Gospel Story Finder

Isabelle was so excited that she almost skipped as she and her dad walked down the hallway. Her mom had just brushed her dark hair and zipped up the long white dress Isabelle would wear for her baptism. She stopped outside the room where everyone was waiting.
“Can anyone have one of those?” she asked her dad, pointing to copies of the Book of Mormon on a small table.
“Yes. They’re for people who want to know more about our church,” Dad said.
Isabelle peeked into the room. It was full of people she loved. Her grandmother, aunts, uncles, and cousins sat near the front. Her best friend, Grace, sat with her family at the back. But Isabelle didn’t see Miss Perkins, her schoolteacher.
“Let’s go in,” Dad said. “It’s time for the meeting to start.”
“Can we wait one more minute for Miss Perkins?”
Miss Perkins was Isabelle’s favorite teacher. She loved books, and Isabelle did too.
“It was nice of you to invite her, Isabelle, but she might not come,” Dad said gently.
Isabelle sighed and nodded. She and Dad walked into the room and sat in the front row. Right before the opening hymn, Isabelle turned around to look for her teacher one last time. There she was with Grace’s family! Isabelle smiled. Miss Perkins smiled back.
After Isabelle’s baptism the bishop asked everyone to squeeze together for a photo.
“Where is Isabelle?” he asked.
Everyone looked around. No Isabelle!
Grace went to find her friend. First she looked down the hallway, but Isabelle wasn’t there. Then she looked in the foyer, but she wasn’t there either. Finally, Grace looked outside and saw Isabelle standing on the steps of the meetinghouse talking to Miss Perkins.
“Thank you for coming to my baptism,” Isabelle said.
“You’re welcome,” said Miss Perkins. “I’m sorry I had to leave so quickly. I have another appointment today.”
“That’s OK. But I wanted to give you something.” Isabelle handed her teacher a Book of Mormon that she had picked up off the table in the hallway. “I know you love to read, and this is a really good book.”
“Thank you,” Miss Perkins said.
“Will you read it?” Isabelle asked.
“Yes, I will,” Miss Perkins said. “I promise.”
Isabelle felt so happy. She smiled as she turned and saw Grace waiting for her.
“What were you doing out there?” Grace asked. “Your mom wants a group picture.”
“I went to give Miss Perkins a Book of Mormon,” Isabelle said.
Grace’s eyes widened. “Were you scared?”
“A little. But I was more afraid that she would just put it away on a shelf somewhere. So I asked her if she would read it.”
“What did she say?” Grace asked.
“She promised that she would!”
“That’s great!” Grace said.
The two girls joined the group of friends and relatives.
“I’m glad Grace found you, Isabelle!” the bishop said. Then he asked everyone to squeeze together again for the picture. Isabelle stood right in the middle of the front row.
Afterward, Isabelle’s mom leaned over to hug her. “Now you can remember your baptism day forever!” she said.
Isabelle smiled. She knew that with or without a picture, she would never forget her baptism day and how good it felt to be a missionary.

I give you a quick illustration that I have told before many times. Many years ago I was driving home late one night from Provo to take care of my sick wife. I was very nervous because I had prepared things for her to last until six o’clock at night, and I was starting home from Provo at eleven o’clock at night, so she had already been without help for five hours. I was fit to be tied. I passed through Salt Lake City (I had not been arrested so far between there and Provo), and started up the highway toward Ogden, got as far as Farmington junction, and turned off on to the hill road, newly paved at that time though not straightened out. With that I stepped on that accelerator and got the car going seventy miles an hour. I passed the road where Hill Field takes off going seventy-two or -three; it was downhill a bit, and going down the hill I think I increased to seventy-eight or eighty. And then I noticed through my rear-view mirror the flashing light of the patrol car. I pulled to a stop and got out and walked back fifteen or twenty feet, extending my hands so he could see I was not armed, and he came up and stopped a few feet away and got out. “I guess you’re arresting me for speeding,” I said.

“Yes, you were doing better than sixty miles an hour when you passed the Hill Field road.”

“I was doing better than seventy miles an hour when I passed the Hill Field road,” I corrected him. “But give me a ticket; I’ve got to go. My wife’s sick, I’m in a hurry, and I’ll pay the fine gladly, but let me get out of here. I’ve got to go home quickly, so just give me the ticket.”

He said, “Don’t get your shirt off. Stand still a minute. I’m not going to give you a ticket.” He had not asked for my name. He just stood there.

I said, “Well, thanks for that.”

He continued, “I’m going to give you a warning ticket. That means you don’t have to go to court unless you do it again. On one condition.”

“What’s the condition?” I asked.

“That you drive within the speed limit the rest of the way home, so you will get to your wife.”

I said, “I’ll do it.”

So he gave me the ticket and when he handed it to me it had my name on it. He smiled, stuck out his hand, and said, “My name’s Bybee. I used to be one of your Scouts at Camp Kiesel.”

All the way home I said to myself, with each turn of the wheels on my car, “What if I’d lied to him? He knew I was doing seventy. Policemen do. He knew I was going too fast, and he knew I was his Scout executive years before, too.” I did not know that he knew any of this, but if I had not told him the exact truth or tried to hedge at all he would have lost respect. He would have given me a ticket, and I would have had no influence on that man ever again.

It wasn’t until the end of my eighth grade year that I realized I was very different from my classmates and even my best friends, who were nonmembers. I was faced with a situation that really bothered me. In class we were debating some controversial topics, including abortion. When I shared my thoughts, I was surprised to see my moral values ripped to pieces. Something I feel is so precious—physical intimacy, something that should be reserved for marriage—was simply a fun pastime to other people. I walked out of the classroom that day knowing that things were going to be very different.

In the same class, I was faced with another moment that would force me to act on all of the things I had been taught since Primary. My teacher was in the front of the class, talking about a snippet of a movie we were about to watch. Some of my classmates suggested that we watch the whole movie. My teacher shook her head and nonchalantly explained that she couldn’t because the movie had a mature rating. I was stunned when I first heard this. I never thought this would happen.

I sat in my chair, thinking about what I should do. A thought kept coming into my head: We have been asked not to watch offensive movies. I tried to rationalize that because I was in school, the part of the movie we were going to watch would be appropriate. But the thought of not watching offensive movies trumped my rationalizations.

I calmly raised my hand, and in front of my whole class, I asked to sit outside of class while the movie played. I felt everyone’s eyes on me as I pushed in my chair and grabbed my book. I saw the looks on their faces; they simply didn’t understand.

While sitting in the hallway, I felt very happy. I knew I had done the right thing, no matter what my peers or teacher said. I felt stronger too. I knew I didn’t have to watch an inappropriate movie clip just because my teacher had presented it to us.

Since then, I have often thought about the Mormonad hanging up in my room. It reads, “Adversity Can Make You Strong.” I believe that when we are faced with moments of adversity and we stand up to them, we are made stronger than if we had sat down and let them happen.

This is an inner strength that is found through our Savior. If we look to Him in our times of difficulty, we will be made strong. Our faith in Him can help us face adversity unashamed. We must “be strong and of a good courage” (Joshua 1:9) and look to our Heavenly Father and our Savior for everything; with all that, our adversities will make us stronger.

The challenges that face us and our families as disciples of Christ are somewhat different than those of Joshua’s Israelites. Let me illustrate with an experience. Our family lived for many years in the state of Florida. Because Florida has a high concentration of sand, lawns there are planted with a large broadleaf grass we call Saint Augustine. A formidable enemy of a Florida lawn is a small, brown insect called a mole cricket.
One evening as my neighbor and I stood on the front steps, he noticed a little bug crossing my sidewalk. “You better spray your lawn,” he warned. “There goes a mole cricket.” I had sprayed the lawn with insecticide not too many weeks previously, and I hardly felt that I had the time or money to do it again so soon.
In the light of the next morning, I examined my lawn closely. It was lush and beautifully green. I looked down into the grass to see if I could see any of the little bugs. I could see none. I remember thinking, “Well, maybe that little mole cricket was just passing through my yard on the way to my neighbor’s yard.”
I watched my lawn for more than a week, looking for signs of invaders, but none was evident. I congratulated myself that I had not overreacted to my neighbor’s warning.
The story, however, has a sad ending. I came out the front door one morning, about 10 days after the conversation with my neighbor. Shockingly, as if it had happened overnight, brown spots covered my lawn. I ran to the garden store, bought the insecticide, and sprayed immediately, but it was too late. The lawn was ruined, and to return it to its former state required a new crop of sod, long hours of work, and large expense.
My neighbor’s warning was central to my lawn’s welfare. He saw things I could not see. He knew something I did not know. He knew that mole crickets live underground and are active only at night, making my daytime examinations ineffective. He knew that mole crickets did not eat the leaves of the grass but rather found nourishment in the roots. He knew that these little inch-long creatures could eat a lot of roots before I would ever see the effect above the ground. I paid a dear price for my smug independence.

Ana’s boots slurped on the slushy sidewalk as she hurried to school, hugging a large papier bag against her coat. Her brown eyes were calm, but inside she was excited. Today her class was filling the Christmas box.
Ahead, waiting for her under the usual tree, were Lem and Kyle. Pulling her coat around the bag, she lowered her eyes and kept walking. Whump! The expected snowball hit her arm. Splat! Another exploded on her shoulder.
“Tell the teacher,” Lem taunted.
Kyle threw another snowball, brushing her long dark hair and just missing her ear.
They knew she wouldn’t tell. She hardly ever talked at school—she could never seem to find the right thing to say. This new school was so much bigger than her last school, and she missed her old friends. It was still hard just to answer the teacher’s questions in the classroom. A few snowballs wouldn’t make her talk now.
Entering the school yard, Ana opened the sack and took a last peek at her gift for the box. It was beautiful! She smiled, knowing how wonderful it would make someone feel. When her family had moved the first time, someone had left a Christmas box on their doorstep. In it were oranges, a ham, hot chocolate mix, chewy caramels, and soft, white mountains of divinity, which melted into nothing on the tongue. Six homemade Christmas socks, one for each family member, were filled with surprises. And now she could share the same thrill with someone else.
Standing at the classroom door, Ana watched Mrs. Manning set a large, brightly wrapped box on a desk at the front of the room. Entering eagerly, Ana hung up her coat and pulled off her boots. She was sitting on a footstool, tying her tennis shoes, when Mrs. Manning said, “Everyone who has gifts for the box can bring them up now.”
Ana turned to watch as the others carried up their gifts. Elizabeth had a can of tuna; Marc, two cans of chicken noodle soup. Lorene brought a puzzle she had received on her birthday. “Only one piece is missing,” she said. Jean had some candy canes; Eric, a box of stuffing; and Neil, an obviously used stuffed animal. Most of the kids hadn’t brought anything. Ana’s eyes lost their sparkle.
Then Lem and Kyle went to the front of the class. Lem was flexing his arm muscles. “Look what we got for the basket!” Kyle shouted, commanding everyone’s attention. Opening his backpack, he unloaded a number of cans onto the desk. He barked like a circus announcer: “Spinach, lima beans, brussel sprouts, rutabagas, and parsnips. We cleaned out the cupboards of all the vegetables we can’t stand!
Ana tried to imagine a family finding this box on their porch. She could picture the children pulling out can after can of vegetables and later putting the puzzle together to find a piece missing. It was wrong!
She jerked her shoelace and tied it too tight. She had spent a whole Saturday and four afternoons carefully layering paper mâché, paint, and finally crepe paper. They’ve never had a Christmas box, she decided.
“Ana, do you have something for the box in your bag?” Mrs. Manning asked.
Ana nodded and carried it up to the desk. Twenty-seven curious faces turned to see what she had brought. They were quiet as she gently tugged a star-shaped piñata from the bag. Then everyone was wowing and oohing and talking to each other.
“It’s beautiful, Ana!” Mrs. Manning exclaimed. Ana had thought that she would feel proud and happy when the class saw her piñata. She didn’t. Instead, warm tears slid down her cheeks. She hadn’t cried when they moved here, even though it was her third new school in two years. She hadn’t cried when the boys teased her or even when she decided not to try to be friendly with her classmates anymore. But now the tears came.
Words came, too. She tried to push them back, but they were too strong. “I made it,” she said clearly.
The class was instantly silent.
“After our family moved the first time, we were very sad when Christmas came. Then a box—a Christmas box—was left at our house. The note said, ‘Merry Christmas and a Happy New Home, from your secret friend.’ We were so happy—we wanted to shout ‘Thank you’ to the night.”
Mrs. Manning hugged Ana close, and everyone started clapping.
Ana brushed the tear tracks away and placed her piñata in the box with the vegetables.
Lorene raised her hand. “Mrs. Manning, could I take the puzzle home and bring something else tomorrow?”
“Me, too,” Marc said. “I think I can do better.” A half dozen voices joined in, and heads nodded agreement.
“OK, class,” Mrs. Manning said. “We’ll keep the box here for another day. Anyway, I wanted to bake some cookies for it and didn’t get them done.”
Ana wore her boots home and carried her tennis shoes in the brown sack, even though the sun had dried the sidewalk and reduced snowmen to crusty mounds. Lem and Kyle were waiting as she, Jean, and Lorene passed the tree. The boys scraped some snow from under bushes to throw at them, but the girls were laughing and talking so fast they hardly even noticed. Ana was explaining how to make a piñata.

Several decades later, when I was in my fifties, while living outside my country, I began to feel a great lack of spirituality within me, but I did not know what to do or where to look.
Since I was Catholic and I was living in a very Catholic country (France), I decided to choose a church where I could go every Saturday to worship.
The beautiful church I found was often empty, with just a few little old women kneeling in prayer, and from time to time getting up to light one of the candles placed on a table at the back of the room.
And I imitated them because I didn’t know what else to do.
I did this for about seven months until my older sister, who was also seeking the truth, changed churches and convinced me to become a Pentecostal like her.
From that moment on I started reading the Bible, without understanding much about it.
But the advantage was that I started keeping the commandments and applying the teachings I received.
Still, I felt like I was missing something.
One night I had a dream in which someone said to me: “Blessings for you and your family can be found in your home country.”
I didn’t understand what that meant, but because of my son’s health problems, I had to leave the foreign country I was living in to return home to Cameroon to support my sick son.
Arriving in Cameroon in September 2009 after more than 30 years of absence, I went from one pentecostal church to another, but I still had the same feeling within me that something was missing.
I often saw young men passing by, dressed in a white shirt and ties, two by two. I thought they were Jehovah’s Witnesses.
And, since I was looking for the truth and didn’t know where to find it, why not try them? I said to myself.
When questioning them, they introduced themselves as missionaries of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
After two lessons, they invited me to attend sacrament meeting, and, miraculously, I finally felt inner peace. I finally felt at home because I had found the truth I was seeking.
Seven years later, when I went to the temple, I finally understood the meaning of the dream I had, because I performed ordinances for several people in my family.
I testify that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is the only true restored Church on the face of the earth.

Illustrations by Matt Sweeney
Are you going to send something to the Friend for the Kindness Garden? I saw you taking Mrs. Craig’s trash out for her again.
Hmm. Maybe I will. What about you?
You’ve been helping that new girl at school catch up on her assignments.
Oh! Yeah.
Let’s both do it.
OK! Something you find in a garden, right?
I’ll find the colored paper.
I’ll get crayons and markers.
LATER—
I did a rose. I love roses. And you did … a potato?
It was supposed to be a gopher, but he forgot to make the legs!

What were fifty pioneer children, handcarts, covered wagons, rag dolls, pets, and stick horses doing on the streets of St. George, Utah, in mid-April? Although they didn’t look out-of-place in front of the historic Brigham Young Winter Home that day, something very eventful was taking place. It was the shooting of photographs for the July 1993 Friend cover. Preparations started months in advance. City officials were contacted for permission to block off the busy street, a local sign company donated and set-up traffic signs, props were built or borrowed, and costumes were made, especially lots of pioneer bonnets. When the big day came, the weather was beautiful, the trees already leafy and green. The Primary children, from a number of St. George wards, were cheered on by dozens of wonderful moms. Thanks to a local merchant’s donation, a snack break was provided, and that was all the kids needed to make it through the three-hour session with the photographer and the Friend designer. All the children who participated were happy to have taken part in this exciting day!

Sister Vicki Fujii Matsumori went to Primary even before she was a member of the Church. Her parents wanted her to attend a church when she was a child, and their home in Murray, Utah, was close to a meetinghouse of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
“I always knew it was true,” says Sister Matsumori. When she learned about tithing, she wanted to pay it. When she learned about fasting, she wanted to fast. When she was about to turn eight, she wanted to be baptized.
However, when she asked for permission to be baptized, her parents, George Yasuyuki Fujii and Yoshie Matsumoto Fujii, told her they wanted her to know more about the church she was joining. Her father knew a little about the Church and told her that she should learn the Articles of Faith before the bishop interviewed her for baptism. So she did.
The bishop did not ask her to recite any of them, but Sister Matsumori still treasures the gospel knowledge she gained while she was in Primary.

With the trusting nature of a child, four-year-old Chitalu Kennedy from Lusaka, Zambia ran into the open arms of Jesus! The moment was later captured on canvas by Latter-day Saint artist Liz Lemon Swindle in a heartwarming painting entitled Worth of a Soul. Since 2008, this painting has found a place in our hearts. We see the Savior draw this young, trusting child to Him. As we look into this young child’s eyes it may really be ourselves that we see. If we allow the Spirit in, it will testify that it is really each one of us that is cradled in His arms.
Kennedy was orphaned when both parents passed passed away from undiagnosed diseases just a couple of months apart. They left behind eight cherished children, the youngest just three weeks old. The lives of Kennedy and his brothers and sisters were forever changed. The emptiness and loss robbed him of hope. That feeling would follow him for many years. His Spirit craved acceptance, love and belonging.
Two years after his parents’ passing, on a sunny day in Lusaka West, Zambia at the Mothers Without Borders Children’s Center, where Kennedy and some of his siblings were being cared for, a man portraying the Savior arrived with the artist and a photographer where an environment was created with the desire to photograph African children with the Savior so that a much-needed painting could be created.
Kennedy was then four years old. With the innocence of a child, and fully believing this man to be the Savior, he broke loose from the grip of his sister Bridget’s hand and ran toward him. He jumped into his outstretched arms. Throughout the day, Kennedy rarely left his side. Was the Spirit whispering to him that something here was familiar?
As a young orphan, Kennedy depended on others for survival. Prior to being brought to the children’s center, he and his siblings were scattered among relatives. As with most experiences in life, some of the times were good, some desperate. Throughout it all, and despite separation from each other, the siblings remain bonded together. His older brother Bwalya was ever present in his life and took on the role of father and protector even though he was only two years older than Kennedy.
Kennedy was introduced to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints when he was nine and became a baptized member at the age of eleven. Five siblings were also baptized.
As a young teenager, life became difficult for Kennedy when no funds were available for his continued housing, food and much desired education. It was at this time that BJ Warnick, Sandra Peters, and Anthony Mulenga—who had all known Kennedy since he was four—were able to take him into their care. Through their Heart to Hands Foundation, he and Bwalya were immediately adopted into their flock. While it was obvious that Kennedy needed the basics required for daily survival, what he really needed was hope and love and they had plenty of that to offer. Kennedy said while he was not officially adopted, it was even better. He now had two moms. With his new family’s help, he was able to complete grade twelve, obtain a driver’s license and complete auto mechanic school. Again, he was wrapped in the arms of his Savior, but it was through the acts of others. Kennedy remarked, “I don’t know who I would have become without the continual love of my enlarged family and friends who have dedicated so much time to me.”
It was a year ago that Kennedy made the decision to serve a mission and to become those arms of the Savior for others. His ‘better than adopted family’, his brother Bwalya and his determined Bishop Michael Simbeya in the Libala Ward helped him prepare. While at the Ghana MTC, before departing to the Kenya Nairobi mission, miracles occurred and he was able to attend the temple and take part not only in his father’s ordinance work, but also to participate in the sealing of his parents and finally his sealing to them for time and all eternity.
Now, as Elder Chitalu, in the mission office he met Sister Stacie Sturt, mission leader for Kenya Nairobi West Mission. She captured this beautiful photo of Elder Kennedy Chitalu standing in front of the picture of his much younger self, cradled in the arms of his Savior. Now he wears a name tag as a representative of Jesus Christ. It is his turn to wrap his arms around others and help bring them to Christ. He testifies: “I know and stand as a solemn witness that Jesus Christ is our Savior, and I know that His Atonement has healing power for all kinds of afflictions”.

My mother was born of Puerto Rican parents working in the sugar industry in La Romana, Dominican Republic in 1913. Both of her parents died in 1916 within months of one another when she was almost three years old. Puerto Rican neighbors raised her until she married and moved to Puerto Rico with her little family in 1930. My mother never found any paperwork on the birth or death of her parents or where they were buried. I felt this was my chance to do some digging and find what my mother could not find.
One Sunday we decided to visit a ward in La Romana. It happened to be Mother’s Day. I shared my story with the sisters in Relief Society with hopes that someone could help. A kind sister who happened to work in the civil registry of the town said she would research the archives for me. A few weeks later she said she could not find anything. An official registry was not kept, by law, until the 1930s. Some records were destroyed by floods or fire or just stored under poor conditions causing them to deteriorate. I gave her my sisters’ names and birth dates and the towns in which they were born. No records found. I was devastated. What do I do now?
With nowhere to turn I immersed myself in FamilySearch. I had found documentation on my grandmother in Puerto Rico before she left to La Romana in a census. I found a ship manifest that listed my grandmother traveling with a newborn (my mother) to Puerto Rico twice. The last time was within the year she had passed. I now knew the town she was from, my mother’s real birthday and who they visited. This was a real treasure. My mother was an orphan with no real information, and now I had a place to start.
Although I had not found what I was looking for, we took the time to visit all the places my mother talked about. I was able to get a feel for what life must have been like in the early days of the twentieth century living in a sugar cane industry town. This gave me renewed faith in continuing my search for more information.
As I continued to search further back through my grandparents’ lines, I found many wonderful treasures. I found that my family line in Puerto Rico dates to early explorers in the Caribbean. Some had served as governors in the Dominican Republic. Some were sea captains, farmers, and businessmen. Some were maids, seamstresses, and some of nobility. I was able to do the temple work for many there in the Santo Domingo Dominican Republic Temple where we volunteered as ordinance workers once a week. I was beginning to feel a closeness to my ancestors that I thought I would never experience. My excitement and joy in the work I was doing carried me through times of disappointments. I knew that if I kept looking, I would be able to find many more, and I did.
My time in the Dominican Republic was cut short because of the pandemic, but not before finding my family and learning more about my rich Caribbean roots. The tapestry of my family lines is rich with stories of courage and faith. At one time, I thought I would not be able to complete my four generations with temple work, at least not in this life. But now I have gone well beyond four generations. Elder and Sister Soares said in the last RootsTech that one purpose of temple work was to unite the past with the present and the future. I have felt this each time as my grandchildren enter the temple to do the work for these sweet people I never knew existed. I can honestly say I now know them and love them. They are my family.

Early in our marriage my husband and I relocated for his schooling. In our new ward I worked closely with a woman whose manner I found brusque and insensitive. Looking for sympathy, I complained to my husband, lamenting that such a woman would be in a leadership position in the ward. Rather than offering the sympathy I expected, my husband presented an informal but valuable lesson on the importance of love and tolerance.
In the Church, he said, we are all working together to build the kingdom of God. He suggested that individual members are like bricks. None of us “bricks,” however, is perfectly sound. Under close scrutiny each is flawed—a gouge here, a bump there. When we are placed side by side with other bricks, there is seldom a perfect fit. Invariably there are gaps or wobbles where others’ imperfections come into contact with our own. Without the “mortar” of love, tolerance, patience, and forgiveness, our efforts to build the kingdom would come to naught.
As our family has grown and my experiences in helping to build the kingdom have broadened, I have often reflected on this simple lesson. I am reminded of my own responsibility to be more charitable in my interactions with others. And where my own shortcomings are concerned, I am more appreciative of those who are liberal with “mortar” in their dealings with me.
Lee Ann Fairbanks, Moses Lake 10th Ward, Moses Lake Washington Stake

When I was a mission president, one of my missionaries came to see me because he was struggling to understand the words of Isaiah.

I inquired what he was doing to study Isaiah. His reply indicated that he was essentially just reading Isaiah and hoping that enlightenment would come.

When I heard his answer, it became clear that he hadn’t yet paid the price required to understand. We then talked about learning the history of the Jews, reviewing the footnotes related to the Isaiah passages in the scriptures, praying for understanding, and pondering the things he didn’t understand.

He went off and did these things. A few weeks later, he reported that he could finally understand the words of Isaiah, and that they brought him great joy. I have found that with most topics, if I will do the work to understand the topic, I find it to be interesting and enjoyable.

I learned about the power of such a vision when I joined my 12- and 13-year-old sons for a 50/20 competition. A 50/20 consists of walking 50 miles (80 km) in less than 20 hours. We started at 9:00 p.m. and walked all that night and most of the next day. It was an excruciating 19 hours, but we succeeded.
Upon returning home, we literally crawled into the house, where a wonderful wife and mother had prepared a lovely dinner, which we didn’t touch. My younger son collapsed, totally exhausted, on the couch, while my older son crawled downstairs to his bedroom.
After some painful rest of my own, I went to my younger son to make sure he was still alive.
“Are you OK?” I asked.
“Dad, that was the hardest thing I have ever done, and I never want to do it again.”
I wasn’t about to tell him that I would never do it again either. Instead, I told him how proud I was that he had accomplished such a hard thing. I knew it would prepare him for other hard things he would face in his future. With that thought, I said, “Son, let me make you this promise. When you go on your mission, you will never have to walk 50 miles in one day.”
“Good, Dad! Then I’m going.”
Those simple words filled my soul with gratitude and joy.
I then went downstairs to my oldest son. I lay by him—then touched him. “Son, are you all right?”
“Dad, that was the most difficult thing I have ever done in my life, and I will never, ever do it again.” His eyes closed—then opened—and he said, “Unless my son wants me to.”
Tears came as I expressed how grateful I was for him. I told him I knew he was going to be a much better father than I was. My heart was full because at his young and tender age he already recognized that one of his most sacred priesthood duties was to be a father. He had no fear of that role and title—the very title that God Himself wants us to use when we speak to Him. I knew I had the responsibility to nurture the embers of fatherhood that were burning within my son.
These words of the Savior took on a much deeper meaning to me as a father:
“The Son can do nothing of himself, but what he seeth the Father do: for [whatsoever things He] doeth, these also doeth the Son likewise” (John 5:19).
“I do nothing of myself; but as my Father hath taught me” (John 8:28).
I love being a husband and father—married to a chosen daughter of heavenly parents. I love her. It is one of the most fulfilling parts of my life. My hope that night was that my five sons and their sister would always see in me the joy that comes from eternal marriage, fatherhood, and family.

One day at work, I had to leave for a few hours to take care of some important errands for my mother. I went to the office in the morning and told a colleague that I would be absent in the afternoon. During a break she whispered to me, “I can help you with the time clock.”
“No, thanks,” I said.
As I left the office to catch the bus, my friend followed me to the time clock. She said quietly, “Why don’t you clock in for the afternoon period, and then I’ll punch your time card when I go home?”
Before I could utter a word, she added, “Look, our salary is below minimum wage, so it would be OK to do this. It’s just a small amount. Besides, we are not the only ones who do it.”
I began to consider what she had said. She had some good points, and I knew she had good intentions. But this was not what I had been taught in the Church.
Gathering all my strength and resolve, I told her softly, “My friend, the Lord is good, and if He blesses us, we can receive from Him more than that amount.”
She left and was somewhat annoyed with me for rejecting her offer. While I walked to the bus stop, I worried about how small my paycheck would be. I knew we would have to forego buying some food the following month.
As I walked, I remembered the words of one of the hymns: “Be honest in your heart; and God will love and bless you and help to you impart.”1 A phrase from another hymn came to my mind: “Choose the right! And God will bless you evermore.”2
These lines strengthened my decision not to give in to temptation but to trust in the Lord’s promises.
Three years have passed since that incident, and I now have a new job. The Lord has definitely blessed me. It took time, but the promise of the hymns indeed came true, and I can feel that many blessings will continue to come to me as I continue to choose the right. I am grateful for the hymns, which give me courage to hold on to that which is right in the sight of God.

I have one other thought I should like to express. Brigham Young was a great defender of the Prophet Joseph Smith. There were Judases in the ranks in that day, just as there were in the Savior’s day, and just as we have today, some who are members of the Church who are undercutting us, who are betraying their trusts. We are shocked when we see the places from which some of these things come.
Brigham Young was invited by some of these men who were trying to depose the Prophet Joseph from his position as President of the Church; but they made a mistake by inviting President Brigham Young into their circle. And after he had listened to what their motives were, he said something to this effect: “I want to say something to you men. You cannot destroy the appointment of a prophet of God, but you can cut the thread that binds you to the prophet of God, and sink yourselves to hell.”
There was a pugilist there by the name of Jacob Bump, so the story goes, who doubled up his fists and started toward President Young, who replied to this man’s threats: “I would like to lay hands on a man like you in defense of the Prophet Joseph Smith.”
Remember that, brethren. You cannot destroy the appointments of the prophets of God. The Lord knows whom he wants to preside in his church, and sometimes it takes a lot of practicing, guiding, testing, before he may know whether or not one of us is prepared for the present assignment.

On August 30, in the middle of Wyoming, the teenage driver received a special honor. Captain Joseph W. Young needed to rush ahead of his train to catch up with another wagon company, so he selected Zeb to drive him in a wagon pulled by mules. (Mules travel much faster than oxen.) Zeb drove as fast as he could for three days and then Captain Young, needing to travel even faster, hailed a passing stagecoach, boarded it, and left Zeb to travel alone.
Zeb liked the fast mule team which moved him 20 to 45 miles a day, double what wagon trains could cover. But driving alone on the hot, dusty trail and camping by himself at night had its lonely moments. So he enjoyed catching up to other travelers and visiting with them. Late on September 3 he overtook the Joseph Horne train “where I joined the people in that camp in a dance.” An injured man in the camp needed to be hurried to Salt Lake, so Richard Horne joined Zeb as a traveling companion, “and I was very glad of his company,” Zeb confessed.
Zeb, the teenage driver, put his mule-pulled wagon and injured passenger into Salt Lake City in near record time, arriving on September 7 at breakfast time. He beat his Joseph W. Young wagon train there by 16 days. In total, down and back, Zeb had been on the trail for 18 weeks.

The oldest of four children, I learned as a boy on a small farm near the town of Escalante, Utah, how to work. When I was about two years old, my father was called to serve a mission. When I was three, I helped my mother by carrying in wood and chips for the stove and by helping tend the animals. Later, I drove the cows to pasture in the morning and brought them back in the evening. I also helped harvest a large garden, fruit trees, and grain and alfalfa fields. My father had several thousand sheep, and I helped care for them as they grazed in the mountains or desert.

This reminds me of another incident that happened in the life of my husband’s mother. Just a couple of years before her passing, she was a worker in the Provo Temple. She loved attending the temple and working there. She had the early morning shift, and she usually left her home around five in the morning and, at age 80, drove to Provo from her Orem home.

One January morning her car would not start. It was snowing and very cold. She tried a few times to get the engine going, but to no avail. She was determined to fulfill her calling and to not disturb anyone at that early hour. After a short prayer to the Lord, she didn’t lose courage and started walking, at age 80, at five in the morning, in January, while it was snowing hard. I assure you, I am not making this up; it is true in every detail.

This modern pioneer woman walked half a block, and a car stopped next to her. An older gentleman was driving and asked her if he could be of assistance. Sister Noble did not want to bother him too much and asked him where he was going, to see if their two destinations were nearby. Well, he was also going to the temple and offered her a ride.

When that afternoon she called us to take her back home and told us this story, we gently scolded her for not calling us that morning and urged her to promise us not to do it again.

Then, with her usual sweetness and calm, she answered back and said: “Okay, I’ll call you next time, and I won’t do it again. But you kids, you don’t have enough faith. I knew that I would be all right.” She said this simply, almost unbelieving of our concern. She was on the Lord’s business, and He was going to help her. What were we worried about?

While growing up in the '80s, I was fascinated with Wonder Woman. I would watch her show and then go to my backyard to practice a variety of stunts and maneuvers I might be called upon to use in a precarious situation. I can't begin to tell you how empowered I felt when I wore my Wonder Woman shirt. I just felt like I could do so much good! My eight-year-old brain started to think, "If I can accomplish this much good while wearing my Wonder Woman T-shirt, how much good could I accomplish if Heavenly Father would allow me to be Wonder Woman?" So I began to pray, very fervently, numerous times a day, that Heavenly Father would allow me to be Wonder Woman; and while I was praying, I would promise Heavenly Father that I would "only use my powers for good!" After weeks and months of praying and no obvious transformation, I started to have some heart-to-heart talks with my mom about how prayers are answered. During one of our last conversations, my mom said, "Maybe Heavenly Father doesn't need you to be Wonder Woman; maybe he just needs you to be Kynda." How disappointing! I'm just going to be myself? That's no good! But this answer pacified me, and I moved out of the superhero developmental phase and on to another one.
A few years ago I was telling a friend about my Wonder Woman experience, and she told another friend, and the two of them purchased a Wonder Woman keychain for me. When they were presenting me with the keychain, my friend said, "We think you are Wonder Woman!" At that moment, I felt an electrical zing move from the top of my head down to my feet, and I felt this impression on my heart and mind: "You got to be her. You got to be Wonder Woman." My immediate reaction to this impression was, "No, I haven't! I haven't saved anyone from a burning building or stopped a speeding train!" But as I continued to process the impression I received, I began to realize what heroes really do: they help people.