Gospel Story Finder

Some years ago, I went canoeing with a group of young women. The deep blue lakes surrounded by green, thickly forested hills and rocky cliffs were breathtakingly beautiful. The water sparkled on our paddles as we dipped them into the clear water, and the sun shone warmly while we moved smoothly across the lake.

However, clouds soon darkened the sky, and a stiff wind began to blow. To make any progress at all, we had to dig deeply into the water, paddling without pausing between strokes. After a few grueling hours of backbreaking work, we finally turned the corner on the large lake and discovered to our amazement and delight that the wind was blowing in the direction we wanted to go.

Quickly, we took advantage of this gift. We pulled out a small tarp and tied two of its corners to paddle handles and the other corners to my husband’s feet, which he stretched out over the gunwales of the canoe. The wind billowed the improvised sail, and we were off!

When the young women in the other canoes saw how we moved along the water with ease, they quickly improvised sails of their own. Our hearts were light with laughter and relief, grateful for the respite from the challenges of the day.

I was discussing options for my Eagle project when I heard about the tsunami that had caused widespread devastation on the island of Samoa. I also learned that a sister in our ward, Savili Martin, would be traveling to Samoa with her family to visit relatives during the Christmas holidays. While I realized that the main concern of the people of Samoa was to rebuild and make the best of what they had, I also knew that all children love to receive gifts, and I felt inspired to organize a service project to provide Christmas presents to the children whose lives had been affected by the disaster. Although the gifts wouldn’t be extravagant, I felt that this project would be a blessing to the children and would help ease the burdens of their parents.
I worked with the Scouts in my ward to start a Christmas stocking gift drive. So many people were eager to help with this project. The Scouts and Young Women in my ward helped pass out flyers and collect donated gifts. We received donated material to make the stockings. My family and another family in the ward made the stockings, and the girls at the Primary activity days in our ward stuffed them. We gave all the gifts too big to put into stockings to the school district’s Project Help for Christmas.
We completed the project in time for the James and Savili Martin family to take the boxes of stockings with them to Samoa, where they gave the stockings to the Primary children.
When Sister Martin and her family returned to Arizona, she brought back a video of the children receiving their Christmas presents. I felt so warm inside when I saw how grateful every child was for his or her gift. One young boy in particular was wrapping his little arms around his Christmas stocking, making sure everybody knew it was his. Their appreciation and excitement more than compensated for all the hard work put into this project. The Spirit was strong after we watched the video, and I felt that the Lord blessed us in our efforts to help and serve His children.

Illustration by Allen Garns
Several times a year, my work requires that I travel from Taiwan to San Francisco, California, USA, for training. The problem with traveling between these two places is the 15-hour time difference. Jet lag made me want to sleep during the day, and it kept me awake all night.
Colleagues from all over the world attend these trainings. They told me they coped with jet lag by drinking coffee to keep them awake and drinking red wine to help them sleep.
Some colleagues offered me these drinks, but I politely told them I was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and had promised the Lord I would not drink wine or coffee. Some teased me and said those commandments made my life harder. At times, it felt like I was being mocked by the people in the great and spacious building in Lehi’s dream (see 1 Nephi 8:26–27).
Over time, however, keeping the Word of Wisdom began to feel like a tedious burden. During one sleepless night, I realized my faith was weakening. Thankfully, my wife sent me a message that day encouraging me to keep my faith, rely on God, and keep His commandments regardless of the circumstances. With her encouragement, I started to pray for help and began to look at things differently.
On one trip, I noticed a colleague had two cups of coffee. I asked him about the second cup.
“One cup is not strong enough to keep me alert anymore,” he replied.
I was surprised to notice the same was true for those who drank wine. They needed to drink more to sleep. Sometimes, they even overslept because they drank too much.
Watching my colleagues become more dependent on alcohol and coffee made me realize how important it is to keep the commandments. If I had chosen to disobey the Word of Wisdom, I could have been in the same boat.
My jet lag has not completely gone away, but the situation has improved. One morning, I woke up after a good night’s sleep and saw the sunrise. As the sunbeams shone through the window, I realized that with Heavenly Father’s help, I can handle any trial, no matter how big or small. I just need to continue to obey, keep my faith strong, and endure to the end.

One is humbled by the spiritual submissiveness of the dying young mother of twenty-six, understandably anguished at the prospect of not rearing her two children, one of whom she so recently made ready to lay down her life for, if necessary. The baby arrived safely, but, alas, the gallant mother could not tarry. With childlike faith this young sister touchingly inquired, “If I am to die, then how can I help my husband and my parents as they watch me die?” Surely she (and others similarly situated) faithfully conforms to King Benjamin’s portrait of a Saint as one being “willing to submit to all things which the Lord seeth fit to inflict upon him, even as a child doth submit to his father.” (Mosiah 3:19.)

The Prophet Joseph Smith was our neighbor. We lived next to him on the corner of Main and Parley streets. He came to our house quite often for short visits.

One day my older brother, Wallace, and I were on our way to school. It had been raining the previous day and the ground was very muddy, especially along the street on which the building known as Joseph’s brick store was. Wallace and I both got stuck fast in the mud and could not get out. And, childlike, we began to cry. Looking up, I beheld the loving friend of children, the Prophet Joseph, coming toward us. He soon had us on higher and drier ground. Then he stooped down and cleaned the mud from our little heavy-laden shoes, took his handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped our tearstained faces. He spoke kind and cheering words to us and sent us on our way to school rejoicing. You can see why Wallace and I loved him.

Atami, Japan, is an attractive city located on the east coast of Honshu, about 100 kilometers south of Tokyo. It is a famous vacation resort with comfortable hot springs, splendid sunsets, and high cliffs overlooking the sea.
The main attraction of the cliffs of Atami is the beautiful view, but they also attract people for a different reason: from their edge, many have plunged to their death.
On a May evening in 1987, I was driving toward Atami. I couldn’t stop crying, and I didn’t want to see the sunset. As I drove, the memories of the past few years ached inside me.
I had worked hard while I was serving in the Japan Sapporo Mission, on the northernmost island of Japan, with its cold, snowy winters. I felt that the Lord accepted my service, but I did not anticipate what awaited me when I returned home. I didn’t understand why, after all the hard work, there didn’t seem to be any rewards.
Specifically, I felt unfulfilled in my search for an eternal companion. I had found few opportunities to date, while others seemed to be finding eternal happiness easily. Any relationship that I thought might be lasting ended. Though my family was worried about my depressed state, I received strength from my Heavenly Father, which helped me through this difficult time.
Then questions began to arise. Why did I have to suffer so much? Did Heavenly Father still love me? As a returned missionary, I could not deny that the Lord lived or that his Church was true, but I began to question his love for me. Then, one night, thinking that I would never have the opportunity to get married, I lost all hope, and Satan took control. I decided to take my own life rather than face any more heart-breaking experiences. I wrote a farewell note to my parents and began driving to Atami.
Then, two miracles happened. First, as I got closer to the coastline, prepared to drive my car off the cliffs into the ocean, I noticed that a wall had been built to prevent cars from going over the edge. Second, the Lord cleared my mind long enough so that I could stop the car and think about my actions. I realized I could never take my life.
Sobered and much calmer, I drove home to find my bishop at home with my parents. They are not members of the Church, but they knew they could trust Bishop Kashikura. He gave me a blessing, and it seemed the nightmare was finally over.
But a week later, I again had second thoughts about my purpose in life. I didn’t know what to do. On that same day, I received a letter.
The letter was mailed from the United States, which was no unusual because I have friends there. But this letter was different—there was no return name or address. All I knew was that it was mailed from Flushing, New York, the day after I had driven to Atami to try to end my life. However, I did not know anyone from Flushing, New York.
When I opened the letter I found, “To You!” written at the top. Enclosed was a copy of the song “Going Home,” written in both Japanese and English. As I read the words, tears filled my eyes. The words told me that when I found myself alone, my memories could keep me strong. With those memories, I could never forget there is a place where I still belong, a place I can always turn to for comfort: “Home.”
I cried and cried and finally felt assured that Heavenly Father does watch over me. He loves me! Until I had this experience, I thought heaven was very far away, but the song helped me understand that God is very near. When we are faithful, we are already in our heavenly home here on earth.
That was the first and last time I ever heard from Flushing, New York. Perhaps I will never know who sent me those words. The experience reminded me of something President Spencer W. Kimball said, “God does notice us, and he watches over us. But it is usually through another person that he meets our needs” (Ensign, October 1985, page 3). I am eternally grateful for the person who had ears to hear and acted upon the prompting from the still, small voice from heaven.
I will never forget this experience, and, no matter how great the trials I shall have, I will never forget the place where I want to be—home, my heavenly home.

For my 17th birthday, my dad presented me with his old Volkswagen. I was ecstatic. Imagine—my very own car! I was anxious to take a drive. A long drive. Somewhere. Anywhere. I suppose my excitement was, in part, a result of a boyish, budding sense of independence.
The long-awaited and sorely anticipated journey finally arrived the following summer when my parents gave me permission to drive a few states away to visit a cousin. My 15-year-old brother, Tom, accompanied me. My dad hugged me and cautioned, “Keep your sense about you, Ray. And be careful.”
It was a memorable trip, mainly because it was my—rather our—maiden voyage, of sorts. Our first real time away from home. That, in itself, was the real adventure.
As with all adventures, this one came to an end, and it was time to go home. We were tired and ready to return to the comfort of our own beds.
Tom was asleep in the backseat of the car as I snaked my way through the mountains on a high, narrow road. I had been driving all day, and it was late, so I couldn’t wait to get down off that mountain, pull off the road, and get some sleep, at least enough for a brief respite before finishing the final leg of our journey.
Being saddled with an aching want for sleep, along with a youthful helping of inexperience and irresponsibility, I was driving too fast for the conditions of the road. The night was blacker than a bad tooth. The sickle-thin cut of moon in the inky sky and the feeble, confetti-like throw of star glow provided scant illumination on the dark road. I negotiated the narrow, serpentine roadway using the almost-just-as-meager aid of the vehicle’s headlights.
Just as I was about to round yet another sharp curve, I heard a voice within me say, “Slow down. There are two deer around the corner in the road.”
Driving as fast as I was and already upon the turn, I had only time enough to react—to either ignore the voice or hurriedly follow the instruction.
I chose the latter, quickly slowing down as I took the blind curve. And there, just as the voice had forewarned, standing in the middle of the narrow roadway, were two deer, blinded by my headlights and too startled to move.
Had I not heeded the voice, I would have swerved to the left and driven off the edge of the huge drop-off.
After maneuvering around the deer, I proceeded on our route. It was good to be home again. As I lay in my own bed with my hands tucked under my head, I realized that as much as I looked forward to the notion of one day being on my own, I hoped that wherever life found me, I would be living righteously enough to always have the companionship of the Holy Ghost.

“Oh, Mom,” Melissa moaned, “I already have enough friends!”
“But, Melissa, it’s just two weekends a month,” Mom pleaded, “and Vernika is new in the Church and so lonely. Her dad died in a car accident just last September—you remember the day that the fog hung so low and thick that it never lifted. And her little brother is so sick that her mom needs to spend every minute with him. If they could afford a nurse, it might be different.”
Melissa nodded. Of course she felt sorry for Vernika, but it didn’t change the fact that she already had enough friends. “Why can’t Vernika’s grandparents take her to church?”
Mom smiled, “Darling, Vernika’s grandparents aren’t members. Besides, they live too far away. This way Vernika can walk home with you after school on Friday and go to the Merrie Miss activities Saturday mornings and to sacrament meeting and Primary on Sundays.”
Just then there was a crash in the living room, and two-year-old Justin squealed in delight. The twins, Johnny and Jase, toppled over each other as they raced up the stairs, each claiming that he had nothing to do with whatever just happened. Melissa moaned again.
“Anyway,” Mom sighed as she hurried out of the room, “with this house full of boys, it will be nice to have another girl around.”
Friday came, and Melissa tried to keep her distance while Vernika smiled and skipped rocks with the twins all the way home from school. Well, at least Johnny and Jase will have a good weekend, Melissa thought.
Then came the moment Melissa was dreading. She would have to share her beautiful room, the only spot in all the world of her very own, with someone who wasn’t even her friend. When she opened the door, Vernika’s whole face lit up. It was as sunny as the yellow room. “I’ve never seen a room this pretty before,” Vernika gasped. “You must feel like a princess beneath such a beautiful flowered quilt!”
“Well, I guess we’ll both be princesses tonight,” Melissa replied coolly, “because you’ll be sleeping in here with me.”
“Oh. Then I shall rename you the ‘Princess of the Yellow Quilt’ and pretend that I’m a princess from a faraway land who has come to visit. I’ll tell you about my deeds of sorrow and high adventure, while you tell me about Jase, Johnny, and Justin, your three little jesters.”
In spite of herself, Melissa giggled and entered into an evening of bright imagination. As they said their prayers that night, Melissa overheard Vernika thank Heavenly Father for helping her find a friend at last. Maybe Vernika isn’t so bad, after all, Melissa thought.
Two months passed. It was a cold, windy Friday, and nothing was going right. The Merrie Miss activity had been canceled, and Vernika had to stay home to help with her sick baby brother. To top it off, Johnny, Jase, and Justin were pestier than ever and had just barged noisily into her room.
“Can’t you read? It says ‘No boys allowed!’” Melissa yelled as she picked up a sign that had fallen on the floor and tacked it up again on her bedroom door.
“We just wanted to borrow your crayons,” Johnny complained as he walked out of the room as slowly as was humanly possible.
Melissa thought about how the boys never seemed so terrible when Vernika was there. Melissa smiled, remembering the stories from the Book of Mormon storybook that Vernika had told the boys two weeks ago. The boys had been wide-eyed and pin-dropping quiet as Vernika had ended each story, then folded her arms and declared, “And the best thing is that it’s true!”
That night, while Melissa was sleeping, she vaguely heard the telephone ring and then the truck pull out of the driveway. A couple hours later, Melissa awoke to the sound of muffled sobs. There was Vernika rocking back and forth on the edge of the bed, tears streaming down her cheeks!
“I’m sorry I woke you,” Vernika quavered. “Your daddy brought me here after they took my brother to the hospital. He can hardly breathe. Oh, Melissa, what if Henry dies, like Daddy did?” Vernika sobbed.
Melissa couldn’t find words as she thought about her own little brothers. They did get on her nerves, but how upset she would be if anything really bad ever happened to them. She wrapped her beloved, yellow quilt around Vernika’s shoulders and held her hand. They sat quietly for a long time as Vernika’s tears slowly subsided.
“Let’s say a prayer,” Melissa finally whispered, adding, “I’ll offer it.” She prayed as she had never prayed before, asking Heavenly Father to help Henry get better. She prayed for Vernika to remember that Heavenly Father and Jesus loved her and were close by. After the prayer, Melissa noticed that Vernika had stopped crying. Silently the girls curled up under the yellow quilt as a still sleepiness closed their eyes.
The next morning the rain came down in icy sheets as the temperature dropped. Then the phone lines went dead, and the electric power went out. Everyone looked like Eskimos as they wore their winter coats around the house, trying to keep warm. Daddy told Vernika that he and the bishop had given her baby brother a blessing last night. “Try not to worry,” he said as he lit a fire in the fireplace. “The hospital has an emergency generator for electricity.”
That evening he brought all the sleeping bags into the living room. With no heater, everyone would sleep around the fireplace—just like the pioneers. Johnny, Jase, and Justin let out shouts of glee. Then Daddy took out his Book of Mormon and read 3 Nephi 17 [3 Ne. 17], which told about Jesus healing the Nephites and blessing the children. It also told of Jesus’ weeping out of love for the people. Melissa saw tears on Vernika’s cheeks once again—but this time they weren’t frightened, panic-filled tears. They were the kind of tears Melissa had seen in people’s eyes during fast and testimony meeting.
Morning came, and Daddy woke everyone up. “I have something to show you,” he said as he took Melissa and Vernika down the hallway and opened the front door. Sunlight splashed in, and the girls gasped in wonder. They had never seen the world after an ice storm before. Every tiny branch of the great oak tree and every solitary needle on each evergreen was coated in its own case of smooth, shimmering ice. The day glistened as though everything in it was made of diamonds!
“Oh! It’s like magic!” exclaimed Vernika.
“Yes,” Daddy said. “It’s strange how sometimes the most terrible weather yields the greatest beauty. And, Vernika,” Daddy added, grinning, “your mom called and said that Henry is breathing easily and is out of danger.”
Vernika shouted with joy and danced out onto the porch and all around it.
“Vernika, I’m going to rename you the ‘Dancing Princess of the Diamond Morning,’” Melissa declared, beaming.

Elder Jeffrey R. Holland once described a painful situation in his family:

Early in our married life my young family and I were laboring through graduate school at a university in New England. Pat was the Relief Society president in our ward, and I was serving in our stake presidency. I was going to school full-time and teaching half-time. We had two small children then, with little money and lots of pressures.

One evening I came home from long hours at school, feeling the proverbial weight of the world on my shoulders. Everything seemed to be especially demanding and discouraging and dark. I wondered if the dawn would ever come. Then, as I walked into our small student apartment, there was an unusual silence in the room.

“What’s the trouble?” I asked.

“Matthew has something he wants to tell you,” Pat said.

“Matt, what do you have to tell me?” He was quietly playing with his toys in the corner of the room, trying very hard not to hear me. “Matt,” I said a little louder, “do you have something to tell me?”

He stopped playing, but for a moment he didn’t look up. Then two enormous, tear-filled brown eyes turned toward me, and with the pain only a five-year-old can know, he said, “I didn’t mind Mommy tonight, and I spoke back to her.” With that he burst into tears, and his entire body shook with grief. A childish indiscretion had been noted, a painful confession had been offered, the growth of a five-year-old was continuing, and loving reconciliation could have been wonderfully underway.

Everything might have been just terrific—except for me. If you can imagine such an idiotic thing, I lost my temper. It wasn’t that I lost it with Matt—it was with a hundred and one other things on my mind. But he didn’t know that, and I wasn’t disciplined enough to admit it. He got the whole load of bricks.

I told him how disappointed I was and how much more I thought I could have expected from him. I sounded like the parental pygmy I was. Then I did what I had never done before in his life: I told him that he was to go straight to bed and that I would not be in to say his prayers with him or to tell him a bedtime story. Muffling his sobs, he obediently went to his bedside, where he knelt—alone—to say his prayers. Then he stained his little pillow with tears his father should have been wiping away.

If you think the silence upon my arrival was heavy, you should have felt it now. Pat did not say a word. She didn’t have to. I felt terrible!

Later, as we knelt by our own bed, my feeble prayer for blessings upon my family fell back on my ears with a horrible, hollow ring. I wanted to get up off my knees right then and go to Matt and ask his forgiveness, but he was long since peacefully asleep.

My own relief was not so soon coming, but finally I fell asleep and began to dream, which I seldom do. I dreamed Matt and I were packing two cars for a move. For some reason his mother and baby sister were not present. As we finished I turned to him and said, “Okay, Matt, you drive one car and I’ll drive the other.”

This five-year-old very obediently crawled up on the seat and tried to grasp the massive steering wheel. I walked over to the other car and started the motor. As I began to pull away, I looked to see how my son was doing. He was trying—oh, how he was trying. He tried to reach the pedals, but he couldn’t. He was also turning knobs and pushing buttons, trying to start the motor. He could scarcely be seen over the dashboard, but there staring out at me again were those same immense, tear-filled, beautiful brown eyes. As I pulled away, he cried out, “Daddy, don’t leave me. I don’t know how to do it. I’m too little.” And I drove away.

A short time later, driving down that desert road in my dream, I suddenly realized in one stark, horrifying moment what I had done. I slammed my car to a stop, threw open the door, and started to run as fast as I could. I left car, keys, belongings, and all—and I ran. The pavement was so hot it burned my feet, and tears blinded my straining effort to see this child somewhere on the horizon. I kept running, praying, pleading to be forgiven and to find my boy safe and secure.

As I rounded a curve, nearly ready to drop from physical and emotional exhaustion, I saw the unfamiliar car I had left Matt to drive. It was pulled carefully off to the side of the road, and he was laughing and playing nearby. An older man was with him, playing and responding to his games. Matt saw me and cried out something like, “Hi, Dad. We’re having fun.” Obviously he had already forgiven and forgotten my terrible transgression against him.

But I dreaded the older man’s gaze, which followed my every move. I tried to say “Thank you,” but his eyes were filled with sorrow and disappointment. I muttered an awkward apology and the stranger said simply, “You should not have left him alone to do this difficult thing. It would not have been asked of you.”

With that, the dream ended, and I shot upright in bed. My pillow was stained, whether with perspiration or tears I do not know. I threw off the covers and ran to the little metal camp cot that was my son’s bed. There on my knees and through my tears I cradled him in my arms and spoke to him while he slept. I told him that every dad makes mistakes but that they don’t mean to. I told him it wasn’t his fault I had had a bad day. I told him that when boys are five or fifteen, dads sometimes forget and think they are fifty. I told him that I wanted him to be a small boy for a long, long time, because all too soon he would grow up and be a man and wouldn’t be playing on the floor with his toys when I came home. I told him that I loved him and his mother and his sister more than anything in the world, and that whatever challenges we had in life, we would face them together. I told him that never again would I withhold my affection or my forgiveness from him, and never, I prayed, would he withhold them from me. I told him I was honored to be his father and that I would try with all my heart to be worthy of such a great responsibility.

The story is told of the lone Indian brave who ascended a high mountain top. The weather was bitter cold at the summit. He looked around and saw a rattlesnake. He withdrew a safe distance.

The rattlesnake then spoke to him in pleading tones, "Please take me to the valley below where the weather is warmer and I can survive, otherwise I will die."

The brave replied, "But you will bite me."

"No," came the reply from the snake, "I will treat you differently, you will be special. I promise I will not bite you if you deliver me to safety below."

The believing brave picked up the snake, held him next to the warmeth of his body and carried him to the valley below. Just as he released him, the snake struck and bit the young brave. He cried out, "But you promised."

To which the snake replied, "You knew what I was when you picked me up."[7]

No one can claim to be fooled by the effects of pornography when he "picks it up"--believing there is any such thing as an innocent glance. It is a poisonous, venomous, unforgiving snake that will strike the moment one takes his first look and continue to strike with a full portion of venom at each look thereafter.

“Shortly after we were married, we began looking for a church. We had promised each other we would have a Christian home. Our neighbors had a daughter who had just joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. She asked us if we’d like to talk to the missionaries. As soon as they walked onto our porch, we knew these men were different. There was a spirit about them.”
Another homecoming, this one leading to serious study, fasting, prayer, and finally the realization that Heavenly Father was welcoming them into the only true church.
“All the pieces fit. Everything was right. And since then our love for God has grown, our faith has grown, and we’ve seen the truth in action in the lives of Latter-day Saints everywhere we’ve lived.”

In reality, that kind of precision often requires mastery of some pretty complex technology on a modern bow. You start coming across terms like stabilizer, sight, clicker, and more. “My friends are sometimes shocked at all the gear,” says LaNola P., a 17-year-old from California with a true talent for archery. “It’s a lot harder than you would think.”
LaNola has been involved in archery since she was six years old, with her dad as her coach and shooting partner. Over the years she’s won competitions and set national archery records. Archery hasn’t been her only focus, however. She keeps the gospel at the heart of all she does, even when that means getting out of bed at 4:00 a.m. to attend 5:25 a.m. seminary. “The gospel allows me to keep things in perspective,” says LaNola. “I know my strength comes from Heavenly Father.”

It was a bitterly cold February night—so cold the Mississippi River had turned to solid ice, a blue and white highway. With the river frozen, there were no river barges, no ferryboats, no boats of any kind. Thick ice made it possible to walk out on the river, perhaps to walk all the way to the far bank.
The city of Nauvoo, resting quietly on the banks of the Mississippi, was dark—but four people were still moving about, shivering on shore, about to test the ice. Would it be strong enough to support them? Was it possible to drive a team of horses pulling a wagon across?
Kayla Walker followed in her father’s footsteps as he approached the river. Their friend, Tim McCormick, also moved out onto the ice. Even though she was excited to make the crossing, Kayla was a little scared. Their guide, Jerry McLeod, had already warned them that if they felt the ice begin to crack beneath their feet to spread out their arms to catch themselves from falling in completely. “He told us to try to stay above the ice,” Kayla says. “If you fall below, the current will carry you under the ice. That was sort of scary.”
Kayla stepped out on the ice. Exactly 150 years ago that month, the first pioneers to leave Nauvoo crossed the ice of the Mississippi, leaving behind their beloved and beautiful city with the white temple shining on the hill. Kayla, her father, and a friend had received the necessary authorization to be on the ice and reenact the pioneers’ departure.
“I was wearing three pairs of pants, a turtleneck shirt, and a sweater. Then I had on a big coat, a hat, a scarf, and gloves. I had on two pairs of socks and a pair of hiking boots, and I was still cold,” Kayla recalls. “It was –30° Celsius. That’s why the ice was so thick. It was frozen 45 centimeters down. I could see cracks in it, but all you could see was more ice because it was so thick.
“It was dark. It was slippery, but we kept a steady pace. There was snow on top of the ice, so we did have some traction. We hit some slick spots where it was hard for me to keep up. I just didn’t want to stop. I wanted to get across. It took us 18 1/2 minutes.
“Brother McLeod’s wife met us on the other side in her van and drove us back home. I was very glad to get in that van with the heater on high and hot chocolate waiting. It was neat to think about my ancestors making the same crossing. Only they did it with long dresses and their children and some people who were sick. They did that, with no questions asked, because they believed in the Church. What strong testimonies they had! I think I would have gone hesitantly. I would have been asking, ‘Why can’t I just wait?’ Just doing what they did so long ago was a big testimony builder.”

Illustrations by Kellan Stover
It was my first time hanging out with my new friends Becky and Sarah. I was so excited! Becky’s mom dropped us off at the bowling alley, and I followed Becky and Sarah inside. I could smell hot dogs and hear something clattering in the background.
“I’ve never been bowling before,” I admitted.
“Don’t worry,” Becky said. “It’s easy.”
“And fun!” Sarah added.
They led me to a counter, where we checked out special bowling shoes. Then we found our lane and put the bowling shoes on.
I picked up a bowling ball. It was a lot heavier than I thought it would be. Sarah showed me how to put my fingers in the holes in the ball. Then Becky showed me how to roll it down the lane.
On my first try, my ball didn’t hit any pins. But after a few turns, I got the hang of it. One time, I even knocked over all the pins at once!
“Nice!” Becky gave me a high five. “That’s called a strike.”
When the game was over, I went with Becky and Sarah into the bathroom. They unlaced their bowling shoes. Then Becky shoved the shoes behind the garbage can.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
Becky grinned up at me. “This is part of the fun. We always sneak out without paying!”
I froze, feeling my stomach clench. “What about the money your moms gave you?”
“We keep it,” Sarah said as she slipped her regular shoes back on. “Come on, hide your shoes too.”
My heart was beating fast. I knew it would be wrong to not pay. But I didn’t want Becky and Sarah to get mad at me. I wanted them to like me.
Heavenly Father, I prayed silently, please help me be brave enough to do the right thing.
I took a deep breath. “I can’t do that. It would be like stealing.”
Sarah put her hands on her hips. “I thought you were our friend!”
“I am,” I said. “But I don’t want to steal.”
Becky frowned. “My sister will be here any minute to pick us up. Just ditch the shoes and let’s go!”
“Yeah, it’s no big deal,” Sarah said. “We do this all the time. Besides, no one will ever know.”
But I would know, I thought. And Heavenly Father would know.
I shook my head. “I’m gonna go pay for mine.”
Becky pursed her lips. “Then I guess we can’t be friends.” She and Sarah pushed past me and out of the bathroom.
After they were gone, I got their shoes out from behind the garbage can and took all the bowling shoes back to the counter.
“How was the game?” the man at the counter asked. “And where did your friends go?”
I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Turns out they weren’t really my friends.” I told him what happened and pulled out the money my grandma had given me. “I can pay for all of us.”
“That’s OK. You can just pay for yours.” The man took the money and gave me my change. “Thanks for being honest. I’m sure your parents would be proud of you.”
I called my grandma to come get me. As I waited, I thought about what the man had said. A warm feeling spread through me. I knew it was the Holy Ghost letting me know I’d done the right thing. I could find friends who would help me choose the right.

The eight children younger than I were adopted. My older sister and I are the only natural children of our parents. Each time we adopted another one, dad would send us to the bishop to get temple recommends. Just recently, the last child was sealed to our family. Now, after my dad says family prayer or holds family counsel, I think of how long it has taken us to progress this far and how much more we must do to gain the celestial kingdom.

1. Cory and his family entering the meetinghouse where Cory will be confirmed a member of the Church.
2. Inside, Cory sits with his family and friends.
3. After the babies are blessed the confirmations will take place.
4. When Cory’s name is called he and his father go to the front of the congregation where Cory sits down in a chair. Cory’s father and friends stand in a circle around him.
5. They place their hands upon Cory’s head while his father, who holds the Melchizedek Priesthood, calls Cory by name, confirms him a member of the Church, gives him the gift of the Holy Ghost, and a blessing.
6. After the prayer has been given, the men in the circle shake Cory’s hand and congratulate him.

I wrote this talk myself and gave it in Primary the week after Nannie died:
“My grandma—we call her Nannie. She was a great example to the family. We always went to her house every Sunday. I always thought that her birthday and Christmas presents were the best. Every time we went to her house, we learned a lesson about what Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ would do. She was so kind to everyone. Every Christmas she took cookies to the neighbors. Nannie let people stay at her house. It was like a hotel (it was open to anyone). Nannie and Pappie took care of the handicapped in their home. Nannie died Monday, August 12, 2002. She gave me a picture of the temple before she died. She taught me about the temple. I want to try to be like her in all the ways I can, and I say these things in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”Mallory Murdoch, age 8 (with Nannie)Rigby, Idaho

The John Johnson farm was the location of one of the more dramatic stories in Church history. It was here that a mob dragged the Prophet from his room, tarred and feathered him, and returned him to his terrified wife, Emma, who mistakenly thought he was covered in blood. They both spent the rest of the night trying to remove the tar. The next morning, sore and in pain, he stood on the front porch and preached to a crowd.

Standing on the front steps of the Johnson home, in the very spot where the Prophet Joseph stood before the gathered crowd the morning after the mob attack, Paul says, “After all he went through, the Prophet Joseph was provided the strength from the Lord to get up and preach.”

“And,” adds Jessica Seipert, also from the Hiram Ward, “Joseph and Emma also had to deal with one of their twins dying after being exposed to the cold that night.” Joseph, an adopted son of Joseph and Emma, died from exposure in March 1832.

Jessica walks inside the home to stand in the room that Joseph and Emma used as their bedroom. The furniture is arranged as it might have been that night. She tries to imagine the chaos and fear that would have been in that room that night.

When I was young, I attended a specialized preschool for children with autism. It changed the course of my life, so I wanted to give back. I decided to create interactive storybooks to help the children learn how to read.
I’d had multiple ideas for my project and prayed to know which one was right for me. The director of the school helped me know what they needed. I did the planning and organizing, but my family, friends, and quorum members helped a lot with the project. I was able to learn good leadership and planning skills.
Doing this project gave me a greater sense of gratitude for what they do at the school. It made me feel really good to help the school that had helped me so much. They were so appreciative, and they let me read one of the books to the class. I felt so good inside.
Christopher A., Utah, USA

William’s heart beat a little faster. He knew it was wrong to tease the old blind shoemaker, but at the same time, it was exciting being out after dark with his friends. Even the fear of getting caught was not enough to make him turn back. William watched as the kerosene lamps were turned low inside the houses that lined the main street of their small town. The lights flickered and went out, but in one house a lamp continued to burn.
Wilhelm Dithmer sat on his front porch playing his clarinet.
William reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of pebbles. His bare feet padded quietly through the dirt along the side of the road, and he and his friends approached the house that was Wilhelm Dithmer’s home and shoe shop.
William let his small stones fly and watched as the man jumped at the sound of the rocks raining above his head onto the tin roof.
“Stop! Come back!” Wilhelm stood and waved his fist into the air.
The boys laughed and darted away. “See you tomorrow,” William called to his friends as he headed for home.
In the light of early morning, William lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. The thrill seeking of the night before was haunting in daylight. What was it his father had said about the shoemaker—something about him going blind because he had the measles when he was a boy? And had he really been an orphan in Denmark?
The day seemed longer to William than usual. What was this uncomfortable feeling? Still, after school he agreed to meet with his friends again that night.
As he crept up the street watching for the lights to dim, William heard the sounds of Wilhelm’s clarinet. The melody was high and mournful. William stopped a moment to listen. Every night, Wilhelm closed up the shoe shop and then sat on his porch to play his music. It had become almost a ritual, but tonight the notes ended abruptly. William listened, but the only noise was the croaking of the bullfrogs.
William drew back his arm to throw the stones in his hand, but suddenly someone grabbed his arm.
“Help!” William cried, but the other boys ran away. “Let me go!” William struggled to loose himself from Wilhelm’s grasp.
“I only want to show you something,” Wilhelm said.
William stopped squirming, curious why the man did not scold him or call out for the authorities. “What?” William asked.
“I want to play a song for you on my clarinet,” Wilhelm said. “But first, promise me that you will not run away.”
William didn’t know what to say. “I guess,” he said at last.
“No,” Wilhelm said. “Promise.”
“All right,” William said. “I promise.”
Wilhelm relaxed his hold. He led William to his front porch and sat down in his chair. William watched as Wilhelm took a deep breath and began to play his clarinet. The melody lifted soft and sweet into the night air.
William sat still and listened. What must it have been like to grow up alone in Copenhagen? How hard would it be to lose both a father and a mother? He couldn’t imagine leaving his home and traveling across the ocean by himself to a strange land where no one understood the language he spoke. All the heartache of Wilhelm’s life seemed to be played out in the notes that came from the clarinet.
Wilhelm finished. He placed the clarinet across his knees and waited for William to respond, but the boy was silent.
“What is your name?” Wilhelm asked.
William hesitated. He wanted to reach out and touch the clarinet, but if he told the man his name, he would surely get into trouble. Still, there were not many musical instruments in the town.
“My name is William,” he said. “Almost like yours.”
“Well then, William,” Wilhelm said with his strong Danish accent. “Would you like me to teach you how to play my clarinet?”
“You would teach me how to play?” William asked.
“I will teach you to play my clarinet. If you practice very hard and learn to play well, I may even help you buy one of these for yourself. Maybe we could start a band.”
“A real band?” William asked. “Like the ones that play at dances?” This wasn’t at all what he had expected.
Wilhelm nodded. “But you must stop raining pebbles on my roof. And you must come every day after school to practice.”
William did learn to play, and so did his friends. They played for high school dances. They played when the town put on their Christmas plays. They played in the outdoor pavilion on warm summer nights. Long after their school days ended, the band stayed together.
For years, Wilhelm gave free music lessons in the evening after working all day in his shop. When Wilhelm died, many of his students played music at his funeral. William, now a grown man, was one of them.