Gospel Story Finder

Recently, on a Saturday evening, a young family of four were eating at a restaurant. There were a father, mother, and two boys, ages about six and ten. The six-year-old made a mistake; the father was harsh with him and jerked him about as he reprimanded him. For the rest of the meal, though there was a holiday atmosphere at most of the tables, there was little conversation at theirs. As the young boy would take each bite, he glanced at his father to see if he had displeased him. On the boy’s face there was a look of worry and fear, and a soberness unnatural to a child.

A boy needs a father who will correct him when necessary, but beyond that, one who will love him, and like him, and accept him regardless of his performance: a father who may treat a teenager like an adult, but not expect him to act like one. It takes quite a dad to look beyond the actions of boyhood and see the potential of manhood—and even more important, for him to get a glimpse of eternity.

Now, onto my third ‘mother’, in fact my mother-in-law, Christine. Jenny’s parents Christine and Bill were a wonderful kindly couple — what examples they were to Jenny and me as we started our own family (eventually including six children). There came a time after some house moves during our early years of our marriage, that Jenny’s parents relocated a few miles away from our home in Tunbridge Wells. Christine was an ever-present support to Jenny in those days, and she was always very welcome to our home. I mostly remember the happy banter she and I would have. When she passed away in 2000, in her mid 80s, it took me years to come to terms with her absence; one always seems more appreciative of loss in later years. To say I had a soft spot for Christine would understate it. She was my adopted mother, whether she knew it or not. I remember, once so shocked and agitated by Jenny’s and my joining the Church, Christine in subsequent years became a staunch defender, while remaining wedded to her Anglican faith. Close to her death she occasionally expressed doubts, but I tried to reassure her that her faith in Christ was not misplaced.

Porter is grateful that his parents weren’t easy on him. “They wouldn’t always just help me when I felt like I couldn’t do something,” he says. “I eventually had to do it myself. That’s better than anything.”
His parents didn’t let him off the hook with chores, either. And when your family runs a sheep farm, that means lots of hard work, including moving large sprinkler pipes in the alfalfa fields, feeding the sheep, and helping out during lambing season.
“The first time I moved pipe,” he says, “I got so tired I thought I was going to faint. I got halfway through and just set the pipe down and laid down in the middle of the field. My back was sore for a week, but I was OK from then on.”

“Linda Jean, haven’t you ever seen snow before?” Linda jumped and looked into the amused eyes of her fifth grade teacher, Miss Behne. “I’m sorry,” Linda replied, her face slowly coloring. “I love to watch the fat, swirly snowflakes.” Her answer made Bruce Hinds titter. Linda turned to glare at him. Then with a jaunty toss of her braids, she turned back to her book.
Suddenly a curtain was drawn across the sky. The pale afternoon sun ceased filtering its feeble rays through the falling snow, and the room became as shadowy as at sundown. A shiver seemed to shake the old school. Miss Behne glanced out the window apprehensively and said quickly, “All right, class, let’s finish our reading. We may have to leave school early today.”
Linda tried concentrating on the words before her, but Mrs. Mallory’s adventures in the book weren’t nearly as appealing as the world outside the window. The tempo of the falling snowflakes had increased, and the keening wind began an eerie, ominous whistling that meant only one thing in the north country—BLIZZARD! The old brick school was a landmark nestled among the patriarchal pines in the rolling hills. All the students lived on farms in the surrounding countryside. For some, like Linda, it was a long bus ride home.
A restlessness passed through the room like waves on a rough lake. Suddenly one of the seventh graders opened the classroom door and delivered a message from the principal: “School will be dismissed early today because of the approaching storm.”
Filled with excitement, the children and their teacher prepared to leave, chattering about the storm and the distinct possibility of no school the next day. Linda was a little surprised that they were letting out so early, because the storm wasn’t bad yet. Minnesotans were accustomed to violent winter storms.
Aboard the bus, Linda called to her little brothers, Rich and Randy, as they scrambled into the bus together, laughing at the whirling cold whiteness. As the bus rumbled slowly over the country roads, Linda gazed out the window, fascinated once more by the way the snow whooshed and swirled. The steady click-clack of the windshield wipers reminded her of the chch-poo, chch-poo of milking machines. She shivered a little, remembering stories of farmers getting lost just going from their houses to their barns. But that animals had to be cared for, no matter what, was a rule every farm child grew up knowing.
It was cold on the bus. The wind whistled through every crack. Still four more stops before home, she thought. Arriving home was always a cherished part of Linda’s day. Coming into the warm kitchen filled with wonderful smells and music was a delight. Always there was music. Often she and her mother would polka together around the large kitchen as they worked.
Mother was lively and full of fun, whereas Dad seemed more like the river meandering through their farm—deep, steady, quiet. Linda was often with him for hours with few words passing between them.
Linda frowned as she remembered how frustrated her mother had sounded the other day. “All we ever do is work, eat, and sleep. We need to have fun, too,” she had complained to her husband. Linda knew life on the farm could be hard, but she loved it. Her mother’s words were puzzling and disturbing.
“Come on, Lindy, wake up! We’re home!” Rich shouted, punching her arm on his way to the door of the bus. Startled, she realized the bus had stopped. She hurried to follow her brothers.
Darkness began to enfold them. The children struggled through the thick snow to get to the golden warmth of the kitchen. However, to their surprise, no delightful smells greeted them as they stamped into the house. Shrugging out of their pile-lined jackets, they all talked at once, happily emptying out their day to their mother. But today she wasn’t listening.
“Leave your things on,” she told them. “We’re going over to the Bensen’s for supper tonight.”
“In this storm?” Randy asked, his eyes wide with surprise.
Suddenly Dad was standing in the doorway. Tall, lean, and hard, the only softness in him was that which radiated from his eyes when he looked at someone or something he loved. “No, I’m afraid not,” he declared. “We’d have to be crazy to go out tonight, the way this storm is building up.”
“Oh, Jake!” Mother cried, disappointed. “It’s only a half mile up the road. Surely we can make it that far! You’ve got us through bad storms before. Laurie’s been working all day on this supper. It’s ready and waiting for us. And if the storm keeps up, they’ve arranged for us to stay the night.”
Dad looked at the row of expectant faces. “Well, they’ll think we’re nuts to show up in this storm, but let’s go,” he said.
Linda wasn’t worried about going out into the blizzard. Dad was a powerful man. If he decided to go, everything would be all right.
The car moved slowly down the road through the whirling snow and blackness. When they reached the Bensen’s, they were welcomed into the warmth with friendly teasing and heavenly smells of roast beef and apple pie.
The clink of silverware was punctuated with much laughter and talk as they ate. Linda’s father leaned back with a contented sigh, lacing his hands behind his head. “Laurie, it was truly worth coming through a blizzard for such a feast.”
“Well, thank you, Jake,” Mrs. Bensen replied, beaming.
“Have you done your chores yet?” Mr. Bensen asked Dad quietly.
“No,” he replied ruefully, “and I’d better get going while I still can.”
“I’ll go with you,” Mr. Bensen said in a voice that brushed aside any objections. Linda’s father would have gone if the situation were reversed. It was their way.
They armed themselves to do battle against the storm. Heavy thermal underwear was topped with layers of loose clothing and heavy coats. Moving like knights in armor, they went out the door and into the storm.
The joy of the evening went out with the men, and somehow the gloom of the storm came in. Linda usually loved the ritual of the dishes when she helped her mother and Mrs. Bensen. They would sing in harmony and chatter cheerfully. Tonight there was no singing and little conversation.
As the evening wore on, the younger children played themselves into exhausted heaps on makeshift beds scattered around the floor. Linda curled up on some blankets, but sleep would not come. She kept thinking about her father and Mr. Bensen. Her thoughts drifted to some of the special times she’d spent with her Dad. She remembered asking, “Why can’t the cow kick when you hold up her tail, Dad?”
“Oh, she can move around a little, but it kind of paralyzes the kicking muscles so she can’t really kick hard.”
Linda’s thoughts whirled again to the story of the farmer who had been found frozen to death after the last blizzard. Even though he had tied a rope from his house to the barn, he had lost his hold on it somehow and had died just a foot or two from the house!
Frightened by her thoughts, Linda crept quietly toward the kitchen, feeling her way in the darkened house. One tiny light burned over the kitchen table where her mother and Mrs. Bensen huddled together, waiting. Something in their voices made her uneasy. She hung back in the shadows.
“Oh, they should be back by now! My husband would never have come if I hadn’t insisted. Now they’re both in danger, and it’s my fault. Even if you forgive me, Laurie, I’m not sure I can ever forgive myself. If anything happens to them …” Mother’s voice trailed off as she put her head into her hands.
Laurie reached out to comfort her friend and saw Linda standing just beyond the door. “Oh, honey,” she said, surprised, “aren’t you asleep yet?”
A lump filled Linda’s throat as she blinked back tears. Wordless, her mother held open her arms to her daughter. “Listen, sweetie, I’ll come and tuck you in, and I want you to stay there and go to sleep. You have nothing to worry about. The men will be just fine,” her mother said. But her eyes told another story, and that is the one Linda believed.
As she tucked Linda in, Mother whispered, “Say a little prayer for your dad and Mr. Bensen. You’ll feel better.”
For longer than she could remember, Linda had been saying “little” prayers. She had prayed for a pony, and she had prayed to find some money to buy an ice-cream bar. But she knew that a “little” prayer wouldn’t do now. She wondered about Heavenly Father. What is He really like? She remembered her Primary teacher talking about Him and His Son Jesus Christ. She knew that They were real, that They loved her, and that Heavenly Father would hear and answer her prayers. She began to pray: “Dear Heavenly Father, I know my dad needs You tonight. I thought he could get through any storm alone, but I was wrong. He really needs You to help him and Mr. Bensen. Dad shouldn’t have let us come here tonight. I guess parents make mistakes, too, but please, Heavenly Father, keep them safe and help them find the way back.”
No voice spoke to her, but a feeling of relief gradually came and eased away the cold, hurting fear, leaving her with a feeling of peace. She slept.
A door opened and a gust of cold air blew across Linda’s face. She opened her eyes and heard the deep rumbling of men’s voices. She raced to the kitchen and flung her arms around her dad, jostling her mother to find a spot to hug.
“You’re safe!” she cried. It was long past midnight. They had been gone nearly six hours.
“We had to feel our way home,” Mr. Bensen said. “I still don’t know how we made it. Jake drove and I hung out the door and felt for gravel to make sure we were still on the road. Several times we had to stop to shovel the car out of the drifts.” He shook his head. “I’ll never figure out how we found our way. We couldn’t see a thing!” The men were exhausted and their lips were blue and stiff with cold.
Linda never forgot the coldness of Dad’s rough whiskers on her cheek as he tucked her into bed. Before she drifted off to sleep, Linda thanked Heavenly Father for Dad and Mr. Bensen’s safe return.

It was nighttime, and the usual noise of the Missionary Training Center was hushed now. I huddled deeper into the blanket I had wrapped around me and continued my reading.
I had to catch up. If I was going to reach my goal, I would have to finish reading the remaining two-thirds of the book by the end of the week. It was a challenge I eagerly accepted, even though I had already read the Book of Mormon before. My copy was well marked, and I recognized each story as I read. But never had the messages meant more to me than now. Perhaps that was why the MTC president issued us the challenge to read the entire Book of Mormon during our three weeks of training there.
I read for a long time. The longer I read that quiet night, the more those stories became real to me. I was almost surprised at the fascinating newfound power of the book. It had me enthralled. I felt that the Book of Mormon was speaking directly to me, and now I was able to listen as I had never done before.
I was in the book of Alma, rediscovering the story of how Alma and Amulek were delivered from their enemies as the power of God brought down the prison walls that held them captive. It was what led up to their imprisonment that had such a powerful effect on me. I read how some of the more soft-hearted people believed their words and began to pray to God for forgiveness. But most of the people rejected everything they had been taught. The hostile unbelievers bound Alma and Amulek and planned to kill them and everyone who accepted and believed their teachings. Every man who believed was chased out of the land, stoned, and spit upon. Then the wicked men took the wives and children of the believers with Alma and Amulek to a large, raging fire.
As I read, I could see and feel the whole scene. I saw the wicked tie up Alma and Amulek and make them watch what happened. They burned their scriptures, trying to destroy the word of God they had rejected. Then, with no shame or empathy, they took the crying women and children and, one by one, threw them into the deadly blaze.
I sat there with my Book of Mormon, my heart literally burning with sympathy inside me. I think I understood to some tiny degree how Alma and Amulek must have felt as they watched the repentant martyrs die, for I had witnessed the same scene as I read, and I knew that it really happened. And because I knew this account was real, I knew and finally understood that the book I was reading was true. Tears spilled from my newly-opened eyes as I realized that I had taken the truth for granted for so long. But now I had gained a testimony. Though I had believed before, now I knew.
With my face wet with tears, I looked up from my Book of Mormon and out at the falling snow. I was no longer cold. I felt indescribable warmth wrapped completely around me. Never have I felt so moved to pray as at that moment. I knelt and prayed a sincere prayer of thanks. I lost track of time as I knelt there and poured out my soul in gratitude. The tears came unashamedly now as I thanked my Heavenly Father for giving me the Book of Mormon, and for the powerful yet peaceful witness I had received that it was true.
Now each time I read the stories of young Nephi or old King Benjamin, of Samuel the Lamanite or Alma the great missionary, the familiar feelings come back strongly and unmistakably. Joy and light swell in my heart again and again as I read, and tears flow when I remember that winter night in the Missionary Training Center.

When I was five years old I became very ill. It later turned out that I had polio. That was not diagnosed by the small town doctor. I lay for several weeks on a World War I army cot in our front room beside a coal stove. After those weeks, the doctor said I could get up, having been cured of “pneumonia.” I found I could not walk. I remember clearly sliding around on the linoleum floor and pulling myself up on the chairs and learning to walk again.

As I moved on into elementary school and junior high and then into high school, I found that my muscles were very weak. I was very self-conscious. I could not be an athlete.

And it did not help a lot when I read about the man who went to a doctor to see if he could get some help with his inferiority complex. The doctor studied him for a while and said, “You don’t have a complex. You are inferior!”

With that encouragement, I set about through life and tried to compensate in other ways.

Just as we were about to graduate from high school, World War II opened up. As senior boys, we all lamented that the war would be over before we were out of high school in June. Little did we know!

My older brother was a pilot, and I thought, “Well, I am going to be drafted. I think I will at least try to enlist in the Air Cadet pilot training program.” To my surprise, I passed the physical. In looking back on that, I can see two reasons for it: one was that they had learned that you did not have to be a well-muscled athlete to fly a plane. The other reason was perhaps more important: they needed tens of thousands of pilots and bombardiers and navigators.

And so, I went to basic training, boot camp, and there the physical training was very rigorous.

I soon found myself in the Air Cadet program where the physical part of it was also very strenuous. So I was back on the army cot, lying at night in agony with aching muscles and swollen limbs and the thought that in the morning we would go right at it again. Actually, that was the best possible therapy.

In that time, I learned to pray. I learned the difference between saying prayers and praying, earnestly praying for health and strength and wisdom.

And then something happened that changed my life entirely in a remarkable way. I had my patriarchal blessing. Usually these are very, very private, and we do not talk about them with others and do not read parts of them to others. But I am going to read a paragraph or two to you tonight, you young people who are with us all over the world.

The patriarch, whom I had never met before, blessed me in this way, in part:

You had the opportunity before coming here to voice your desire to have this privilege of Earth Life in the council of the spirit world. You were valiant in the defense of truth and right. You made a free and willing decision to abide by the laws of Eternal Progress as outlined by our elder brother, the Lord Jesus Christ. You kept faithfully your first estate and have been added upon by being born into this world and given a physical body with which you might experience Earth Life. You have been given a body of such physical proportions and fitness as to enable your spirit to function through it unhampered by physical impediments. You should cherish this as a great heritage. Guard and protect it—take nothing into it that shall harm the organs thereof because it is sacred. It is the instrument of your mind and the foundation of your character. [Patriarchal blessing of Boyd K. Packer, 15 January 1944, 1]

I, all at once, did not care what kind of a body I had. I had a body of sufficient capacity to let my spirit function through it. I had learned that a body is sacred.

I found that it did not matter, really, what kind of bodies we have, so long as we understand that our spirit and our body are combined in such a way that our body becomes an instrument of our mind and the foundation of our character.

From then on, I saw no purpose, nothing to be gained, by talking to other people about my aches and pains. I just moved on through life.

I hold in my hand a copy of the Book of Mormon. This is my 1970 vintage edition, and it is precious to me. By its appearance it is tired and worn, but no other book is as important to my life and my testimony as this one. Reading it, I gained a witness by the Spirit that Jesus Christ is the Son of God, that He is my Savior, that these scriptures are the word of God, and that the gospel is restored. Those truths rest deep within me. As the prophet Nephi said, “My soul delighteth in the things of the Lord.”
Left to right: Elder Ronald A. Rasband, young missionary; President Harold Wilkinson, president of the Eastern States Mission; and Elder Marion D. Hanks, General Authority Seventy.
Here is the back story. As a young missionary, I took the counsel of Elder Marion D. Hanks, who visited us in the Eastern States Mission. He was the former president of the British Mission, and two of his missionaries are on the stand this day: my dear Brethren Elder Jeffrey R. Holland and Elder Quentin L. Cook. Just as with his missionaries in England, he challenged us to read an unmarked copy of the Book of Mormon at least two times. I took up the task. The first reading I was to mark or underline everything that pointed to or testified of Jesus Christ. I used a red pencil, and I underlined many passages. The second time, Elder Hanks said to highlight principles and doctrine of the gospel, and this time I used blue to mark the scriptures. I read the Book of Mormon twice, as suggested, and then two more times, using yellow and black to mark passages that stood out to me. As you can see, I made many notations.
There was much more to my reading than just marking scriptures. With each reading of the Book of Mormon, front to back, I was filled with a profound love for the Lord. I felt a deeply rooted witness of the truth of His teachings and how they apply to “this day.” This book fits its title, “Another Testament of Jesus Christ.” With that study and the spiritual witness that was received, I became a Book of Mormon missionary and a disciple of Jesus Christ.

Shortly after Sister Cottle and I were married I was drafted into the United States Army and was sent to fight in the war in the jungle of Viet Nam. I was assigned to a twelve man “search and destroy” team whose mission was to stop the flow of enemy supplies on the system of jungle trails from the north through the Viet Nam central highlands. This team usually moved its ambush to a new location every day. On those days that we did not move to a new location our situation become dangerous because the enemy could find us more easily. Therefore, on the days we did not move we set up guard positions on the trail in every direction a short distance from where the team was camped. Each soldier took a turn being the guard, who was called the OP, military talk for observation post.

On a Sunday in August of 1970 my team did not move to a new location. Following proper protocol we organized the guard stations. I took the first turn as OP.

I moved up the trail about twenty five yards. I took two weapons with me--an M-16 rifle and a claymore mine. These slides show me with my M-16, helmet, and bandolier of extra ammunition magazines fastened around my waist and shoulder.

As I said, I went up the mountain trail about twenty five yards from the rest of my team. I then stepped off another fifty feet and set up the claymore mine as shown in the slide. A claymore mine is a slightly u-shaped, hard plastic bomb that is filled with 700 steel balls and C-4 explosive. I aimed the mine toward the trail where it went around a very large tree a short distance from me. I carefully inserted an electrical blasting cap into the top of the claymore mine and then unwound the electrical cord back to my OP position.

I attached the electrical wire to the detonating device which was a hand-squeeze “clacker.” The clacker generated just enough electricity when the handle was squeezed to set off the blasting cap, which in turn, set off the mine.

The claymore mine was such a dangerous weapon that the clacker had two safeties. It was necessary to release these safeties before the handle could be successfully squeezed; however, there was a problem with the double safeties. It was difficult to release these safeties when a soldier was frightened or under duress. In those situations a soldier often failed to release both safeties before squeezing the handle. This caused him to break the handle as he pressed on it, which resulted in his failing to set off the mine. By then, the soldier would be creating such a commotion that the enemy would see him and shoot him.

I sat down on the ground. I placed the clacker and my M-16 in front of me also on the ground and began my two-hour guard shift. I calculated that from where I had planted the claymore mine I had about two to three seconds to set off the mine before an enemy scout would walk beyond the blasting radius of the mine and be right in front of me.

I sat for about an hour and a half. It was hard to keep focused and alert when nothing was happening. It was at this time that a very distinct and clear thought came into my head. It seemed to linger there for several seconds. It captured my total attention.

It said, “Lyle, what would you do if an enemy soldier came around that big tree with his AK-47 rifle pointed directly at you?”

Obediently, I answered that question. I thoroughly reviewed in my mind, step-by-step, exactly what I would do. I would pick up the clacker. Then, I would release one safety with my left hand while simultaneously releasing the second safety with my right hand. Then, with my right hand, I would press down on the handle of the clacker and explode the claymore mine.

As soon as I finished this mental rehearsal I actually saw an enemy scout walk around the big tree with his rifle pointed directly at me! Automatically, and without thinking, I picked up the clacker and using both hands together, released the two safeties, and squeezed the handle.

Instantly, there was a deafening explosion that seemed to shake the earth. As the dust began to clear I thought I saw the enemy soldier crawling toward me. With my heart pounding I quickly fired my rifle until it was empty. I then reached for another ammunition magazine in the bandolier that was around my waist, but my fingers were shaking and I could not retrieve the new magazine. It was like a nightmare!

At that moment, three of my team members came up the trail to my position. They quickly checked to see that I was all right, and then proceeded up the hill to determine what had just happened. They soon shouted, “KIA,” which was army jargon for “killed in action.”

All went very quiet and I lay on my back reviewing what had just happened. I did not feel good. I had just ended a man’s life! War or not, it was not a good feeling. I questioned myself with, “You hold the Melchizedek Priesthood, you have been married in the temple, you keep the commandments, why didn’t you speak in tongues and convert the soldier instead of what you actually did?” It seemed that I pondered these thoughts for a long time. The heaviness of my thoughts was surprising to me and weighed down upon me. (It is even hard to tell you about it today.)

Soon my team members returned back to camp. As they passed by me they patted me on my back and said, “Cottle, good job! How did you do that so fast?”

“How were you able to react so quickly?” “It’s amazing!” I appreciated their words but the heaviness of my feelings was not lifted.

The next day my good friend, Woody Christiansen, from Bountiful, UT and I knelt in the jungle and prayed aloud for comfort and safety from the enemy who had increased his attacks against us. When we finished, we looked around to find several of our team kneeling in prayer with us. This had never happened before to us. Woody and I were the only Mormons on the team.

A few days passed. We returned to base camp. A company meeting was held. I was awarded a bronze star medal for the meritorious service I had rendered to the men in my team, to my company, and to myself. I felt that I had done nothing heroic. I had just done my job—I had acted to preserve my own life and the lives of my team members.

I took an opportunity to visit with the LDS church group leader in base camp. He helped me with some comforting words and I thanked him; however, the most comforting thing to me then, and over the many years since that terrible event, has been my remembering those thoughts that came to my mind just prior to my setting off the claymore mine--the question that came clearly into my mind, “Lyle, what would you do if an enemy scout came around that tree with his rifle pointed directly at you?” I remember that it was that question which prompted my mental preparation and allowed me to respond quickly, and accurately to preserve my life and the lives of others. I have come to the realization that the question was the voice of the spirit instructing me in all that I should do.

I am comforted by the words in the scriptures and Nephi’s unusual experience. I have a better understanding of what happened to him. And like Nephi, I was obedient to that voice, that spiritual prompting. I do not know the full reason why my life was preserved on that occasion, but I do know the scriptures are true and apply to our lives and are comforting to us in our times of trial.

So that he could learn all the words by heart, Spencer W. Kimball practiced the hymns even while he milked cows. When a Church leader suggested that everyone read the scriptures, Spencer realized that he had never read the Bible. That very night he set a goal to read it from cover to cover. He lighted a little coal-oil lamp and began to read. He read a little every night. One year later, he had completed his goal.

A second quality was courage. The sisters had an opportunity to demonstrate their fearlessness in the face of physical danger almost as soon as they reached the Arizona border, where the principal obstacles were the crossing of the Colorado and ascending and descending the precipitous range of mountains called Lee’s Backbone. Many a wagon narrowly missed rolling down the mountain into the river below. Here is a typical story told by Harriet Betsy Cook Teeples:
“… when we were ready to go over the mountain called Lee’s Back Bone, we found the road up the side of it to be a series of stone stairs and so steep and high we had to use all the teams in the company to take one wagon up.
“It was one mile to the top, and on the top there was a dugway, one mile long and so narrow that the wagon wheels would be within six inches of the deep edge in places where we could look down and see the river five hundred feet or more below. We dare not have more than one span of animals on a wagon for fear they would go off into the river. I drove a gentle team around the dugway with my baby in my lap. When we got around this, there was a flat place where we stopped and locked all the wheels with chains in order to go down the other side. As I was the last to get around the top, my husband came and locked my wheels with chains to go down the other side, and said, ‘Now you wait here until I help the others down and I will come back and get you.’ I waited until the rest were out of sight and then I started down, and as the road made a sharp turn around a big rock the wheel stuck and stopped, but I did not want to stop there as it was nearly dark so I sat my baby down in the bottom of the buggy, got out, untied the wheels on that side, got in and backed the team far enough so that I could pass the rock by turning them against the hill on the other side, and I got out and tied the wheels on that side, got in and backed the team far enough so that I could pass the rock by turning them against the hill on the other side, and I got out and tied the wheels again, and went on all right. Just after that my husband met me and said, ‘How in the world did you get around that rock?’ I told him how I had done it, and he made me feel it was all worthwhile when he said, ‘Honey, you’ll do.’”9

A young woman in Michelle’s ward had made some bad decisions. She repented, but people in her ward and school judged her for her past mistakes. Wherever she went, the young woman’s reputation preceded her, and many people gossiped about things she had done and even things she hadn’t.
What do you think Michelle should do? What would you do if this young woman were your friend? What if you heard the rumors?
STOP IT!
Try This Michelle decided she would be the young woman’s friend no matter what people said about her. “I think people just need to give her a chance,” Michelle says. “I was lucky to get to know her, and she is such a lovely person. I think it’s unfair that people judge her before they even meet her. Once most people hear the rumors, they don’t even want to be her friend. I think people just have to stop spreading rumors.”

The reality of Aulola’s life, however, didn’t quite follow the plan in her heart. After her mission, it took some time before marriage became a priority for her, and by then she was in love with someone who didn’t share her faith.
“He’s a good man,” Aulola says. “He always welcomed [my Church’s] missionaries into our home and always fed them, but he was never interested in hearing their message.” His family are devout members of their own faith, and he would not break with their tradition. Their difference of religion put a great strain on their marriage. Aulola was unable to attend sacrament meetings as often as she liked, and she couldn’t raise their children in the Church the way she had been. Eventually, the contention in their home proved too much. After 23 years, the couple decided to part ways.
Aulola was devastated. She had lost her marriage and, with it, her hopes for the future with her family, but she was also suffering now from debilitating health issues. In her grief and pain, she turned to her Father in Heaven for guidance. “I fasted and prayed, and I promised the Lord that if He would accept me back, I would never turn away again.”
Her prayers kept leading her back to her patriarchal blessing, which brought her comfort and peace at such a troubling time. One day, she reread the promise that she could be sealed in the temple, and Aulola knew what she needed to do. “I realised that if I don’t do my part, it’s not going to work.” In that moment, she recommitted to follow all of Heavenly Father’s commandments, and to draw near to Him through church attendance, daily prayer and scripture study.
Before long, Aulola reconnected with an acquaintance from her early days in Tonga: Brother Semisi Mounga Mateialona, a priesthood holder who had recently found himself single again, too. They bonded over shared experiences and their mutual love for the gospel of Jesus Christ, and Aulola knew in her heart that this was the man for her. The couple got married in New Zealand in 2019 and at the end of September 2022, they travelled to the Nuku’alofa Tonga Temple to be sealed to each other for time and all eternity.
At a recent temple fireside in the Auckland Papatoetoe Stake, Aulola reflected on what she says is a miracle. As a young woman, she had experienced the sweet sacredness of the temple and knew how important it was to worship there. Then, for 23 years, she didn’t know if she could ever qualify for the temple blessings promised to her in her patriarchal blessing—but she didn’t give up hope.
It took time, patience and the kind of faith that changes lives, but now Aulola feels like she’s come home again. Finally, she can testify: “When you stay near God, He is going to bless you as He promised—if you do your part.”

New members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints cannot make it alone. They might appear to be as independently strong as the redwoods, but they need us and we need them. President Hinckley, in a satellite broadcast last February, shared the story of a woman who became a member last year. She wrote:
“‘My journey into the Church was unique and quite challenging. This past year has been the hardest year that I have ever lived in my life. It has also been the most rewarding. As a new member, I continue to be challenged every day.’
“She goes on to say that when she joined the Church she did not feel support from the leadership in her ward. Her bishop seemed indifferent to her as a new member. Rebuffed, as she felt, she turned back to her mission president, who opened opportunities for her.
“She states that ‘Church members don’t know what it is like to be a new member of the Church. Therefore, it’s almost impossible for them to know how to support us’” (“Find the Lambs, Feed the Sheep,” Liahona, July 1999, 122).

One day in April 2024, I was looking through one of the family history pages on Facebook when I saw a post which caught my eye. It mentioned a William Cross living in the Hafod, which is part of Swansea where I live and grew up. I thought: William Cross? That’s my great-grandfather.
Cross isn’t a common name in Swansea and my great-grandfather was originally from Huntingdonshire. The lady who wrote the post was looking for relatives of William Cross. She had a Bible and she wanted to return it to the family. From what I could gather she and her family had moved into the house in Grandison Street where my grandparents had lived. She’d found the Bible in the house.
I phoned her and explained who I was and we arranged to meet. She gave me the Bible and I was in tears. When I saw it, I thought: I’ve seen this before. I must have seen it when I was a youngster.
William Cross was born in 1840. I couldn’t find out when he came to Swansea, but my daughter and I found him there in the 1871 census. He married Mary Thomas in 1871 in St Mary’s church. She was from Walton in Pembrokeshire and was working in Swansea, I’m assuming as a domestic. He was living in the same area of the town. They moved into 11 Grandison Street where all the children were born. My grandfather, Walter, was their youngest child.
I was thrilled to have my great-grandfather’s Bible, because it’s part of him. It was given to him. On the front page is written: “William Cross, his book, a present from his loving mother.” The Bible is very frail. I’m almost afraid to handle it. I would like to have it re-bound, but it wouldn’t have the same character. Even though it’s all dog-eared and broken, you can still make out who it belonged to. It gives me a bit of insight into my great-grandparents. They died before I was born.
The Bible has a list of the children in the front. I knew who they were because I’d heard of them. And my grandfather was there, so it was my close family. But among the list of children there were two I didn’t know anything about. I’ve since taken their names to the temple, so I think the family is now complete. And I think that’s why the Bible came to me.

May I tell a little story? More than half a century ago, I was standing on a little railway station platform in Cardston, Canada. I was leaving for England on a mission. My saintly mother stood there with me and held my hand. This is what she said. “Hugh, my son, do you remember when you were a little boy you often had bad dreams, nightmares, and you called out to me as I was sleeping in the next room: ‘Mother, Mother, are you there?’ Do you remember I always said, ‘Yes, my son, I’m here. Just turn over and go to sleep. Everything is all right.’” She said, “My boy, five thousand miles must now separate us, across a continent and an ocean. You are not going to have bad dreams only at night, but many times, in the daytime, you are going to want to call for help and comfort. Son, when you are beset with difficulties, when you meet temptation, when you are confused and don’t know where to go, call out and say, ‘Father, are you there?’” She said, “My boy, I promise you He will always answer and you need not fear.”
My dear sisters, through the intervening years, countless occasions have arisen where men could not help me much, when I felt alone, where I had a nightmare with my eyes wide open. I have taken the advice of my mother and have said, “Father, are you there?” Now He has not spoken to me audibly; He has not appeared to me personally; but He has always answered me. There has come into my heart a quiet peace which enabled me to know that I could, figuratively, turn over and go to sleep.
Hugh B. BrownThe Abundant Life (Bookcraft 1965) pp. 202–3.

Cold wind blew as Brigham Young arrived at Sugar Creek on the evening of February 15, 1846. Scattered around a snowy patch of woods, not far from an icy brook, hundreds of Saints shivered in damp coats and blankets. Many families collected around fires or underneath tents fashioned from bedsheets or wagon covers. Others huddled together in carriages or wagons for warmth.1

Right away Brigham knew he needed to organize the camp. With the help of other Church leaders, he divided the Saints into companies and called captains to lead them. He warned against taking unnecessary trips back to Nauvoo, being idle, and borrowing without permission. Men were to protect the camp constantly and monitor cleanliness, and each family was to pray together mornings and evenings.2

A good spirit soon settled over the camp. Safely out of Nauvoo, the Saints worried less about mobs or government threats to stop the exodus. In the evenings, a brass band played lively music while the men and women danced. Saints who practiced plural marriage also became less guarded and began to speak openly about the principle and how it linked their families together.3

“Oh, what do you do in the summertime …” three-year-old Katie was singing at the top of her voice.
“Softer,” Angela scolded. “It would be lovely if you sang softer.”
But Katie just screeched all the louder.
“Three-year-olds!” fumed Angela as she closed the door to her room.
Why doesn’t someone write a song about how to get out of doing what your mother wants you to do in the summertime? Angela asked herself. “Maybe I’ll write one,” she muttered. “Then I’ll make a record of it and become a rich and famous songwriting singer. Then Mother will say, ‘Angela, dear, you don’t need to take swimming lessons. Why should a rich and famous songwriting singer take swimming lessons?’ Then I’ll write songs all day and—”
“Angela, dear,” a voice called from downstairs. “Are you ready? Hurry. It’s time to go.”
“I’m coming,” Angela called back. She trudged to her dresser, pulled a bright pink swimsuit from the drawer, and slowly closed the drawer. “Hey, wait!” she cried. Jerking the drawer open again, she shoved the suit inside and raced to her closet. Rummaging in a box, she pulled out a ragged, once-navy-blue swimsuit. Giggling, she put it on, slung her beach towel over her shoulder, and waltzed out the door.
“My goodness, Angela,” Mother gasped. “Where did you get that swimsuit?”
“In my closet,” Angela answered nonchalantly.
“It’s all worn-out. It’s too little. And it has holes in it.”
“But it’s very, very comfortable.”
“Well, if that’s what you want. Come on, let’s hurry. We’re late.”
“What?” Angela couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Mother was supposed to say she couldn’t go looking like that.
“Come on, let’s hurry,” Mother repeated, taking Angela by the hand. Stunned, Angela let her mother pull her through the house and out to the car. Then, as she climbed into the front seat, she had an idea!
A bright smile erased the frown from her face as she broke out in song: “A mother is such a lovely person to have around your house. She keeps you happy and makes things snappy and always has a smile.” She sang the keeps you happy especially loud.
“How lovely, Angela dear,” Mother said as she backed out of the driveway. “Did you make that up?”
“I wrote it myself,” Angela answered proudly. “And if I didn’t have to go to swimming lessons, I could write a lot more songs about my beautiful mother.”
“That would be nice. But maybe you could write them on the way to your swimming lessons. It’s very important that you learn to swim. Everyone should know how to swim.”
Angela watched her house shrink smaller and smaller and then disappear as they drove away. “If I could just disappear, too!” she whispered.
“What did you say?” Mother asked.
“I should have stayed home to tend Katie so Robbie could go swimming. Robbie loves swimming. Maybe you should take me back and let Robbie take my lesson. I really wouldn’t mind,” Angela said.
“Robbie already knows how to swim. That’s why he loves it.”
“But I really think I’m allergic to chlorine. Melanie told me it turned her hair green. If it turned her hair green and she’s not even allergic to chlorine, imagine what it will do to my hair—and my skin! Oh, I just know my teeth will fall out!”
“Angela,”—the softness had left Mother’s voice—“your teeth will not fall out.”
“Maybe not with my braces on, but think of all the money you and Dad have spent to fix my teeth. Now they’ll turn green, and the minute the braces come off—plink, plink, plink—out will fall all my green teeth.”
“Angela, my dear”—Mother paused, letting the softness back into her voice—“are you afraid of the water?”
“Me? Afraid? Of course not! I’m allergic, that’s all.”
“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” Mother said.
“Oh, I know that. All my friends can swim. They go swimming all the time. They tell me all about it. I’m not afraid. Not me. Never. It just doesn’t interest me.”
“Well, just think. After you take lessons, you can go swimming with your friends.”
“Not if I’m all green. I don’t think they let green people into swimming pools.”
“Here we are.” Mother sounded more cheerful than necessary. “Now promise me you’ll do what the teacher asks.”
Why do mothers make you promise things like that? Angela wondered. But she promised and then slowly, very slowly, climbed out of the car.
“I’ll be back in an hour,” Mother called as she drove off.
Angela looked down at her faded swimsuit. “I wonder who invented swimming anyway,” she muttered.
“Probably Eve.”
The voice startled Angela. Looking up, she saw a girl about her size who was almost hidden by a small fir tree.
“Eve?” Angela repeated, staring at the girl’s worn, swimsuit.
The two girls stared at each other for a long moment. Finally Angela asked, “Are you going in or coming out?”
“Going in. Mine was the car before yours.”
“Do you swim much?” Angela asked cautiously.
“Nope. I’m allergic to water. It makes my toenails curl the wrong way. That’s why I always shower—I never bathe. Less water that way.”
“My name’s Angela.” Angela couldn’t remember ever meeting anyone she liked so well so fast.
“I’m Mandy.”
“Do you live around here?” Angela asked.
“We just moved into the yellow house with the huge pine tree in front. It’s by the school.”
“Hey, that’s on my street!” Angela exclaimed with a grin.
A whistle sounded. “Girls! Girls!” the swimming teacher called. “It’s time to start.”
“What about your allergy problems?” Angela asked Mandy. “How are you going to swim with your toenails curling the wrong way?”
“I don’t know.”
“Me neither.”
“You’re allergic, too?” Mandy asked in amazement.
“Yes. My teeth turn green. It’s the chlorine. I’m afraid it will make them fall out. After my braces come off, that is. You know—plink, plink, plink—until they’re all gone.”
Mandy grinned at Angela. Then they both giggled.
“Come on,” Angela sighed. “I guess together we can suffer it through.”
“Sure,” Mandy said.
Taking deep breaths, they started toward the pool.
“By the way,” Angela asked, “do you write songs?”
“Oh, yes!” Mandy answered. “I wrote one just this morning.”
“Maybe we could write one together, about people who are afraid—I mean allergic.”
Mandy smiled. “Do you think we could become rich and famous?” Angela grinned. “I think maybe we could.”

Through the long hours of the night, I kept a lonely vigil by the nursery window. Inside the nursery, a tiny boy struggled for breath. The day before, we had rushed nearly 160 kilometers from our ranch to the hospital. The baby was born shortly after our arrival, six weeks premature. He looked like a fine, healthy boy, but the doctor told us that his lungs had been slow in developing and that he was fighting a desperate battle for air.
A few hours before, I had given Matthew his name and a father’s blessing. As I had blessed him, the Spirit had assured me that he would someday be a part of our family.
Little Matthew continued to cling to life until his mother was able to come to the nursery to see him. He died before we left the room. It seemed to me that he had only waited for her to have one look before he returned to his heavenly home.
The shock of our son’s death left my wife in such a daze that she could not cry. It was only after the small graveside service, when we had returned home to the ranch, that she was finally able to release her grief. She wept for a long time.
The emptiness of losing a baby after those long months of expecting him was very hard on her. She wasn’t really happy again until the next baby, a fine healthy boy, arrived.

I always looked forward to Primary activity day because it meant exciting activities, great games, and tasty treats. Sometimes the activities were serious and spiritual, and I liked those too, because I learned so much. But of all the great activities I went to, I remember one more than any other.
At 10:00 on the dot that Saturday, I showed up at church, along with the rest of the Primary-age children in my ward. After an opening prayer, a song, and a few instructions, we split into groups. I followed my group into a classroom and was surprised to find a large piece of green-and-white-checked fabric and a piece of solid green fabric, with a layer of fluffy stuff in between. It was all stretched out and tacked to some boards. Nearby were yarn and big needles. “A quilt,” I thought. “Who would be tying a quilt right in the middle of our Primary activity?”
“We are all going to help tie this quilt for someone in the ward who isn’t feeling well,” one of our Primary leaders explained. “After it’s finished, we’ll give it to her.”
“What a great idea!” I thought. When I’m having a hard time, I enjoy wrapping up in a nice warm blanket. But I wondered how well it would turn out since I had never tied a quilt and was pretty sure the rest of the Primary hadn’t either.
Then the Primary president announced who would receive the quilt—my own lucky mom! I was even more excited to try my hardest so the quilt would look nice.
My mom had been very ill all month. In fact, Grandma had to stay with us for a while because Mom was so sick she couldn’t take care of us. She had to be released from her Primary calling too. Even though Mom’s illness wasn’t easy for our family, something good was going to happen. I would have a baby brother!
With the help of our leaders, we set to work. Even though I wondered if we could really do it, we tied that quilt. Everyone made a stitch or two. Then we each wrote a message, signed our name, or drew a picture in a book that went along with the quilt. I knew what we were doing would mean a lot to Mom because she told me how much she loved and missed all the children in Primary. And the person who bought the fabric must have been inspired, because green is Mom’s favorite color.
Tying the quilt wasn’t hard, but keeping quiet about it sure was. A few weeks later, the secret was finally revealed. On a sunny Sunday morning during singing time, we all walked a block from the church and around the corner to my backyard. We sat on the lawn and waited while one of our leaders knocked on the door.
You can probably guess that when Mom stepped outside and saw all the children gathered, she cried. She cried even more when we sang some of our favorite Primary songs in our best voices. Then the Primary president presented the finished quilt and the book of messages.
“Your singing was beautiful,” Mom said through her tears. “This is one of the nicest things that has ever happened to me.” I knew she meant it. She smiled and cried some more and said that she was going to go inside, wrap up in the quilt, and read every message we had written.
Mom still has that quilt, and I know she always will. It has a few extra long loops of yarn on the back where some of the stitches weren’t pulled all the way through. Mom says that makes it even more special. To this day, when someone in the family is sick or has a bad day, nothing makes us feel better than wrapping up in the memories and warmth of what we affectionately call the “Primary quilt.”

When my son, Monty, was young, he had a strong desire to become an Eagle Scout. In his early years of Scouting he worked very hard and it appeared that by the time he turned 16 he would have his Eagle. Well, once he began driving and became interested in sports and girls, his desire to become an Eagle Scout began to fade.

About a month before turning 18, when he would no longer be eligible to receive his Eagle, he had one more required merit badge to finish. I remember one evening he came to me and said, "Dad, I only have one more merit badge to finish my Eagle and only one month to do it in. How can I make me do it?" Monty did receive his Eagle Scout award after some hard work and disciplined effort. Over the years I have thought many times of that statement: "How can I make me do it"?