Gospel Story Finder

During World War II, in the early part of 1944, an experience involving the priesthood took place as United States marines were taking Kwajalein Atoll, part of the Marshall Islands and located in the Pacific Ocean about midway between Australia and Hawaii. What took place in this regard was related by a correspondent—not a member of the Church—who worked for a newspaper in Hawaii. In the 1944 newspaper article he wrote following the experience, he explained that he and other correspondents were in the second wave behind the marines at Kwajalein Atoll. As they advanced, they noticed a young marine floating facedown in the water, obviously badly wounded. The shallow water around him was red with his blood. And then they noticed another marine moving toward his wounded comrade. The second marine was also wounded, with his left arm hanging helplessly by his side. He lifted up the head of the one who was floating in the water in order to keep him from drowning. In a panicky voice he called for help. The correspondents looked again at the boy he was supporting and called back, “Son, there is nothing we can do for this boy.”

“Then,” wrote the correspondent, “I saw something that I had never seen before.” This boy, badly wounded himself, made his way to the shore with the seemingly lifeless body of his fellow marine. He “put the head of his companion on his knee. … What a picture that was—these two mortally wounded boys—both … clean, wonderful-looking young men, even in their distressing situation. And the one boy bowed his head over the other and said, ‘I command you, in the name of Jesus Christ and by the power of the priesthood, to remain alive until I can get medical help.’” The correspondent concluded his article: “The three of us [the two marines and I] are here in the hospital. The doctors don’t know [how they made it alive], but I know.”

One of the first converts in Hawaii, Jonathan Napela helped translate the Book of Mormon into Hawaiian.
Portrait of Jonathan Napela courtesy of Church History Library and Archives
Jonathan H. Napela was a well-respected judge on the island of Maui before he and his wife, Kiti, were baptized in 1851. After Jonathan was forced to resign his judgeship for joining the Church, he devoted his energy to building up the Church among Hawaiian speakers. Jonathan tutored missionary George Q. Cannon in the language, helped translate the Book of Mormon, and developed the first program for training missionaries in any foreign language.
As a result, more than 3,000 native Hawaiians joined the Church within three years. “It is very plain to us that this is the church of God,” Jonathan wrote. “There are many upon these islands who have obtained strong faith by the grace of God, through Jesus Christ the Lord, that we might receive the Holy Ghost.”5
In 1872, Kiti Napela contracted leprosy and was required to move to the leper colony on Moloka’i. Rather than staying among the Saints, Jonathan petitioned the colony to admit him as well. “During the brief time remaining,” he wrote to the board of health, “I want to be with my wife.”6 The petition was granted, and Jonathan became the branch president in Moloka’i. Jonathan worked closely with the local Catholic priest, Father Damien, to minister to all those afflicted with the disease. Jonathan eventually died of leprosy he contracted in the colony.

The second counselor spoke first. He talked about his childhood in a small Wyoming town and how he went out of his way to befriend a boy who had been rejected by all the other kids at school. He told us how, 20 years later, that friendless boy, now a successful man, came to him and thanked him for his kindness. He concluded his talk by quoting a scripture about the worth of souls and bearing his testimony of the gospel.

“Please. Please. Please.”
“No. And stop following me around.”
“But I want to come with you,” she continued to beg in her six-year-old voice.
“Knock it off, Linzie. Just once I’d like to go somewhere without you coming with me.” I could feel the anger in my voice rising. I was so tired of her being my tagalong. Everywhere I went she had to come too or else she would throw the biggest tantrum. She knew that even the slightest whimper would get her anything she wanted. This time was no exception.
“Where are you going, Bree?” my mom called from the kitchen, where she was making dinner.
“I have to go to the store to get some paper for school. I’ll be gone only 10 minutes.”
“Well then you can take Linzie with you.”
“Yea! Yea! Yea!” The tears immediately ceased when Linzie realized her victory.
“Mom, she’s such a pain. Why do I always have to take her with me?”
“Because she’s your sister, that’s why.” I should have expected that one.
“Fine. Whatever. Hurry up, and get your shoes on, Linzie.” I knew I was acting like a brat, but I had hours of homework to do.
“Okay, let’s go,” Linzie said angelically.
During the drive to the store, I turned up the radio so I wouldn’t have to talk to my sister. We both stared straight forward. The store was busy, and the lines were long. All I could think about was all the homework that awaited me, and how I was going to be up past midnight finishing it. The ride home started off as solemn as the ride to the store. I was determined to let Linzie know how annoyed I was.
“Bree, Bree,” she said timidly.
“What, Linzie?” I didn’t bother turning down the radio.
“You know why I always want to go with you everywhere?”
Her sincerity caught my attention. “No, why?”
She sat quiet for a moment before responding. “Because—because I’m gonna miss you a lot because you’re going to college soon.”
I looked at her. She was staring at me with her beautiful blue eyes. I really didn’t know what to say. “I’ll miss you too. A lot. I’ll still get to come home sometimes, though.”
“Will we be able to do stuff when you come home?”
“Of course, silly girl.”
“Good,” she said as we rounded the corner onto our street.
That was all that was said, but that day I learned a huge lesson about the importance of developing a lasting relationship with my sisters and brother—even when they’re young. It reminded me of the scripture in Mosiah 3:19: “Becometh as a child, submissive, meek, humble, patient, full of love, willing to submit to all things which the Lord seeth fit to inflict upon him.”
I don’t think Linzie knew the huge impact her innocent comment had on me. Now I try to be more tolerant of the things that my younger siblings do, because when I’m gone, I will miss them.

Benard excitedly invited us to visit his home and teach his wife, Megan. As we met with Megan, we were struck by her great faith. When she prayed to know if our message was true, God answered her prayer.
We invited Megan to be baptized the next Sunday. That week, however, the city of Nairobi announced that water would be cut for 10 days! After Megan’s baptismal interview on Saturday, my companion and I prayed that her baptism could go forward the next day.
We fasted, counseled with our leaders, and tried different ways to get water—all to no avail. That evening we prepared for the baptism anyway. Then we knelt and prayed again. We felt prompted to hook one end of a hose to the dry meetinghouse kitchen tap and put the other end in the baptismal font. We said another prayer, locked up, and left for home.
The next morning when we went to the meetinghouse, to our amazement the font was full of water! We checked the kitchen tap, but still no water came out. No one from the branch had a clue as to how the font was filled.
Megan was baptized that day. The whole ward came to witness her baptism and welcome her to the Church. The tap remained dry, but everyone’s eyes were wet with gratitude.

My life hasn’t always been easy. I started experiencing symptoms of social anxiety and depression as a teen and was diagnosed with ADHD in high school. When I was about 15 months into serving my full-time mission, I started experiencing suicidal thoughts. Soon after, I was diagnosed with bipolar II disorder.
I found myself facing a difficult decision. My mission president and I talked about me going home where I could get the help I needed. But I couldn’t help but feel frustrated with the Lord. I felt like my desire to stay and continue serving the people I had come to love was a righteous desire.
Eventually, I learned that there were people the Lord needed me to meet at home and that there were opportunities for my broken heart to be healed. And I’ve come to know that my missionary service was accepted by Him.

I was eighteen—and enrolled in a Book of Mormon class at Brigham Young University—when I realized I did not know whether the gospel was true. The realization itself was shock, since I had collected an array of hundred-percent awards, been extremely active in every kind of church activity, and always assumed that the Church was true. But assumption is not knowledge.
So, obedient and believing, I applied the instructions in Alma 32 and Moroni 10:4–5, and I received from God the verification I sought.

While serving as young missionaries in Chile, my companion and I were walking down a street in the city of Los Andes. Across the way, a lady leaned out of her window to shake a blanket and said, “Good morning, elders.” She then disappeared into her house. I was surprised by her greeting. I walked up to the door, knocked, and when the woman answered, I asked, “How did you know us?”

She invited us in and explained that she and her husband had been two of the first people baptized in that community many years earlier. They had loved the Church until they had been offended. They now attended another church. “Now we know the Mormon Church is not true,” she said, retrieving a book titled something like Everything You Want to Know about the Mormons and written, of course, by a non-LDS author.

I glanced at the first few pages. I wasn’t an expert in Church history, but I knew Joseph Smith did not claim to see two angels named Urim and Thummim! “Not all this is true,” I said to the woman. “Look, if you want to know about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, talk to us. We’ll help you.”

That was the beginning. In the weeks that followed, my companion and I watched the members of this family add to their testimony tanks through study. They became active in the Church, but relying only on experiences in the Church was not enough to see this sister and her family through when the going got rough. Now, because they had also studied hard and found answers on their own, they each could say, “I know.”

With hymnbooks in their hands, a group of bleary-eyed seminary students packed pillows and quilts with them. They were barely awake as they gathered at the church on an early Saturday morning. But with the first chords of hymn number one, “The Morning Breaks,” the seminary students from Pleasant Grove, Utah, started a marathon. It would take them more than 13 hours to complete. There was no running involved—just singing. Lots and lots of singing. The seminary students were attempting to sing every hymn in the hymnbook in a single day.
The idea started two years ago when Mike Laudie and his older brother Jim were waiting to be interviewed for temple recommends. They started playing the piano and singing hymns. “We just thought, Wouldn’t it be cool to sing all the hymns in one sitting,” said Mike. At that time, Jim organized and held the first hymn marathon at the Pleasant Grove seminary. Then, this year, Mike was on the seminary council and proposed that the seminary try it again.
First, the seminary council asked the 1,200 seminary students to vote on their favorite hymns. After every 20 hymns, the group would sing a hymn from their top 25 choices. The plan was to save the top-10 vote getters for the last hour of the marathon. Fortified with plenty of doughnuts and juice, they started singing. A few students like David Anson stayed the whole 13 hours. He said, “Music means so much to my life. It has touched me for good.” Others had to come and go as their work schedules allowed. With some talented accompanists spelling each other, the number of singers fluctuated throughout the day between a few dozen to nearly 200. Even if they had come earlier in the day, most who participated came back for the last hour.
The message of the hymns came across strongly for some. They felt the power of beautiful words combined with pleasing melodies. Tyson Peery noted one meaningful line. “There are a lot of hymns we don’t know. But when we sang, ‘There Is Sunshine in My Soul Today,’ one of the lines says, ‘And Jesus listening can hear, the songs I cannot sing.’ That really hit me.”
Another meaningful hymn to the group was “A Poor Wayfaring Man of Grief.” Brett Munden said, “I love that song because when I sing it I think of Joseph Smith in Carthage Jail. He asked John Taylor to sing that song for him. It’s my favorite hymn because it was Joseph’s favorite.”
For many, the hymn marathon became more than just an endurance feat. Sarah Overson said, “I thought of the hymn that says, ‘Angels above us are silent notes taking’ (see Hymns, no. 237). I know that God was pleased with us singing praises to Him all day long. Singing hymns is like praying. It was to show Heavenly Father that I was willing to sacrifice my time to ‘pray’ to Him. I want Him to know that I’m willing and trying to improve my habits and keep the commandments.”
These are the 10 hymns the Pleasant Grove seminary students voted as their favorites:
The Spirit of God
A Poor Wayfaring Man of Grief
Praise to the Man
I Stand All Amazed
How Great Thou Art
If You Could Hie to Kolob
Called to Serve
True to the Faith
We Thank Thee, O God, for a Prophet
Come, Come, Ye Saints

We show our integrity by caring for and serving others. Let me cite an instance where family members, a Christlike bishop, home teachers, visiting teachers, and ward members so lived.

A young mother of eight children was left without a husband. The oldest child was twelve, the youngest barely one, and one daughter was confined to a wheelchair. This mother moved to a ward that was close to her family and friends. Being single and divorced, she feared that she might be ignored or shunned. However, as she was moving in, ward members streamed in to welcome her, bring food, and offer assistance. She hardly had time to direct those who were unloading the moving van.

After getting settled, she and her family received innumerable expressions of service and love. Her home teachers repaired her appliances and other household items. Her visiting teachers kept very close and made sure she never had to go alone to a Church activity. At Christmastime, she found money left anonymously on her porch or had it given to her in a handshake. She received hundreds of dollars toward the purchase of a wheelchair lift for her van. After being out of town briefly, she returned home and found that ward members had renovated her kitchen.

Her parents, brother, and sisters provided financial and emotional support. They helped take care of her children, accompanied her to the emergency room with a daughter who was very ill, built a ramp to the front door for the wheelchair, built shelves for food storage, and helped with yard work.

All of this kindness lifted her spirits and gave her courage to meet the trials and hardships of each day. Those who looked after this young mother practiced “pure religion” (James 1:27) because of their integrity. Let us “go, and do … likewise” (Luke 10:37), as the Savior taught in the parable of the good Samaritan.

That same spirit drew others to the Book of Mormon as it was being printed. Thomas Marsh, a former printer’s apprentice, had tried to find his place in other churches, but none of them seemed to preach the gospel he found in the Bible. He believed that a new church would soon arise that would teach restored truth.
That summer, Thomas felt led by the Spirit to travel hundreds of miles from his home in Boston to western New York. He stayed in the area three months before turning toward home, uncertain why he had traveled so far. At a stop along the way back, however, his host asked if he had heard about Joseph Smith’s “golden book.” Thomas told the woman he had not and felt compelled to learn more.
She told him he should talk to Martin Harris and directed him to Palmyra. Thomas went there immediately and found Martin at Grandin’s printshop. The printer gave him 16 pages of the Book of Mormon, and Thomas took them back to Boston, eager to share the first taste of this new faith with his wife, Elizabeth.
Elizabeth read the pages, and she too believed they were the work of God.10

“Cami asked me if I wanted to go to church. At first I thought, no, I didn’t really want to. Then I decided that since I hadn’t been baptized into any church, I ought to start looking around and seeing what I believe in. I went with Cami, and the things I was taught I believed, so I started going to church more often. When I had the missionary lessons, I felt I was ready to be baptized.”
Tami HowellLong Beach California East Stake

“One day in my early teens a remarkable boy gave me a copy of English poems with pages torn, worn, and soiled, but it changed my life. One verse was marked: ‘Ah, but a man’s reach should exceed his grasp, or what’s a heaven for?’

“So wrote English poet Robert Browning decades before I read it that day and I took it personally, appropriate to my self-discovery, of hopeful idealism and firming philosophy.

“Worn leather volumes containing William Shakespeare, William Wordsworth, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, and Geoffrey Chaucer were passed into my hands by this boy who understood the grasp-and-reach theory. The public library provided me with ugly, stiff, practical new bindings of Charles Dickens and Robert Louis Stevenson and Ralph Waldo Emerson’s essay ‘Friendship.’

“I loved all these books unabashedly.

“This boy and I couldn’t understand everything we read, but it was so exhilarating trying to understand that it was like coming in with the tide. Stretching our minds in the reading and then struggling to say it back in our own words to each other kept our relationship going one swift summer and was the basis for a lifelong friendship.”

I staggered away from the table saw, my ears ringing, my stomach churning. Warm blood reached my elbow and flowed to the sawdust-covered cement floor, but I dared not look at the hand. With the palm of my undamaged hand, I cradled the mess, terrified at the sight of the red blood, white bone, and yellowing skin.
“Tim, what happened? Tim? Tim!”
I heard a voice yelling my name. It was Jeff, the only other person in the shop, and out of blurring vision I saw him running toward me.
“Go. Go get help! Call an ambulance! Hurry!” I screamed out to Jeff, and he ran out a side door.
Now alone, I lay on a large roll of plastic to stave off the dizziness I started to feel. I had just finished a year of college and landed my dream job—working for the U.S. Forest Service in the remote mountains of southwestern Colorado. Not only that, but a week before I had received my mission call to Melbourne, Australia. I was to finish my summer job in Colorado, then report to the Missionary Training Center in Provo, Utah.
Where are they? I wondered. I started to get up, thinking I would go outside, get in the truck, and drive myself to the hospital. With dizziness fast returning, I lay back down on the slippery plastic and closed my eyes. Soon I heard the wail of an ambulance.
“He’s in here.” I recognized Jeff’s voice.
Opening my eyes, I saw Jeff and a uniformed man and woman from the ambulance standing over me. Almost simultaneously, the man grabbed my cut hand and the woman took my pulse on the other arm.
“You’re going to be all right,” he said as my hand was surrounded with white gauze. I was glad the wound was no longer my responsibility and was relieved the injury was out of view.
“How old are you?” The woman now spoke.
I whispered the answer. My throat was dry, making it difficult to speak. She asked more questions about allergies, past medical problems, and current medications I was taking. I responded quickly until she got to her last question.
“What family member do you want me to call that can come to the hospital?”
I thought of my family, more than 600 miles away. Mom would be eating lunch at work and Dad would be sleeping after working a graveyard shift as a security guard. My younger sister, Erin, would be in school.
“Tim?”
“There isn’t anyone that can come now. I don’t have any family in Colorado,” I replied. As they lifted me into the ambulance and drove toward the hospital, I remembered times that summer when I hiked into isolated wilderness areas to repair eroding trails and didn’t see anyone for days. When I came back into town, I always felt detached and alone, the way I felt now.
“Tim.” It was the woman from the ambulance. Her voice sounded distant. She continued, “Is there someone else I could call—like a minister or a priest?”
I thought of the small branch in Gunnison. The members had been friendly to me during the past few months, but as an outsider, I didn’t want to bother them with this problem. I looked down. The blood had saturated through the white gauze. I winced when I thought of the ripped flesh inside.
“Phone Willy Akers or Bud Smith,” I said at last. President Akers had just been called as branch president, and Bud Smith was his counselor.
“I know Willy. I’ll call him when we get inside,” she said with assurance.
The ambulance was stopping in front of the small hospital. I saw the doctor at the door waiting for me to be wheeled inside. Once inside, I looked around at the small emergency room as they placed me on an examination table and started an IV. The doctor spoke calmly to the nurse as he unwrapped the dark, red gauze. I looked away.
Finally, he finished and directed the nurse to wrap it again. Without a word, he left. I could hear his voice on a telephone in the next room and knew he was speaking about me. He stopped talking after a few minutes and entered the emergency room.
“Tim,” he started, speaking slowly, “you’ve cut yourself pretty good, and I don’t have the equipment or expertise to do much for you. I just called for a helicopter to fly you to a limb preservation unit at a hospital in Denver. They will do everything they can to save it there. Meanwhile, I’ll give you some pain medication to make things more comfortable for you on the way. Do you have any questions?”
I managed a weak no, then thought about what he had just said. The words “save it” kept repeating themselves. I had never had a cut that required more than a few stitches, and now I was faced with the possibility of losing my hand.
“It’s a good thing this happened while I was home for lunch or you wouldn’t have caught me,” President Akers said as he entered the small room. Brother Smith followed close behind. “They tell me you get to go on a long helicopter ride too.” I nodded, too weak to speak.
“Would you like a blessing?” Bud asked. I nodded again, and in the curtained partition of the two-bed emergency room in a small hospital, I was promised two things: my hand would be all right, and I would be able to fulfill my mission to Australia. President Akers went back to work, and Brother Smith stayed with me until I was loaded on the helicopter.
“Now I’m really alone,” I thought as the machine flew above Gunnison. I knew a few people in this small town of 6,000, but in Denver, a city of half a million people, I knew no one.
But I was wrong. When the helicopter landed and I was wheeled into the doors of the hospital, a missionary couple from the Denver South Mission greeted me. Their gray hair and warm smiles reminded me of my grandparents.
“Your branch president’s wife called and asked if we’d visit you sometime this week, and we came right over,” Sister Jeffreys explained. They sat by my bed until late that afternoon when the surgery team had assembled and was ready for me in the operating theater.
I wanted Brother and Sister Jeffreys to stay, but knew they would not be allowed in during the operation. I said good-bye and watched them leave down the long hallway.
“Hello. I’m Lile Hileman, one of the anesthesiologists here,” a man said, approaching my bed. “I was supposed to get off at 4:30, but when I saw you were the only Mormon besides me here, I thought I’d ask if it would be all right if I stuck around as your anesthetist.”
“Do you know what you’re doing?” I joked for the first time since cutting myself.
“For you, I’ll learn fast,” he said, laughing.
It took the surgeons more than 14 hours to repair the damage, and I was in Denver for just as many days.
The day after the accident, my mom flew to Denver from our home in Orem, Utah, and she was greeted at the hospital by the full-time missionaries. For the three days she was in Denver with me, she stayed in the home of Church members she had never met.
After my mom returned home, and during the ensuing weeks, I continued to receive visits from the Jeffreys and Brother Hileman. In addition, half a dozen members of the Denver South Singles Ward showed up three times each week to cheer me up. The night before I left, they all “kidnapped” me from my room and took me to an ice cream shop close to the hospital.
I flew home, and after six more operations and months of therapy, I was able to use my hand again. Although my mission call was delayed six months, I served two years with an added vigor, for I now could teach the people of Melbourne about their caring brothers and sisters they’ll always have as part of their church family.

It’d be nice to get the chance to do things over again, wouldn’t it? Well, some things. You might like to relive your happiest birthday or avoid your most embarrassing moment, but would you jump at the chance to repeat a project that involved around 100 hours of hard work?
Chanelle Cann of West Jordan, Utah, did. After finishing years of work to earn her Young Womanhood Award, she turned around and did it all over again. The revised Personal Progress book and new medallion were her inspiration.
The General Young Women presidency encouraged young women already working on the old program to transfer their hours and finish up with the new program. They didn’t expect young women to earn both awards. After doing all the work once, what was Chanelle thinking?
Actually, she was thinking ahead. She wanted the chance to grow with the right attitude, so she’d be more prepared for her future.
“When I was younger I worked on the Personal Progress program because it was there. When I got to be a Laurel, I did it because I wanted to,” she said. “I wanted to do the new program because I knew I would be doing it for the right reasons.”
Chanelle was proud of her first award, but she understood that personal progress isn’t something you need a book to do.
When her stake president introduced the changes to the Young Women program, Chanelle picked up a copy of the new Personal Progress book and headed straight home to plan.
Her mom, Evelyn, said Chanelle stayed up well past midnight that night mapping out how she could earn the new award and how many hours per week she could work on it, starting the next day.
“I told her you could just pay and get the other necklace instead,” Chanelle’s mom said, “but she said, ‘No, I want to really earn it.’”
Chanelle didn’t want another necklace, she wanted a chance for growth. She would be graduating from high school soon and wanted to be prepared for the future. But she didn’t need a book to get what she wanted.
“All the things I did were things I needed to learn for the future anyway. I used the new program because I knew something that came from the prophet could give me good direction,” she said.
Her projects included attending the temple several times a week to do baptisms for the dead, volunteering at an elementary school, writing poetry about the Savior, recording songs with her guitar, hand stitching a temple quilt, serving at a rest home, making family home evening files for her future family, and learning to cook.
Chanelle said the cooking project didn’t turn out so well. She made some pies that were more of a learning experience than a gourmet dessert. She’s going to keep trying anyway.
As it turns out, Chanelle makes a better writer than a chef. Her favorite project was writing poetry. She also loved writing about her experiences in her journal because it helped her realize how much she actually learned from doing the projects with the right attitude.
“Putting my feelings down on paper helps me recognize what I believe in and makes me more grateful,” she said.
To earn the second award, Chanelle did 70 hours of projects and completed 42 other value experiences, on top of school and work.
“It took a lot of time, but it was worth it,” she said.
It isn’t her two medallions hanging around her neck on the same gold chain that light up her face, though. Her glittering smile reveals how much she’s grown. She said doing both programs strengthened her testimony, helped her recognize her potential, made her aware of all her blessings, and prepared her for the future.
“I think I try harder now to keep the Spirit with me and recognize what I do in my life really does affect me,” she said.
Chanelle has a lot of goals for the future, including an education, a mission, and getting married in the Salt Lake Temple. She said she’s grateful for the chance she had to earn the Young Womanhood Award—twice, because it prepared her to accomplish those goals.
Perhaps one of Chanelle’s poems said it best:
“The simple things you do
Determine what the future will bring to you.”
Now, Chanelle is always looking for new ways to grow. Earning both awards helped set a pattern of personal progress that will last her a lifetime.

Editor’s note: What started out as a fun activity turned into a small test of faith for some high school friends. Afterward, they shared what they were thinking at the time, and how one small but significant choice helped them all. Here is the same story, told from three points of view.
Sam: I was eager to go to the comedy club. A couple of my friends that I trust had been there previously, and they said it was funny and that all of the jokes were clean. So we were all excited and looking forward to a night of fun.
When the show started, the comedian was funny. He told some good jokes, but after a span of about 15 minutes his humor took a heavy turn downward. His jokes turned dirty. I was feeling super uncomfortable.
Carrie: I had heard of this comedy place and was excited to go. As the show began, it was good, clean comedy. But soon after, the humor grew more crass and inappropriate. I wanted to get up and leave, but I struggled with the decision because I knew my date had spent quite a bit of money on the tickets. I started to feel more and more uneasy.
Jake: When crude humor started to take the main stage at the comedy club, I was uneasy. When the comic started to make sacrilegious comments about the Church, I felt uncomfortable and thought about leaving. But somehow silly ideas crept into my head—I had just spent money to get in, everyone would laugh at us or think we weren’t mature enough to handle the humor, and my date wasn’t LDS. What would she think if I stood up to leave?
All this left me sitting indecisively in my seat. Looking back now, I’m embarrassed that I let a couple of worldly rationalizations get in the way of my spiritual courage. Once the bad jokes started coming, I should have left immediately; it’s as simple as that.
Sam: I turned to Carrie, and asked, “Are you ready to go?” I said it more as a statement than a question. I knew I was with a wonderful girl, and I was pleased when, with a smile on her face, she said, “Yeah, let’s go.”
Carrie: Then, to my rescue, my date Sam turned and whispered, “Are you ready to go?” I was so relieved! It was the answer to my silent prayer! We got up and left the theater.
Sam: I took her to the exit and then went quietly to the seats where my friend Jake was sitting with his date. I leaned down and whispered, “We’ve had enough. We’ll be out in the parking lot.” We waited outside for the show to end.
Jake: This is where the importance of having good friends comes in. As I sat there doing nothing, amidst the jokes, a finger tapped my shoulder. I turned to see my best friend crouched down behind me and pointing to the door. “I can’t handle this guy any longer,” he said, “We’ll be waiting in the parking lot.”
Sam: In the parking lot we started talking a little bit about what had happened, but not 30 seconds had passed when I heard the door open. I looked back to see Jake with his date, and all of my friends with their dates, walking out into the parking lot. Not a whole lot was said about what had happened, but we all knew we had done the right thing.
Carrie: It wasn’t necessary to wait, however, because shortly after we left, the rest of the group filed out of the theater. I had the most incredible feeling in my heart at that moment. I was so grateful for the example my date had set, grateful for his great respect for me. He was a guardian of truth and virtue that night, and that was more important than getting his money’s worth out of an inappropriate show.
I will forever remember and be grateful for that night and the experience I had. Sam is a close friend. He was known throughout the high school student body as being a good guy. He was full of integrity and virtue, so it was no surprise to me that he did what he did that night.
Jake: At that moment my friend became my hero. He left. Then I, along with our other friends, followed. My date knew we had high standards and recognized that we felt uncomfortable with the jokes, so she went along with our decision. I predicted the comedian would make fun of us for leaving, and he did. “But who really cares?” I said to myself as we left the room.
I’m grateful for the example my friend set by leaving that night. He had the courage to act, and I don’t know if I would have done the same thing had he not been there. Once he did the right thing, many others followed. Never underestimate the importance of friendship. Live your life so that you can be a role model to others, as Sam was to me.

Only two weeks later, on June 27, the Prophet was killed. Brigham did not learn of Joseph’s death for three weeks, but he then remembered his experience on the day of the martyrdom while sitting in the depot in Boston, waiting for the train to Salem: “I felt a heavy depression of spirit, and so melancholy I could not converse with any degree of pleasure.”21 He had seen newspaper accounts of the assassination on July 9 but had discounted them because of the current sensationalism in the press about Mormonism. Then, on July 16, while in Petersboro, New Hampshire, with other apostles, he read a letter from Nauvoo that gave details of the murder of Joseph Smith and his brother Hyrum. He roused himself from despair, decided on a course of action, and returned to Boston the next day to take the Twelve back to Nauvoo. But first, as Wilford Woodruff recounts:
“Elder Brigham Young arrived in Boston this morning. I walked with him to 57 Temple Street and called upon Sister Vose. Brother Young took the bed and gave vent to his feelings in tears. I took the big chair, and veiled my face, and for the first time gave vent to my grief and mourning for the Prophet. …”22
Nearly a month later, shortly after the great meeting where he and the rest of the Quorum of the Twelve were sustained to lead the Church, President Young wrote to his daughter back in Massachusetts:
“It has been a time of mourning. The day that Joseph and Hyrum were brought in from Carthage to Nauvoo, it was judged by many, both in and out of the Church, that there were more than five barrels of tears shed. I cannot bear to think anything about it.”23
But besides the ability to grieve deeply at this tragic personal loss, President Young had learned from the Prophet how to cope with new responsibilities and to move ahead with courage. He recovered quickly from the fear, felt by many of the Saints who were totally surprised by the death of the Prophet, that the Church’s religious authority had died with him:
“The first thing which I thought of [when the letter was read] was, whether Joseph had taken the keys of the kingdom with him from the earth; brother Orson Pratt sat on my left; we were both leaning back on our chairs. Bringing my hand down on my knee, I said, the keys of the kingdom are right here with the Church.”24

A tender, sweet story about receiving peace from the scriptures appeared in the January 1991 Ensign, submitted by Sister Carole Seegmiller. Using a few excerpts, I quote from her article: “Dad decided that our family should begin an intensive study of the scriptures to help my brother Bruce prepare for his mission. Dad’s goal was to read the entire Book of Mormon before Bruce left, tape-recording our voices as we went along. … We would take turns reading a chapter [each]. …
“The family finished the Book of Mormon a few months later, … so Dad decided we should read and record the four Gospels from the New Testament. I complained this time, telling Dad that I didn’t see the point: we could buy audiotapes of professionals reading the scriptures—and they sounded a lot better than we did. Still Dad persisted. ‘Carole, one day these tapes will be a great blessing to us.’ …
“I began to enjoy these times together with the family. I especially liked to hear Dad share his personal insights about a passage. Soon I began to sense the peace that comes through studying the scriptures. We finished reading the four Gospels shortly before Bruce left for the Missionary Training Center. …
“After Bruce left, I noticed how comforting the tapes were to Dad. He often listened to them, partly just to hear Bruce’s voice, I thought, since they had been very close. Sometimes at night Dad would fall asleep listening, and I would smile to myself as I heard the familiar click-click-click of the recorder that had run to tape’s end. …
“When Bruce had been gone for more than a year, Dad died quietly of a heart attack. … All of our family members … gathered except Bruce, who had determined to finish his mission.
“That evening, after [the funeral], I was feeling low. I went upstairs to Dad’s room and dejectedly sat down at his desk. I noticed his well-used tape recorder lying nearby; inside was one of our tapes of the New Testament, which Dad must have listened to the night before he died. I began rewinding the tape, stopping it at random, hoping to find solace in hearing the gentle resonance of Dad’s voice. … I sat upright as my father spoke from the tape:
“‘Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.’ …
“I listened to that passage over and over; the words reached out and wrapped a comforting arm around me. …
“Peace did come to us that night. … Since then, I have tasted the sweet peace of the New Testament time and time again. To me, that is its greatest message” (“Our Family’s Tape-recorded New Testament,” Ensign, Jan. 1991, p. 27).

Many nights my choice is between doing scripture study or homework first. On those nights when there is too much to do, I get a little prompting to put away the homework, put my faith in the Lord, and spend my more awake time in the scriptures. It is pretty safe to say that every time I have chosen to study spiritually first, the Lord has made sure my other work was taken care of on time.Michelle Nielson, 17Basin City Second Ward, Pasco Washington Stake

When I was 17, I was assigned as my father’s home teaching companion. We visited a few families in our ward and gave them a message from the bishop or read an article from a Church magazine. Home teaching was actually not so bad. Some of our families really appreciated our company.
We visited an older couple who always looked forward to our coming. They were talkative and gave us cookies when we were there.
Another of our families was actively involved at church. They were easy to home teach. The TV would be turned off, and the family always gathered around, sitting quietly while my dad and I gave our message.
Our ward was spread out over a large area of farms and small communities outside of Pocatello, Idaho. Many of the people had chosen the semi-country life to escape from the city. They liked being away from the traffic noise. Some simply wanted to get away from society. The Browns, a family newly assigned to us, fit right into that last category. As I look back, I wonder at the patience my father showed.
It was my job to set up our home teaching appointments. Brother Brown answered the phone and told me they were too busy this month and to maybe call back later if I wanted to. The same results occurred four weeks later on my second attempt. My father decided we needed a more direct approach.
The next month came, and after visiting our other families, we drove straight to the Browns’ house. A pickup truck and a car were in the driveway. Our printout showed a family of three: a father, a mother, and a 9-year-old boy. We went up to the door and knocked. No answer.
A month passed and again it was time for home teaching. Visiting our regulars went smoothly, and then it was time for our not-so-regular.
“Do they really want us to come?” I asked.
“We don’t know for sure,” was the answer from my senior companion. “They haven’t told us to go away, and we haven’t done anything they could get mad at, have we? We can’t give up so soon.”
We drove to their house. This time the cars were switched. They had to be home. There were only two drivers. We went up to the door and knocked. Silence.
“Knock again,” said my dad. I heard some noise inside the house, but the door stood still. From the corner of my eye, I saw motion. I turned to the window and, for a split second, locked eye contact with a brown-haired child, who disappeared. We left. It seemed apparent that this family did not want us around. I did not know if I wanted to be around them. I suggested to my father that we report back to the high priests group leader that this family did not want home teachers and call it good.
“Hm.” My dad was not a man of many words, but I knew well the meaning of this. We would be going back.
The next month came all too soon. It was, again, time to do our home teaching. Our visits with the regular families quickly came and went. I then found myself standing in front of the door with the two cars in the driveway. My dad motioned me, and I timidly knocked. No answer. “There, that’s that. They won’t answer, Dad. Let’s go home.” A nod from my senior companion prompted me to knock again. I reluctantly did so, keeping my thoughts to myself. Then it opened; not the door, but a window. A gruff male voice asked what we wanted. A waft of cigarette smoke followed his question. I was ready to bolt. My dad smiled. He told the voice who we were and why we were there. He explained that we wanted to get to know this family and become friends. Then he asked if we could come back next month. That was all he said, nothing more. Hesitating, the faceless voice behind the window agreed and we left.
“He knew exactly who we were,” my dad said as we drove away. “He gets new home teachers every couple of years. He just knows how to get rid of us.”
The next month was much the same—the same voice from the window, the same brief conversation, and the same hesitation to let us come again next month.
Our third month was not the same, however. The pickup was not in the driveway. We went up to the door and knocked. We both looked toward the window in anticipation. To my surprise, the door opened! That same child I had seen earlier poked his head out, glanced down the street, and then at us. “Please, come in,” he said.
A lady was standing in the front room. “Thank you for coming, we only have a few minutes,” she said. “Do you know when Cub Scouts meet?”
“We will find out for you, Sister Brown,” my dad answered.
The child was staring at me. I was in shock now that we were standing in the house and not on the porch. Had he said something? “Can you baptize me?” he repeated, with a sincere ring in his voice.
His smile was contagious, but all I could say was “What?”
“He wants to become a member of the Church like his cousins in town. He has been watching you come to the door each month. I told him you could probably baptize him.”
“Can you baptize me into the Church?” he asked a third time.
I was beginning to recover. “Yes, uh, I think so.”
My dad helped me out. “Let’s talk to the bishop,” he said. “He can tell us what you need to do to get ready. Can both of you and Brother Brown come to church on Sunday?”
That was our whole visit. Then we were gone. I contemplated the entire situation during the quiet drive home. Being a home teacher was something more than cookies and pleasant conversations. Being a home teacher could be seriously important. Why had I suggested we give up on this family? The example my father gave me was beyond my years. I was experiencing guilty exhilaration, guilt because of my murmuring and exhilaration because of the unexpected results of our visit. I glanced at my dad.
“You did good,” he said, reading my mind. “Let’s watch for them on Sunday.”
I have always cherished my memories of home teaching with my father. I can remember some of the families we taught better than others. I will never forget the Browns.
We saw the mom and the boy at church that next Sunday and many other Sundays. We saw the boy at Cub Scouts the next week and many other weeks. I’m sure some deep conversations were held at the Browns’ house, because the door always opened for us, even when Brother Brown was home. He even learned how to smile and shake hands.
Then came the baptism. I felt the smiling eyes of the city cousins looking down on the boy and me. The bishop had let them kneel by the baptismal font, which was recessed into the floor at the stake center. A deep, peaceful feeling swept over me as this wet, glowing boy and I stepped up and out. I almost felt that it was I who had been baptized. The boy’s parents were beaming. I saw Sister Brown brush a tear from her cheek. I looked up at my father; he nodded his approval.
Warmth grew inside me as I realized the wisdom of His patience, His patience for this little family and for me.