Gospel Story Finder

Illustration by iStock/Thinkstock
I had just returned from school. I’d gotten into an argument with one of my best friends from church, and it had really got me down.
As usual, I sat down to read my email. I saw one from her and opened it. I scanned the text carefully. The hurtful words covered me like a wave. The tears streamed down my face as I read to the end. My heart felt like it had been blown apart.
I quickly created a new email to her and started to type, but then something told me to stop. I knew it was the Holy Ghost. I backed away from the computer. In my head I asked, “Why do I need to stop? I need to tell her how I feel.” Then came the words, “All right. Tell her how you really feel.” I quickly moved toward the computer again.
I paused to analyze the Spirit’s words. Though they had been almost exactly my own words, they made me ponder. I wondered, “How do I really feel?” Immediately the words betrayed, broken, and hurt came to mind. Again a voice said, “Tell her how you really feel.” True, I felt those things, but I wouldn’t want to hurt her like she hurt me. We were friends, weren’t we? I realized that what I really felt was love.
My anger and sadness still surrounded me, but I decided to trust the Lord. I deleted the words I had written and started listing things I loved about her. As I did, my negative emotions completely left me. I found myself making a list so long that it took multiple scrolls to get through it. When I finally hit Send, I let out a sigh. I felt like my heart had been cleansed of pain and grief. I knew that my Savior had taken away my pain and filled my soul with Christlike love.
A couple of days later I received a response from my friend. She explained that at first she had been too shocked to respond. As soon as she had seen the list, she started reading it, expecting it to be a list of insults. When she found that they were compliments, she was blown away with disbelief.
I learned that when you make someone else feel better, it makes you feel better. Never underestimate the power of God. It deeply affected my life at that moment. I’ll never forget my pause to question and listen and how it has benefited my life.

Gemma and Cora H., ages 4 and 10, visited the construction site of the Pocatello Idaho Temple. They looked for changes each time until the temple was finished!

Every time I have the opportunity to direct myself to young people, I have a difficult time to keep from weeping. You see, once I had a boy, and when he had spent one year in college, he went to war. I like to think he went bravely.
When he was interrogated by the sergeant in charge, the sergeant said, “There are these schools.” And he named them—“radio, cooking, foreign language, intelligence, hospital. …” He named about eight of them. The young men were told that they could go to one of these, if they wanted to choose, before they went further into the army. He said, “You can go to one of these schools, or you can take combat.” And my son and one other young man with him said without any hesitation, “We’ll take combat.”
Later I said to him, “Why did you ask for combat?”
And he said, “Someone has to do the fighting.” He said that he did not want to have it on his conscience that he had deliberately dodged so that some other boy might have to take a chance on being killed. He said, “If anyone has to die in this war, I would feel terrible if I didn’t take my share of the risk.”
To me he is still twenty—about your age. And so perhaps you will allow me to speak to you as though I were speaking to him. The advice I would give you, I would give him.

I Wish I Were a Butterfly Most crickets in Swampswallow Pond celebrate daylight with a song, but the littlest cricket wants to stay in his dark tunnel home because the frog said that he was ugly. Talking to a glowworm, a ladybug, and a dragonfly only makes him feel worse. Then the Old One shows him what true beauty is.James Howe4–7 years

Early in 1846, Elder Pratt announced that he would be going to Anaa, an atoll 780 kilometers (490 miles) northwest of Tubuai, to assist Elder Grouard, who was enjoying incredible success there. Telii and Nabota insisted on accompanying him. When they arrived in Anaa, they found more than 600 converts in five branches. As Elder Pratt fell into administrative duties in the branches, Telii and Nabota traveled with him, preaching the gospel, visiting the people to attend to their needs, and bringing the sick to Elder Pratt to be blessed.8

It was much like an old Charlie Chaplin movie. Mother was still in her nightgown with her ski jacket unzipped and her boots unlaced. She was outside floundering around in circles, trying to catch up with our dog, Jenny, always a few feet ahead of her. Once, Jenny stumbled into a deep drift, and I thought the chase was over. Instead, Mother disappeared up to her waist in the same drift just as Jenny struggled to her feet again.
“What are you laughing at, Missy?” Dad asked, coming up behind me and rubbing his eyes and yawning. It was Thanksgiving morning, and all of us had slept late except Mother.
The smooth white snow behind our house was now covered by big squiggles, as though a fox-and-geese track had lost its way.
Mother caught up with Jenny at last. We saw her staggering toward the house with the large furry bundle in her arms.
“She’ll catch her death of cold!” exclaimed Dad. “It’s well below zero out there!” Dad was wide awake now, and he went bounding down the stairs to open the door for Mother. Soon I smelled bacon frying. Dad always cooks breakfast on weekends and holidays, and my brothers and I take turns doing the dishes.
When I went into the kitchen, Jenny was lying in an exhausted heap in the doorway. She didn’t even stir when I patted her and said, “How are you doing, old girl?” Jenny’s a black and white springer spaniel, nearly fifteen years old. She’s blind and almost deaf too.
“That poor dog completely loses her sense of direction in the snow,” Dad said. “I’m afraid it really is time she was put to sleep.” He poured out five glasses of orange juice. “Talking of sleep, you’d better wake Bruce and John. If they’re going skiing, they ought to get moving.”
The boys ate quickly. “We’ll head for home the minute the lift closes,” Bruce promised. “You can have the turkey ready any time after five o’clock.” He and John got up from the table and started to leave.
“Hey! It’s your turn to do the dishes,” I exclaimed.
“Don’t worry, Missy, you and I will do them together,” Dad said. “No squabbling on Thanksgiving Day!”
But Mother shooed us out of the kitchen, saying that she was in a hurry to get the turkey ready for the oven.
“What can I do to help?” I asked.
“You can keep an eye on Jenny for me,” Mother replied. “She’ll probably need to go out again soon, and we don’t want her wandering off a second time.”
“OK, Mom.” I watched Jenny feel her way toward her favorite spot in front of the living room fireplace. Each time she bumped into something, I cringed. Maybe Dad’s right, I thought. Maybe she’s not enjoying her life anymore. But surely we can keep her with us a little longer if we take good care of her.
Seeing that she was about to go to sleep again, I went up to my room to read. I’d just reached an exciting part of the book when I heard Jenny whimpering. Reluctantly, I got off the bed and went down-stairs to let her out.
“Don’t leave her outside long,” Mother warned. “The weather seems to be changing.”
About an hour later I finished the last chapter and looked out the window. It was snowing hard. Suddenly I remembered Jenny. Is she still outside or did someone let her in? I raced downstairs. She wasn’t in the living room or the den. Mother was still working in the kitchen. “Where’s Dad?” I asked.
“He went somewhere in the jeep,” Mother replied, switching on the electric mixer.
Quietly I opened the front door, hoping to find Jenny waiting on the step. She wasn’t there.
Slipping quickly into warmer clothes, I went outside. Jenny’s tracks showed up clearly in the fresh snow. I followed them around to the back of the house.
Half an hour later I was still searching for her. I no longer had any idea where she might have gone, for she had evidently wandered in circles, and her tracks had merged with those of other dogs. The snow was coming down thicker now, and the wind was blowing it into my eyes, making it difficult to see. My fingers and my toes were freezing, and my whole face was stiff from the cold. I decided to go back home and get help, even though it meant Mother and Dad would know that I was responsible for Jenny being lost.
Neither of them said a word of reproach. I wanted to start out again at once, but Mother made me drink some hot soup while she telephoned the neighbors. The soup was comforting, but the thought of Jenny lying half-buried in a snowdrift somewhere brought tears to my eyes.
“Don’t worry, Missy.” Dad patted my shoulder. “If none of the neighbors has seen her, I’ll take the jeep out and find her.”
Mother came back into the kitchen. “No one has seen her, but they’ve all promised to keep their eyes open.”
“Come on, Dad, let’s go!” I pleaded.
Dad drove very slowly while we both strained our eyes to catch sight of anything moving in the snow. Every now and then Dad would stop the jeep and we would search on foot. I was terrified that I might stumble upon Jenny’s lifeless body.
I almost cried again. Jenny had been a part of our family since before I was born. I couldn’t imagine life without her.
When we’d been gone about two hours, Dad looked at his watch. “The boys will be home by now,” he said. “I think we’d better go back. She wouldn’t have come this far anyway.”
Neither of us spoke as we climbed stiffly out of the jeep. I was praying desperately that Jenny had somehow found her way home. Instead, Mother said, “Bruce and John came home about an hour ago. They’ve gone to look for Jenny over by that new development. They figure people over there won’t know whose dog it is.”
Granny and Aunt Ruth were in the kitchen with Mother. “She’s wearing her tags, isn’t she?” Aunt Ruth asked.
Sadly I reported, “She’s wearing her rabies tag, but her name-and-address tag came off the last time I brushed her. I forgot to put it back on.”
A spurt of gravel in the driveway signaled Bruce and John’s return. I ran to the door. One look at their faces was enough to tell me they had not found Jenny.
“Perhaps she’ll turn up later,” Mother said, but she didn’t sound very convincing. “Right now there’s nothing more we can do, so let’s try to think of all the things we have to be thankful for. If everyone will wash up, I’ll bring you some hot cider to drink by the fire while I add the finishing touches to dinner.”
How heartless grown-ups are, I thought. Dad and Aunt Ruth were discussing a TV program they had both seen. Grandma was busy winding wool yarn with Bruce’s help.
John and I sat staring at the fire without speaking. I didn’t know exactly what he was thinking, but I was sure he wasn’t feeling very friendly toward me. He and Jenny had been born within a few months of each other.
Suddenly I had an idea. “Did you go to the Roberts’s place?”
“No. Why should we have? Mom said she’d called all the neighbors.”
“The Roberts moved, and the new people don’t have a phone yet. One of the kids is in my class, and I heard her complain that they have to wait two more weeks for one.” I was already halfway to the door.
“I’ll come with you,” John offered.
I wanted to say no, because I had lost Jenny and it was up to me to find her, but I realized that John was as miserable as I was.
It was dark outside now. The snow had stopped, and a few stars were appearing.
“Didn’t you come by here this morning?” John asked, as I rang the doorbell.
“Yes. No one was home.”
The door opened and Betsy, the girl in my class, said, “Why, hello, Missy.”
“Hi,” I greeted her. “This is my brother John. We’re looking for our dog.”
“Is she a springer?”
“Yes!” John and I shouted together.
“Come on in. She’s here.”
“Is she all right?” I asked anxiously.
“She is now.” Betsy laughed. “She’s just eaten a huge Thanksgiving dinner!” She led us into a big old-fashioned kitchen. Jenny was lying in front of the warm stove, looking very much at home. She thumped her tail on the brick floor when she heard our voices, but she didn’t get up.
“She’s still tired. When we came home about noon, she was lying in our driveway, and she was covered with snow. She didn’t even lift her head when Dad honked the horn,” Betsy explained.
I fell to my knees beside Jenny and buried my face in her soft fur. Betsy must have brushed her, I realized. Right then and there I silently offered a Thanksgiving prayer.
John thanked Betsy and the rest of her family for their kindness, then turned to me and said teasingly, “Come on, Missy, let’s go! I can’t carry both of you.”
I stammered my thanks to everyone, especially Betsy.
“Think nothing of it,” she said. “I love dogs.”
I don’t suppose I’ll ever forget that Thanksgiving. The dinner might have been a bit overdone, but nobody cared.

Shooting short shots: Banking vs. Straight In
During the course of any basketball game, dozens of short shots are shot—and missed. This raises the question: What is the best method for shooting short shots? Rex Lilly of the Toquerville (Utah) Ward knows the answer.
Twelve junior varsity and twelve varsity high school players made 4,800 carefully documented shots from specific locations on the basketball court—all from a 5-foot radius around the basket. The discovery: It’s better to bank your shots. The accompanying sketches show why. From any one of five court positions, more bank shots went in than straight-in shots.
The study also showed that you get a higher percentage of your shots from the side angles—the 20- to 55-degree areas.
Mean scores of Both Junior Varsity and Varsity Scores of 20 Possible Straight-in and Bank ShotsCompare yourself
Straight in
Banking
Junior Varsity
14.6
16.4
(20 baskets possible)
Varsity
16.4
17.9
In other words, out of every 20 short shots, you should be able to get up to two more baskets if you bank shoot. Caution: This was not a study of 10, 15, 20, or 25-foot shots, but of 5-foot short shots.

Answer: I struggled as a child. I had a wonderful family and didn’t go through any obvious tragedies, but I always seemed to feel angry at myself and those around me. I would take these feelings out on my siblings. The more I mistreated them, the worse I felt. And yet I couldn’t seem to stop. This behavior drove a wedge between me and my family members. When I was 12 years old, I thought I was an evil, rotten, worthless person. I thought everyone would be better off without me.

“By hearing a story,” answered his father. “Listen. Many years ago, in the direction from which the sun awakens each day, there lived a people here in Africa called the Mazumbas.”
Bhutto stopped rocking on his heels and sat down. He did not want to miss a word of his father’s story.
“The Mazumbas were greater hunters than others because the tips of their arrows were sharper and finer than any man could make.”
“How did they make the arrow tips?” asked Bhutto.
“They did not make them,” said Bhutto’s father. “They found them in a secret cave. And because the Mazumbas had such sharp arrow tips, no animal could stand against them.”
“Not even lions?” Bhutto asked.
“Not even lions,” said his father.
“Not even elephants?” Bhutto tried again.
“Not even elephants,” answered his father. “Not even the Great Beasts of the plains.”
Bhutto looked puzzled. “What are the Great Beasts of the plains?”
“The Great Beasts were the hardest of all the animals to slay. They had the eyes of an eagle, the ears of a giraffe, and the swiftness of a gazelle. But even so, the Great Beasts could not hide from the Mazumbas.
“One day, one of the Mazumbas was hunting when he came across the tracks of a Great Beast. For many hours he followed the tracks through grasslands, over hills, and down ravines until they led to the entrance of the secret cave.”
“Where the Mazumbas found their arrow tips,” Bhutto remembered.
“That’s right,” said his father.
“And was the Great Beast inside?”
“Yes, he was. And when the hunter saw the Great Beast, he put an arrow to his bow.”
“Did he kill the Beast?” Bhutto asked excitedly.
“Not right away,” answered his father, “because the Great Beast began to speak.”
Bhutto frowned. “Animals cannot speak.”
“That is true,” Bhutto’s father answered. “But the Great Beasts were not like other animals.”
“What did the Great Beast say?”
“He said, ‘Please do not kill me, great hunter of the Mazumbas. Your people have killed all the Great Beasts except me.’
“But the hunter just laughed and said, ‘If you did not want to be caught, you should not have come into our secret cave.’ And with that, the hunter let the arrow fly.”
Bhutto watched his father string the bow he was making. “Is that the end of your story?” he sadly asked.
“Not quite, Bhutto,” said his father. “When the Beast fell to the earth, a stone rolled from his mouth—a sharp stone, sharper than any a man could make.”
“Then, it was the Great Beasts that made the arrow tips!” Bhutto cried.
“Yes. The Great Beasts went to the secret cave to chew on stones and sharpen their teeth. The arrow tips were what they left behind.”
“But the hunter—he killed the last Beast!”
“Yes, and because of that, the Mazumbas soon used up the last of the very sharp arrow tips. No longer were they the great hunters they had once been.”

“Congratulations, Marcus,” Mom said on the way to the car. “You pitched a great game!”
“Last April, when you pitched your first game,” Dad asked as we started home, “did you think you’d be pitching in the regional finals?”
“I guess I dreamed about it some,” I answered honestly, “but I really thought that Gary and the Pirates would end up going again.”
Dad, Mom, and I relived the game, especially that last inning with a guy on third, one on first, and Gary up to bat. The Pirates were down by two runs, but Gary had already hit one homer that day, and everybody on the Pirate bench was counting on him to hit a second one. That would have put them up by one and sent them to the regional games. But Gary struck out. Then Willie popped up, and I snagged the ball to end the game.
“Oh, before I forget, Marcus,” Mom told me, “Sister Anderson called this afternoon and wants you to give a talk in Primary a week from Sunday.”
Talking in Primary wasn’t my favorite thing to do, but this time I knew immediately what to talk about. “I think I’ll talk about Little League.”
Mom turned around to look at me, and Dad glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “This is Primary, you know,” Mom pointed out, “not another baseball game.”
I grinned. “I know, Mom. I’m not going to talk about the game of baseball.” I explained, “You see, Heavenly Father has really helped me this season. Even though I’m the only Church member on the team and it hasn’t been easy, I’ve tried hard to do what’s right, and He’s helped me.” I went on quietly, “I could feel Him helping me out there this afternoon. I wasn’t nervous, even when Gary came to the plate. I said a little prayer, asking the Lord to help me do my best. Even before I threw that first pitch, I knew everything was going to be all right. That’s what I want to talk about in Primary—how the Lord can bless us when we work hard and choose the right.”

The love between David and Daniel is real—a love anyone in their presence can feel. They met in the fall of 1988 when David was assigned as a peer tutor to Daniel. David joined the peer tutoring program at Viewmont High School because he likes to help people. “We were instant best friends the first time we met,” says David. “Yep,” adds Daniel, “best friends, just like that.” And he snaps his fingers.
Most teens want to do all the “cool” things to be accepted by their peer group. David is obviously “cool.” He’s very popular—after all, he was elected student-body president. He’s handsome, outgoing, a good student, and a triathlete. And yet he befriends a youth who is mentally handicapped and even asks him to be his campaign manager in the school elections. Didn’t he wonder what the other kids would think? He answers, “People get too caught up in what others think. I only worry about what one person thinks. What the Lord thinks of me is most important.”
He continues, “I wanted Daniel to be my campaign manager because he’s so friendly and will talk to everybody. I wanted people to know that handicapped people have feelings just like everyone else and they want to be accepted. That’s exactly what I got.”

Just a few weeks ago, I saw a new deacon start on that path of diligence. His father showed me a diagram his son had created that showed every row in their chapel, a number for each deacon who would be assigned to pass the sacrament, and their route through the chapel to serve the sacrament to the members. The father and I smiled to think that a boy, without being asked to do it, would make a plan to be sure he would succeed in his priesthood service.
I recognized in his diligence the pattern from the new Duty to God booklet. It is to learn what the Lord expects of you, make a plan to do it, act on your plan with diligence, and then share with others how your experience changed you and blessed others.

Tori fought back tears as she ran into the house and took her book bag to her room.
“Tori, honey, is that you? Hustle out here and help me get these carrots peeled for dinner, please.”
“I’m not very hungry, Mom, and I have lots of homework.”
“Well, the rest of the family will be hungry, and you’ll have plenty of time after we eat.”
Mom knew that something was wrong when Tori kept her back turned as she worked. She was sure that a few tears were dropping into the sink along with the thin strips of carrot peeling. She wanted to hug her daughter and make it better, but she knew by now that even a mother’s hug couldn’t always make a hurt go away. “A tough test today, dear?”
“Kind of. But I was prepared, and I know I did well. That’s not the problem, Mom. It’s just that I’m, well, I’m so tired of being lonely. I don’t have any real friends.”
“Of course, you do! What about Pam? And Ellen? And—”
“Wrong answer, Mom. They’re just Sunday friends. In church they’re OK. Sometimes I think they like me then. But at school it’s different. They call me a goody-goody and ‘Mommy’s little angel.’”
“Maybe it’s a compliment,” Mom said with a smile.
Tori shook her head. “I don’t think so.” She grimaced. “All the girls at school are invited to Malorie’s house Friday night for a pizza party.”
“And you didn’t get invited?”
“Yes, I got invited, but I probably won’t go. They plan to stay up late eating pizza and chips and watching television—all the shows that are off limits at our house. I feel like a dweeb.”
“Do you really want to go, Tori?”
“Yes—and no. I’d like to be with the girls, but I’ve heard them talk about some of the late night shows. I don’t want to watch them—I’d just feel dumb and embarrassed and probably guilty. Why does it have to be like this? Why, when I try so hard to do what I’m supposed to, do I always have to do it alone?”
Mother hugged Tori and said, “Why don’t you pray about this? I’m sure that there’s a solution to your problem.”
That evening Tori prayed, “Heavenly Father, I need Thy help. I need the courage to do what I know is right. I’d like an idea of how to help Pam and Ellen too.”
Before school started the next day, Ellen asked Tori if she was going to the party.
“I’ve decided not to go,” Tori said.
“I’m sorry you’re not coming to the party. I know it’s because your folks won’t let you.”
“It’s true that Dad and Mom don’t want me watching that stuff on TV, Ellen, but it’s more than that. Parties should be fun, and it’s not much fun being embarrassed and feeling ashamed.”
“You know what? I think your folks are trying to brainwash you—you know, trying to make you think what they want you to think.”
“I don’t think so, Ellen. But sometimes I wish they could wash my brain. Do you remember the dirty joke that Malorie told us a few weeks ago? It was disgusting, and I’ve had a hard time getting it out of my mind. I’ve decided that I don’t want to get any more thoughts in my head that shouldn’t be there, because they’re really hard to get out—OK?”
“OK.” Ellen turned away, but she hesitated briefly, then turned back. “Can we still be friends?”
“Yes, of course! I really want your friendship. You can come to my party next month—Dad says I can give one for my birthday. In fact, would you help me plan some fun games for it?”
Ellen thought for a moment. “Do you like to play board games?”
“I sure do!”
“You know, Tori, I bet my mom would let us make cereal treats this Friday and play games at my house. We don’t need to watch TV at Malorie’s house to have fun. I don’t really want any more of that stuff in my brain, either. Shall we ask Pam too? Then we can call Malorie and tell her we aren’t coming.”
“I thank Thee, Heavenly Father,” Tori whispered as she headed for her math class. “I thank Thee, very much.”

Candice has already had to face a situation where she was asked to perform a song which had lyrics she objected to. In her performing group, her director told her to just not sing the objectionable part and join in later. Candice chose instead to sit out the entire number backstage. “It was completely her decision,” said her mother, Sherma. “I wasn’t even there when she made the choice to stay out of the number.”

This story happened in Zimbabwe.
The sun was shining, and Lynn ran outside to play. The other children in the village were playing kickball. They had made their own ball by crunching up papers and wrapping them tightly with plastic bags.
Lynn hurried to join them. But then something made her stop.
Sitting under a nearby tree was a girl named Awesome. Some other children pointed at her and laughed. But Awesome didn’t laugh. Instead, she covered her face with her hands. Big tears rolled down her cheeks.
Soon the others joined the kickball game and left Awesome alone.
Lynn looked at the children having fun. Then she looked at Awesome. She wanted to do what Jesus Christ would do.
“Are you OK?” Lynn asked. She smiled at Awesome.
Awesome wiped her tears and nodded.
Lynn picked up two small sticks and handed one to Awesome. “Want to draw with me?”
“Sure.” Awesome took the stick and drew a circle in the dirt.
“That looks like a sun,” said Lynn. “The sun always makes me happy.” The girls giggled as they drew more pictures. Lynn liked Awesome.
Then Lynn had an idea. “Would you like to come to church with me tomorrow? We’ll sing songs and learn about Jesus Christ. It’s really fun.”
“OK,” said Awesome. “Let me ask my mother.”
As Awesome ran to find her mother, Lynn felt a little nervous. She knew some people in their area had bad feelings about the Church.
But soon Awesome came running back. “My mother said yes!” She gave Lynn a big hug. “I told her you are my best friend ever!”
The next morning, Lynn and Awesome went to church. It was a long walk. Lynn taught Awesome some Primary songs as they walked.
On the way, they saw other children walking with their families to church. Some of them were the ones who had been mean to Awesome.
“Are they coming to church too?” asked Awesome nervously.
“Don’t worry,” Lynn said. “It will be OK.” Lynn said a little prayer in her heart that the others would be nice to her new friend.
When they walked into Primary, the other children smiled at Lynn. But when they saw Awesome, some of their smiles faded. They seemed a bit worried and nervous too.
Sister Moyo read a scripture. “Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works and glorify your Father in Heaven.”* She looked up. “We can share our light by showing love to others. Can anyone share how you helped someone feel loved?”
No one spoke. Some of the children shuffled their feet under their chairs.
At last, one of the boys said, “Uh, Awesome, we were not very kind to you. We are sorry we made you cry. Can you forgive us?”
Lynn looked at Awesome. What would she say?
Awesome nodded slowly. “Yes,” she said. “I forgive you.”
Sister Moyo smiled. “That was brave and kind of both of you. I know you’ve made the Savior very happy.”
The next day, Lynn and Awesome sat under the tree and sang songs they learned in Primary. Soon the other children heard them singing and joined them. Music filled the air they all sang.
Lynn felt like sun was shining in her heart. She was grateful she had shared Jesus Christ’s love with her friend.
Awesome kept going to church with Lynn. Later, she was baptized!
Illustrations by Katie Rewse

Daniel Harbuck and Miguel Peña, both 18, interviewed Ferron Forsgren. They were impressed that he could once type 100 words a minute, wore racing goggles when he drove his first car, and had some good advice about impressing young women. Brother Forsgren also told them how he gained his testimony of the Church and how he has been active all his life. They found out that Brother Forsgren still plays tennis at the age of 87. Daniel says, “That’s the kind of guy I want to be when I’m older.”

“Kish!” the young Eskimo girl exclaimed, jumping to her feet. Thinking that she heard Kish, the family’s lost Siberian husky, scratching at the outside door, Jen-ni threw aside her stitching and dashed across the one-room sod house. Pushing aside the heavy furs hanging from the first doorway, she moved swiftly through the partially underground tunnel to the outside door.
Frigid Arctic air thrust itself like a thousand sharp ice needles against her face as her eyes searched the sunless, semidarkened landscape. “It’s only a loose fitting on the door,” Jen-ni commented as her mother stepped up behind her.
“Is it because it’s Christmas Eve that you think you hear these sounds?” her mother asked. “Kish disappeared three months ago. Is it reasonable for you to expect her back?”
“You’re right,” Jen-ni admitted, “but I often think I hear her scratching outside the door.”
Jen-ni knew that neither her mother nor her father could explain the beloved dog’s sudden disappearance. The big husky had been the only sled dog allowed inside as a family member, and Jen-ni yearned for her canine companion. She missed their daily romps. Once, Jen-ni had lain ill for days with a high fever, and Kish would not leave her side. The dog had growled when anyone attempted to move her away.
“Come back to your work,” her mother urged, stepping back into the dim tunnel. Inside the living quarters, Jen-ni dropped down on the white bearskin rug beside the round table where she had been stitching faces on the small Eskimo dolls her mother had fashioned.
The family’s handmade articles—the small dolls, Father’s carved buckles of bone and ivory, and Mother’s fancy fishbone necklaces—were sold regularly to Mr. Morris, a Christian missionary who operated the village trading post in connection with the missionary school. The handmade articles helped pay for her brother Rira’s board and room at the school.
“Mr. Morris will be here before the day hours are over,” Jen-ni’s mother remarked as she moved the Caribou stew to a hotter spot on the small stove. “He’ll pick up all the things we have finished.”
“He’ll have a message from Rira, too,” Jen-ni eagerly added, “and the gift!” Jen-ni’s eyes brightened when she thought about the gift Rira had written he was sending to his sister. She hoped that the gift would be the daintily dressed, lifelike doll Rira had described seeing at the trading post. Her excitement kept growing, along with her hunger.
The bowls were on the table and Father had the items packed inside the deep hide bag by the time they heard Mr. Morris stomping the crusty snow off his boots. Stepping inside, the fur-covered man seemed to fill the room. The babble of friendly greetings commenced.
As soon as she could politely do so, Jen-ni’s mother asked, “What is the message from Rira?”
“Rira was fine, the last I saw him,” Mr. Morris replied. “I’ve been on a two-week trek down the strait where I’m starting a new school. In fact, I traveled out of my way to pick up your items. However, as soon as I see Rira, I’ll tell him that his family is fine and wishes him a merry Christmas.”
Jen-ni’s spirits fell, causing a lump in her throat and bringing tears to her eyes. She realized that if Mr. Morris had not been at Rira’s school for two weeks, he couldn’t deliver the gift. Now there would be no Christmas gift to unwrap.
The minute their guest was seated, Mother served the steaming stew.
Although Jen-ni no longer felt hungry, she tried to show her good manners. She listened intently while the adults talked, and before they left the table, Mr. Morris retold the Christmas story. Jen-ni felt thankful that she knew the story, and she visualized every scene. She pictured the bright star lighting the countryside—a countryside very different from her own.
In less than an hour the family watched Mr. Morris depart, cracking his long whip above the barking dog team as the sled creaked across the snow.
The oily lamp smell lingered in the room long after Mother blew out the flame and the family retired upon their sleeping platforms.
Jen-ni curled up in the soft furs, but she could not sleep.
It was such a tiny noise at first that Jen-ni didn’t stir. When it came again, she raised up on her elbow. Then she scrambled to her feet and stumbled in her haste to get through the tunnel. Why is Mr. Morris back? she wondered.
She pulled open the door, and Mr. Morris stepped in, carrying something furry and bulky in his arms. In the vague light Jen-ni recognized the familiar shape and reached Kish just as the bedraggled husky jumped excitedly down against her, knocking her backward. Jen-ni’s joyful cries mingling with the dog’s happy barking brought her parents hurrying into the tunnel, where they all joined in the happy homecoming.
Jen-ni fastened her arms tightly around Kish’s neck while Mr. Morris told about finding her.
“Your home was hardly out of sight when I saw this dim figure creeping toward me in the snow. As it made my dogs grow restive, I stopped my sled. Fortunately I heard her whining before I drew my gun. Knowing it was a dog, I went closer. I could see that she was all right, but her paws were badly torn from her trek across the ice needles with no protective sealskin boots.
“She was headed this way, so I brought her back by dogsled.”
“You found the right place,” Jen-ni’s father replied. “We’ll always be grateful to you.”
“I’m just glad I saw her,” the missionary answered. “Now I must go, for I have a long journey ahead of me.”
As the man’s tall frame disappeared into the landscape, Jen-ni looked skyward a moment. “Although you can’t see the Christmas star,” she whispered to Kish, “if there’s happiness and wonder in your heart, it’s there.”

In the listening audience today are Jeff and Joyce Underwood of Pocatello, Idaho. They are parents of Jeralee and their other five children. Jeff works on a building maintenance team that cares for some of our chapels in Pocatello, Idaho. Joyce is a mother and homemaker. One day last July, their daughter Jeralee, age eleven, was going door to door collecting money for her newspaper route. Jeralee never returned home—not that day, nor the next day, nor the next, nor ever.

Two thousand people from the area had gone out day after day to search for her. Other churches sent support and food for the searchers. It was learned that Jeralee had been abducted and brutally murdered by an evil man. When her body was found, the whole city was horrified and shocked. All segments of the community reached out to Joyce and Jeff in love and sympathy. Some became angry and wanted to take vengeance.

After Jeralee’s body was found, Jeff and Joyce appeared with great composure before the television cameras and other media to publicly express their profound thanks to all who had helped in the search and who had extended sympathy and love. Joyce said, “I know our Heavenly Father has heard and answered our prayers, and he has brought our daughter back to us.” Jeff said, “We no longer have doubt about where she is.” Joyce continued, “I have learned a lot about love this week, and I also know there is a lot of hate. I have looked at the love and want to feel that love, and not the hate. We can forgive.”

Elder Joe J. Christensen and I, representing the General Authorities, were among the thousands privileged to attend Jeralee’s funeral service. The Holy Spirit blessed that gathering in a remarkable way and spoke peace to the souls of all who attended. Later, President Kert W. Howard, Jeralee’s stake president, wrote, “The Underwoods have received letters from people both in and out of the Church stating that they prayed for Jeralee, and they hadn’t prayed in years, and because of this, they had a renewed desire to return to the Church.” President Howard continued, “We will never know the extent of activation and rededication this single event has caused. Who knows the far-reaching effects Jeralee’s life will have for generations untold?” Many have come into the Church because they wanted to know what kind of a religion could give the Underwoods their spiritual strength.

I mention the good coming from this tragic event with Jeralee’s parents’ full approval and encouragement. Their sweet daughter was like the lad who had only five barley loaves and two small fishes to give to the cause of the Savior, but by the power of God, countless thousands have been spiritually fed.

The words Jesus Christ spoke to Joseph Smith are called revelations. Some of these revelations were published in the Book of Commandments. While this book was being printed, people became angry with the Church members who had moved to their town. They threw the printing press into the street. Two sisters named Mary Elizabeth and Caroline Rollins gathered as many pages of the Book of Commandments as they could. They ran into a cornfield to hide from the angry men, and Heavenly Father kept them safe. The revelations in the Book of Commandments later became part of the Doctrine and Covenants.

The first temple to be built in this dispensation was the temple at Kirtland, Ohio. The Saints at the time were impoverished, and yet the Lord had commanded that a temple be built, so build it they did. Wrote Elder Heber C. Kimball of the experience, “The Lord only knows the scenes of poverty, tribulation and distress which we passed through to accomplish it.” And then, after all that had been painstakingly completed, the Saints were forced to leave Ohio and their beloved temple. They eventually found refuge—although it would be temporary—on the banks of the Mississippi River in the state of Illinois. They named their settlement Nauvoo, and willing to give their all once again and with their faith intact, they erected another temple to their God. Persecutions raged, however, and with the Nauvoo Temple barely completed, they were driven from their homes once again, seeking refuge in a desert.

The struggle and the sacrifice began once again as they labored for 40 years to erect the Salt Lake Temple, which stands majestically on the block just south of those of us who are here today in the Conference Center.