dots to see the Lord’s hand guiding us to experiences and opportunities that have helped us serve more effectively. “Dispute not because ye see not,” the Book of Mormon teaches, “for ye receive no witness until after the trial of your faith.”

Like many people my age, whenever the stake leaders come to our ward, I brace myself for an hour or two of lessons on morality and the danger of straying from the gospel path. I had never thought much about what they said or even really understood what it was like to get off the “strait and narrow path” until I had a rather painful experience.
My family lives out in what is affectionately referred to as “the sticks.” Next to our property are remnants of an abandoned plantation. The only secure building is a rickety old barn with a loft brimming with hay. Over the years this has become a favorite haunt of mine.
My lesson came when I was attempting to make my way towards the barn to mull over a problem a friend had asked advice on. In order to get there one must follow an almost hidden path along the stream to an old road. I had never experienced the obstacle of fallen leaves on the path before, so I was paying careful attention to the stream in order to stay at least close to the path.
After a while I felt this was unnecessarily laborious and time-consuming. I tried a shortcut, which I thought would not be a bad idea as long as I stayed within sight of the stream.
I was wrong. In the woods one cannot stray too far from the path or he will end up in an undesirable place. Well, I ended up making a wrong turn.
When I finally realized that I was going the wrong way and would not be meeting up with the stream, I did not immediately turn around and try to retrace my steps. Instead, I thought I knew what I was doing, so I fought on through the tangle of trees. Suddenly I realized I was surrounded by the largest bunch of wild rosebushes I had ever seen. Being dressed in a T-shirt, shorts, and an old pair of deck shoes, I was not overjoyed at the prospect of fighting my way out of this predicament.
My dog, Peppy, had followed and when we arrived in this area tried several times to divert my attention and show me an easy way out. But my ego would not let me follow a dog. How could he know where I wanted to go? Eventually I got to the field next to the barn and then reached my destination, but not without much struggle and pain.

To help you understand what happens to a young person who comes here and becomes completely immersed in all that the school has to offer -- may I share a personal experience relating to one of our children.

When I was called to serve in the Quorum of the Seventy our youngest daughter, Jenny, was just 17 years old and had just graduated from high school. Our first assignment was in Brazil. As it turned out we served there for seven years. One of the most difficult things I have ever had to do in my life was to leave our “baby” at home, knowing that we would be gone for a long time. We made arrangements for her to stay with an older married daughter who also lives here in Rexburg. She wanted to attend what was then Ricks College. We had worried about Jenny during her high school years because of her choice of friends. They weren’t really bad, but in the opinion of her parents, they were lacking, a bit, in some areas. After fall semester started it wasn’t long until Jenny decided she wanted to live with other girls in college approved housing. That turned out to be a great blessing in her life. She had three other roommates who were super good and wonderful examples for her. They bonded early on and formed friendships which have continued to this day. Something happened to Jenny while here as this school. I think that’s why we call it the “Spirit of Ricks” today. After two years here and an associate degree, Jenny called us in Brazil and informed us that she wanted to serve a full-time mission. Needless to say, Sister Jolley and I were extremely pleased. Jenny had always been a bit shy, at least around her parents. She fulfilled an honorable mission in Guayaquil, Ecuador. When she finished her mission Sister Jolley and I flew from our home in São Paulo to Guayaquil to pick her up. While there we had an opportunity to do some missionary work with her. She was not afraid to open her mouth and bear witness to the truthfulness of the restored gospel to anyone she met. She was fearless. Our Jenny was a different girl. Well, she went on to greater things. She returned to now BYU–Idaho, met the love of her life, they were married, graduated together with Bachelor’s degrees and I suppose will live happily ever after.