Gospel Story Finder

The next few days were very long for Sarah. She did everything that she could think of to make the time go faster. One morning, when she was returning from taking a basket of scones to Mrs. Root, who was sick, she saw Elder Kimball on the path to town. She ran the rest of the way home to tell her family. In a short time, they were back in town, ready for a meeting. This time so many people had gathered that they met outside. Elder Kimball stood on a stone wall and preached to the people, and it was just as before. Sarah felt the Holy Ghost tell her that he spoke the truth.

Sarah and her parents were baptized that night. What a good feeling it was to know that they were all members of Christ’s true church. She felt clean and right.

I well remember one trip when Scott, my fourth oldest son, was on the same raft with me and three other fellows. On the first or second day of our trip we capsized (which was very common), and the raft got caught in a backwash and was being pounded by tons of water. I came to the surface and watched for my crew members. I counted them. One boy came up, then another, and then a third—but no Scott. I started to feel real concern when I looked back and forth across the river and couldn’t see him anywhere. Fifteen or 20 seconds is an eternity when you are waiting for your son to come to the surface. It’s the most helpless feeling in the world. Finally I saw Scott come to the surface and heaved a great sigh of relief.

“What took you so long?” I yelled to him.

“My foot got caught in the rope, and I was being pounded around because the boat was caught in the backwash.” Then he said, “But I remembered Duffy’s instruction, reached on my hip, pulled my knife out of the scabbard, cut the rope tangled around my foot, and floated free.” I owe my son’s life to Dale Duffy’s training.

In a recent gathering of friends who served missions in Scotland in our youth, I heard the following story from one of my former companions, Joseph McConkie. While serving as a chaplain in Viet Nam during that conflict and war, Brother McConkie was responsible for helping meet the spiritual needs of LDS servicemen. He said that at military headquarters, there was an assembly hall where religious services were held. At that time the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was not viewed as a major religious denomination so the time for religious services given them was 4:00 P.M. on Sunday afternoon. One day, following their meetings, a soldier who was responsible for the upkeep of the assembly hall said: "I want to join your Church." Joseph asked: "What has prompted this desire?" The soldier replied: "I watch your people come to Church each week in the late afternoons--and they come happy. When they leave, they are even happier!" No doubt this soldier could see the light of the gospel emanating from the faces of those soldiers who rejoiced every week in the great privilege of worship and fellowship--even in the difficult circumstances in which they found themselves. These soldiers knew their identity and it blessed others.

While in fourth grade, my son, Taylor, was one of 12 semifinalists in a spelling bee. In the semifinals, Taylor tied with another boy for a spot in the finals. The tiebreaker was a “spell-off” in which each student wrote a series of words, which was then checked by a judge. On the last word of the series, the judge ruled that the other boy had spelled the word incorrectly. Taylor was declared the winner and awarded the final spot in the evening competition.
The judges congratulated the winners and were handing out certificates when I saw Taylor’s hand go up. He informed a judge that he, too, had misspelled the last word. The judge had misread his handwriting.
The judges met and announced another spell-off. Taylor didn’t win this time. The principal and Taylor’s teacher saw me crying and thought it was because Taylor had lost. I quickly explained that I could not be more pleased with my son. He had chosen to be honest regardless of the cost. I am grateful that Taylor had the courage to be like Jesus Christ and choose the right.

Switzerland is a small country in Europe that is known for its beautiful, high mountains. Over six hundred years ago, Switzerland was not free but belonged to its larger neighbor, Austria. The Swiss people longed to be free. One patriotic man, William Tell, was a strong woodsman. He was also the best marksman with a bow and arrow in his canton (small state or province). He had a young son whom he loved dearly.
Albert Gessler was the Austrian in charge of Switzerland. To upset and anger the Swiss people, he put his hat on a pole in the town square and demanded that they bow down to it. When William Tell refused, Gessler arrested him and put him in jail. A short time later, Gessler tied Tell’s son to a tree and set an apple on his head. He had Tell brought to him and told the prisoner that if he could shoot the apple off his son’s head, he could go free.
William Tell very carefully chose the arrow he placed on his bow. Slowly he aimed. The boy, trusting his father, stood tall and still. The arrow flew, cutting the apple in half. Gessler couldn’t believe his eyes, but he let William Tell go free.
When William Tell chose his arrow, he chose a very straight one. He would never have chosen a scuffed or crooked one. He checked the shafts for balance, the heads for sharpness. It was important that the arrow went where he aimed it.
Today, the term “straight arrow” means a person who always tells the truth and follows the rules. He or she can be depended on in time of trouble and when it is important to do a job well. He doesn’t have to be watched all the time, because he obeys his leaders and never flies off at some target of his own.
When a leader or boss chooses a person for an important job, he looks at each person carefully and chooses a straight arrow. Others will have to depend on that person. The boss doesn’t want a crooked arrow, someone who might lie, or cheat, or steal, or fail to do his very best.
The person who makes arrows, called an arrowsmith, chooses good materials. Even so, sometimes an arrow can become warped or its tip might become dull. Then the arrowsmith must straighten it or sharpen the tip.
Like everyone else, we Latter-day Saints, may sometimes get “warped,” and lose our way in living the gospel. We may forget to obey Heavenly Father’s commandments. Or we may forget to listen to what He wants us to do. He and His Son, Jesus Christ, are the master arrowsmiths. They can rebuild and straighten our lives if we let them. Through Jesus Christ’s sacrifice of His life, we can be straight arrows in life, if we repent.
When Heavenly Father, like William Tell, needs an arrow for an important job, He looks for a straight arrow, a person alert and ready to do His will.
Are you one of these arrows?

For an entire year Brother Assard fruitlessly sought employment. The strain of providing for his family weighed heavily upon him. He did not, however, let the difficulty of finding a job prevent him from moving the work of the Lord forward. He and Sister Assard sent letters to members on the list they had received in Germany. The Lucien Affoué family of Abidjan was the first to respond. Both families rejoiced to know they were not alone. Other members in Ivory Coast also responded but were too remote to meet with them.
As Lucien Affoué traveled with his family to Lyon, France, to study industrial arts, he had no idea the most important education he would receive there would be spiritual. Lucien; his wife, Agathe; and their two daughters embraced the gospel soon after full-time missionaries knocked on their door in 1980. The Bordeaux Branch welcomed the family into the Church, and after proving faithful, the Affoués and their daughters were sealed in the Swiss Temple.
When they returned to Ivory Coast in 1984, the Affoués, now with an infant son, were disappointed not to find any other Church members. Nevertheless, they diligently held meetings in their home, praying for the fellowship of another Latter-day Saint family.
Despite their difficult economic situation, the Affoués rejoiced in April 1986 when they received a letter from the Assards. The two families soon began holding joint Sunday meetings in the Assards’ backyard. As they worked, worshiped, and prayed together for employment, the families grew close and strengthened each other spiritually. Sister Affoué and Sister Assard became as close as sisters.
The Affoués had their prayers answered when Brother Affoué found a teaching job in Bouaké, the nation’s second largest city, located approximately 370 kilometers northwest of Abidjan. They had to leave the growing Church group in Abidjan. But with strengthened testimonies and faith, the Affoués helped establish the Church in Bouaké in 1988. There the family spread the gospel, eventually receiving welcome help from a missionary couple assigned to the area.
Brother Affoué served as branch president for four years, then continued as branch president after the branch was divided. Today he serves as a counselor to the mission president. Sister Affoué served as Relief Society president, while the children taught classes and helped out their small branch in other ways.
The Church’s first chapel in Ivory Coast was dedicated in April 1997, a decade after the country was dedicated for the preaching of the gospel and shortly before the creation of the country’s first stake. A chapel of their own represents a milestone for Ivorian Latter-day Saints, including the Affoués and the Assards, who have longed for a chapel in their native land since the two families first met under a tree in their home village 11 years ago.

Sarah sank back against the dusty seat and peered anxiously out the streaked window ot the bus. She managed a shaky smile at three figures peering up at her. Tears came unbidden, and Sarah drew back quickly, dashing them away. Then the bus began to snort and cough as the motor turned over in protest. Sarah felt her heart jump to her throat as she watched the faces search the windows for a last glimpse of their daughter. She waved frantically as the bus shook itself a final time and lumbered out into the street that ran by the Placertown meetinghouse. The bus, with it’s chattering load, swung laboriously around the corner, and the farewells were over.
Sarah settled back against the seat and fastened her hands around the small suitcase resting on her lap. She smiled down at the brown case that held the “reminders” her foster mother had chosen for this trip home. Each year for seven years Sister Allen had tucked a small package under her daughter’s arm and placed a warm kiss on her cheek as the bus drove up. Every year the long, anxious ride back to the reservation had been made bearable as Sarah examined each article and note enclosed. This trip, however, the case was not opened. Sarah was 17 now and anxious to test her newly discovered maturity. She would wait to open the package after she had returned to her home and blood family. Later, perhaps, in the privacy atop some wind-cooled mesa with only the rustling sagebrush to interrupt her thoughts, Sarah would examine her treasures.
Sarah stirred sleepily in her seat and glanced wearily out the window. With a start she realized that she had been asleep for several hours as the red rock mesas of the Navajo reservation came into sight. Her heart leapt as she saw the old trading post that signaled Keyah Tso and home lay only miles up the long, barren highway. Sarah shook out the folds of her dress and smoothed back the straight black hair that had tumbled into her eyes. She was excited as she thought of the reunion with her family.
Suddenly Sarah realized her lap was empty. The case was gone. Frantically she looked about and discovered it laying in the aisle beside her seat. Snatching it up, she clutched it protectively.
As the bus ground to a stop before the red-roofed building, Sarah caught sight of a small group of velveteen and dungaree-clad Navajos. One anxious figure stood shyly apart from the others. Sarah saw that her mother had donned her favorite red velveteen blouse and green cotton skirt for the occasion. The woman’s wrists and fingers were covered with silver and turquoise, and around her neck hung the beautiful turquoise necklace Sarah’s father had made just before his death. Her long, gray-streaked hair had been tied back in the traditional bitsi yaal knot. Her mother waited patiently as Sarah climbed down from the bus and ran to meet her. The two stood looking at each other for a long, silent moment. The older woman put her shoulder against her daughter’s in a shy gesture of welcome. Sarah placed her hand on the velveteen-covered arm and gently squeezed. A smile, a sigh, and the encounter was over. The girl turned back to the bus, waved a cheery goodbye to her friends, picked up her suitcase, and turned to her mother. Sarah cleared her throat, a little embarrassed, and spoke to her mother. The sharp glottal sounds of Navajo felt strange and unaccustomed on her tongue. Soon she found herself chattering comfortably to the small group of Navajo women and children riding with her in the back of a ’56 pickup. As the clay-smeared vehicle bounced its way down the road to the Yazzie home, Sarah became the center of attention as the women and children listened avidly to the description of her way of life away from the reservation.
Suddenly the air seemed heavy with the odor of sagebrush, and Sarah knew she was home once again. Overhead an eagle winged across the sky before soaring behind the face of a red rock mesa. Then she saw the smoke curling from the mud chimney of the Yazzie hogan. The pickup stopped with a loud screech of brakes; children jumped over the sides. The wooden door of the home flew open, and Sarah saw the excited faces of her two brothers peering out. They showed no embarrassment as they greeted her and drew her impatiently to the sheep corral to meet the shaggy newborn lambs.
It wasn’t until the sun had gone down and the family had gone to bed that Sarah remembered her case. Already the memory of her other world had begun to dim. The familiar odors of the one-room dwelling and the sounds of a desert summer night had replaced the buzz of city life. The mutton stew and fry bread at dinner had seemed more than delicious to Sarah. She would have it again and again, but it would never seem as good as it had this first night home. She turned over on the skeepskin bed, burrowing herself into its warmth, when a gentle tug of memory brought forth the image of the brown case. “Tomorrow,” she thought. “Tomorrow.”
Sarah woke abruptly, gazing into a mischievous face. The face was attached to a small, wiggling body that was firmly planted on her stomach. She guiltily realized that she had slept in. Daylight was already beginning to fill the hogan, and she knew her mother had been up for several hours. Sarah put her squirming brother on the dirt floor of the room and scrambled into her faded jeans and calico shirt. She dashed cold water from a large metal bucket on the heavy wooden table into her face and ran a wire brush through her thick, tousled hair. On the table she found some cold potatoes and fry bread that tasted good with the chilling-cold well water. Outside in the distance Sarah could hear the bleating of the sheep. As she stepped out of the hogan into the bright sun, she saw the kneeling body of her mother. Sarah leaned over her and watched her work-roughened hands push the shuttle back and forth rapidly, marveling again at the beautiful and intricate designs appearing on the loom. Sarah felt proud as she realized that this rug would bring a very good price at the reservation trading post. Almost unnoticeable to the inexperienced observer was the tiny flaw in the colorful design. Sarah’s mother had left one thread unbound so that her soul would not be caught up and forever imprisoned in the rug—an old Navajo custom.
She felt a flash of fear as she realized how different her two worlds were. A hand reached out and tugged her to the loom. Sarah crouched beside her mother and took up the shuttle. Her fingers were clumsy as she worked to place the bright threads in their proper order. Soon she was engrossed in the project and didn’t notice her mother rise slowly to her feet. The old woman shook out the folds of her full yellow skirt and disappeared into the hogan.
An hour had passed before the young girl’s legs began to ache from the unaccustomed position. Her fingertips were sore from the pressure on the strings of the loom. Sarah tossed her hair from her eyes and, groaning a bit, rose to her feet. As she shook her legs, her mother appeared in the doorway. In her hands was a parcel wrapped in cloth, a remnant of an old skirt Sarah had worn years ago.
“Take this to John, my daughter,” the woman said. “He will be hungry.” Sarah took the package, waved to her mother, and started off across the sage-covered ground at a trot. She knew every bush, hole, and rock on this part of the reservation. Her brother would be with the sheep some miles away to the west. The fodder was good there this time of year; it was also their share of the reservation land. Good manners decreed that each family honor his neighbor’s grazing rights.
Sarah could hear the sheep not far ahead. She approached quietly. Her brother was perched on a rock, chewing a weed, his eyes half-closed against the sun. Sarah dropped down beside him.
“Mom sent your lunch,” she said, a bit out of breath from the walk. “Why don’t you let me keep it, and you go on home. I’ll watch the sheep the rest of the day.”
“Sure you remember how?” teased her brother.
“Go on,” grinned Sarah, “get out of here,” and she aimed a playful kick as he jumped out of the way. He set out across the desert at a rabbit’s pace.
Sarah leaned contentedly against the rock and closed her eyes, basking in the warmth. As the complacent animals grazed, Sarah dreamed girlish thoughts. A pesky fly buzzed about her ears and lit on her face. Lazily she batted at it, but it clung persistently to her nose, and she opened her eyes in exasperation. A darkly handsome face grinned familiarly down into her startled eyes. Sarah gasped in fright and jumped to her feet, her heart pounding wildly.
“I’m sorry, Sarah!” The boy choked with laughter. “It was too good a chance to pass up.” He waved a long slender twig in front of her nose. “You looked too peaceful lying there.”
“Oh, Benny!” Sarah’s voice shook. “You scared me to death. Where did you come from? I never even heard you come up.”
“Oh,” he returned flippantly, “you know how Indians can sneak through the grass.” He eyed her for a silent moment, then added, “You’ve grown some.”
“Well, one does that after a year’s time you know. And what,” she demanded, “have you been doing for a year, Benjamin Johnson?”
“Well, now,” he drawled, “I’ve been here and there, doing a bit of rodeoing, a bit of dancing, and so on. And what,” he returned, “have you been doing with yourself this year?”
“Oh,” Sarah faltered in embarrassment, “the same I do every year.”
“Do I detect a white lining inside—sort of like an … apple,” he mocked.
“Honestly, Benny!” she snapped. “You act so, so …” Sarah cast wildly about for the proper word, “Indian!” she finished lamely.
Benny grinned at her confusion. “Truce!” she cried holding up her arms in mock surrender. The uncomfortable moment passed, and soon Sarah found herself up to date on the happenings of her reservation friends. Ben had a quick wit and sense of humor. Several hours passed and shadows began to stretch across the prairie. The air carried a hint of the coolness of the oncoming desert night. Soon they began the walk back to the corral. Ahead of them moved the animals. In the still, nippy air Sarah shivered, and Benny draped his green sweater over her shoulders, laughing as the arms swallowed up her small hands. After several moments of silence, broken only by the calling of lamb to ewe, Benny glanced down at her.
“Sarah,” he began a little shyly. Sarah looked up in surprise at the serious note in his voice. Benny kicked at a clod of red clay with a boot, then, casting a rock high into the air, announced quickly, “My folks are throwing a squaw dance tomorrow night at our place.” He glanced down at the girl and asked, “Will you come?”
Sarah hesitated, caught between ready assent and nagging doubt. Some of Benny’s friends were not her friends. Sarah had watched with regret over the past few years as Benny began to fall in with some rough company. Word had come to her this year at school of some trouble that had concerned Benny and his friends. Word was they had been involved in drugs. Sarah had seen students in the city school with glassy eyes and slack mouths. Indoctrination from both sides of the drug question was intense, and Sarah had felt the pressure at times. Now as she eyed him, Sarah felt a pang of uncertainty. Benny’s friends would be at the dance and her friends were back in the city.
“I’ll try to be there,” Sarah offered in a low voice. The boy released a pent-up breath and kicked a rock in embarrassed delight. The flock bleated in alarm and moved as if to break ranks. Sarah could see the smoke from the Yazzie hogan rising against the darkening sky. She turned to Benny.
“I can take them on in from here,” she said softly. A silent moment, and then he said hurriedly, “I’d come for you tomorrow night, Sarah, but I’ll have to help with things. You will come, won’t you?”
The sheep were moving on toward the corral, and Sarah went after them. She called back over her shoulder, “I’ll try.”
The hogan was warm. On the black, pot-bellied stove a pan of beans bubbled. A kerosene lamp threw shadows on the walls as Sarah sank down on a rickety chair and surveyed her family. Her brothers were engrossed in a game of marbles on the hard-packed dirt floor. Her mother sat vigorously carding the dirt and burrs from a pile of sheep’s wool at her feet. The dislodged dirt fell on the apron of her skirt. After a moment, she arose and began serving the evening meal of fry bread and beans. Sarah spoke softly to her mother as she, too, moved about the room, helping to dish the steaming beans into bowls. She spoke shyly of her visitor at the grazing grounds, and the mother listened with quiet interest. As Sarah talked of the invitation to the dance, a frown of concern crossed the older woman’s face. Sarah changed the subject quickly, wishing that she had not told Benny she would try to be there.
After the dishes were washed and stacked away in the small wooden cupboard, Sarah moved to a corner of the room, Placing the brown case on her lap she drew back the lid. There was a deep crimson scarf. Inside the scarf she found a note scribbled in childish letters. Her eyes watered as she read the short love note from her foster sister. In the bottom of the case lay another card. On the front of the card was the picture of a single white rosebud against a background of royal blue. Sarah turned it over, and written on the back in the neat printing of her foster mother were the words “To Thine Own Self Be True.” That was all; but to Sarah it spoke volumes. She could remember the night she had received this card. How proud she had been of her mother that evening. They had been invited to a mother-daughter dinner, and Sister Allen had been the featured speaker. Her stories of chastity, honesty, and loyalty had touched hearts, and at the end of the program, each girl received a single rosebud and the accompanying card.
Sarah pressed the card to her lips and felt a warmth within her. To Thine Own Self Be True. It had not been an easy doctrine to follow, but she had had friends with the same goals, and they had helped each other. The girl sat lost in her thoughts until the friendly squabbling of her brothers disturbed her.
Too soon the evening of the dance came, and Sarah could not still her doubts. Yet she found herself dressed and standing at the door of the hogan. Already the fires could be seen flickering in the distance, and the rhythmic beat of the drums and the sing-song of the chants floated across the summer air. She clutched her jacket and stepped out into the cool desert evening. She half-turned toward the lantern-lit hogan and, seeing her mother at the loom, forced a cheery wave, hurrying off toward the Johnson camp.
As Sarah neared the huge fire, she paused in sudden shyness. She searched the faces and found many familiar ones. A strong hand came from out of the darkness and grabbed her wrist. She jumped nervously and swung around to find Benny grinning down at her. Her heart beat rapidly, half in alarm and half in wonder at the expression in his eyes. Ben drew her closer to the circle of his friends who greeted her. The dancing started, and Sarah found herself caught up in the beauty of the Navajo chants. Young and old alike joined in the round dances, and the rhythm of shuffling feet began to weave a spell around her.
Sarah and Ben danced silently together for a moment, then Ben said in a serious tone, “You’re the prettiest girl here tonight, Sarah—and the nicest.”
“You’re pretty nice yourself, Ben.” Sarah returned with a smile. “If only … ,” she stopped in confusion. The boy stopped dancing abruptly, causing Sarah to stumble against him.
“If only, what?” he demanded.
Sarah glanced over at the small group of his friends huddled together in the darkness outside the circle of the fire. She was saved from answering the question when one of the boys in the group called to Benny, “Hey, lover boy, come on over and bring your girl.”
Ben hesitated for a moment, then took Sarah by the hand and pulled her over to the group. The circle moved apart, and Ben dropped to the ground, pulling Sarah down with him. She glanced around apprehensively. Several of her old girlfriends were there, and they had always been nice girls from good families. She relaxed a bit and took their teasing in good humor. They began their own chants, and the feeling of companionship grew. But Sarah realized that she had grown out of touch with many of her Indian friends, and she was surprised to see that they were maturing too. The girls were clean and dressed in style; the boys had lost their adolescent shyness. Leaning against Ben and listening to the group, Sarah wondered why she had felt such a reluctance to come. Maybe she had been too quick in labeling Benny’s new friends as roughs. She felt a quick flash of pride that they had accepted her so fast. She knew now that it was important to her that she remain their friend.
“Having a good time?” Benny asked softly, breaking into her thoughts.
“Oh, yes.” Sarah sighed. “It’s been such fun.” She leaned her head shyly on his shoulder and breathed deeply of the freshness of the night air.
Slowly Sarah became aware that Ben was nudging her with an elbow. “Here.” he whispered softly, thrusting a small, long object into her hand. The girl glanced down in surprise and saw that he held a cigarette in his hand. She looked up questioningly at Benny, but his attention was on the others in the group. Sarah became aware that each one in turn was lighting a cigarette, passing the match around until it sputtered out in someone’s fingers. She could smell the smoke from the lit cigarettes, and it carried a peculiarly sweet odor with it. Her new friends smiled encouragingly across the circle. Suddenly she realized that every eye was on her.
The match became a torch, telling her to catch hold of its fire. The odor was stronger now, overwhelming her with its sweetness. She reached for the match, wanting to be a part of this group, wanting desperately not to lose Ben’s friendship. It would be so easy, she reasoned. No one need ever know about this one time.
Sarah became dimly aware that a voice, quietly but clearly, was sounding in her head. The words took focus, and Sarah gasped as the match burnt her fingers. The voice whispered, “To Thine Own Self Be True.” She looked around in confusion and saw that her new friends were all watching her.
“No! I can’t!” she blurted, jumping to her feet. Sarah stood a moment, then turned and left the circle, stumbling in her haste. She realized she had probably forfeited her friendship with them all. She was sick that Benny had been a part of it.
Her hot cheeks began to cool as she said a silent prayer of thanks for her escape. She straightened her shoulders as a sense of returning strength came to her.
“If only Ben had not …” she began to herself but could not finish as she felt a sharp pain in the region of her heart.
“Sarah! Sarah!” The words came sharply over her shoulder, making her jump in alarm. She whirled to stare unbelievingly at Benny who stood grinning at her, panting a little from his run.
“I won’t go back, Ben,” she announced firmly.
“Who wants you to?” Ben returned tartly. “I’m coming with you,” he added in a gentler voice.
“But your friends?”
“You’re my friend, Sarah.” Then he added in a serious voice, “I’d very much like to be your friend, Sarah.” He waited quietly, ready to accept her answer, knowing it might be a refusal.
Sarah’s eyes began to shine, and she gave Ben a playful push. “I’ll be dull company,” she said teasingly.
Ben grinned as he recognized and accepted her answer. He reached over and gave her long hair a gentle tug. “I’ll get used to it.”
“C’mon,” Sarah laughed. “I’ll race you home.”

I once ordained a patriarch who was overcome with the responsibility. For months he could not get himself to give a blessing. Finally he asked his stake president if he might write a paragraph as a model introduction to any patriarchal blessing. The stake president approved.
Later he told me this: “When the first young man came for a blessing, because I had memorized this prepared introduction, I felt comfortable. I laid my hands on his head, and I did not use one word of it. That day I learned whose blessings they are. They are not my blessings but are dictated by the Spirit.”

I really don’t know how I let Sister Moffat talk me into it in the first place. Before I knew what was happening, I had agreed to give a five-minute talk in sacrament meeting about being reverent. All the other guys in my Primary class were pounding me on the back, saying they were glad it was me, not them.
“You really are a pal, Alan,” Will said. “You saved all the rest of us.”
Yeah, I thought, but who’s going to save me?
When I got home, I told Mom about it. “I don’t know why I said I’d do it. I can’t talk for five minutes.”
“It sounds like a great opportunity to me,” she said, smiling.
Somehow I knew she’d say that. That’s what mothers always say. “But five minutes,” I said. “That’s a long time to talk about ways to be reverent.”
Mom chuckled. “Five minutes isn’t nearly as long as it sounds to you. I’ll help you. Together I’m sure we can think of enough to take up five minutes.”
“I sure hope so,” I said. I was glad she had volunteered to help, though. It was kind of like she had picked up the other end of a heavy load that I had been trying to lift by myself.
Because this was a talk for sacrament meeting, and because Dad says that sacrament meeting is probably the most important of all our church meetings, I knew that I couldn’t put off preparing it until Saturday. So after school on Monday I asked Mom if she had time to write any of my talk.
She looked at me in surprise. “Now, wait a minute. I didn’t say that I would write your talk. I said that I would help you write one.”
“But you always wrote my talks before,” I said. “I thought that was what you meant when you said you’d help me.”
“You’re old enough now that I don’t have to do everything for you. Wasn’t it you who was telling me last week that a ten-year-old ought to have more privileges than his eight-year-old sister?”
“But I don’t even know how to begin,” I wailed. “You said you’d help me.”
“I will,” Mom answered. “But there’s a difference between helping you and doing it for you.”
Well, when Mom finally convinced me that she really wasn’t going to do it all, I pleaded for suggestions. She said we should start with prayer. Then, by asking questions, she helped me get a better idea of what I wanted to say. After that, she helped me decide in what order to say things.
I still had to sit down and write the talk out myself, but it wasn’t as hard as I’d thought it would be, because I knew what I wanted to say. When I finished, Mom helped me correct some grammar mistakes.
Once the talk was written, I started feeling kind of glad that I was going to talk in sacrament meeting. I practiced giving it every day in front of a mirror. By the time Saturday rolled around, I felt pretty confident. As long as I had my paper there to remind me what came next, I could give most of the talk by just glancing down once in a while.
Sunday morning I made one last trial run with Dad as my audience. “Alan, that is a very fine talk,” he said. “You’ll do just great in sacrament meeting. But there is one thing that you don’t want to forget.”
“What’s that?” I asked, a little disappointed to think that something wasn’t just right.
Seeing my disappointment, he said, “Oh, there’s nothing wrong with your talk. I just want to remind you to ask Heavenly Father to help you do your best.”
“Oh,” I said, feeling much better. “I will.”
Sitting up on the stand, I felt pretty important. I glanced at the clock—two minutes until the meeting started. I felt a nervous excitement as I reached into my pocket for my talk. It wasn’t there! I felt in my other pockets. I looked on the floor. It was gone! Just then the bishop got up and announced the opening song and prayer.
What was I going to do? I caught Mom’s eye and gave her a pleading look. She just smiled at me. I began praying fervently that the paper with my talk on it would miraculously appear. I felt in my pockets again—nothing. When I put the hymnbook under my seat, I felt around the entire area for my paper—still nothing.
When the deacons were just about finished passing the sacrament, I knew that my miracle was not going to happen. I began praying that I would be able to remember my talk or that I would at least know what to say.
Suddenly, I heard my name as the bishop announced me as the first speaker. With heavy feet I walked slowly to the pulpit. I could see my mother and father smiling at me. Will was pointing at me.
I was sure that everyone could see me shaking. Very slowly I announced the topic of my talk. There was Sister Moffat. She was smiling too. I just stood there quaking for a minute. Then something miraculous did happen: I remembered the first few sentences! As I began speaking, I remembered more and more. It was almost like I was standing in front of the mirror at home, except that I felt a warm, radiating glow around me.
I was finished before I knew it. The rest of the meeting was like a pleasant afterglow. I felt wonderful. That feeling was only intensified by all the compliments I received when the meeting was over.
“Alan,” Dad said, “you were great!”
“You really were,” Mom said as she gave me a kiss on the cheek. “We’re proud of you.”
“But you know,” I confessed, “I didn’t think I was going to be able to do it, because I lost the paper with my talk on it. When I discovered it was gone, it was too late to do anything else but pray for help. So I did. Heavenly Father really came through for me.”
“It sounds like you learned more than just how to give a good talk,” said Dad, giving my shoulders a squeeze.
“Yeah, I really did.”

I know of a man raised in India and educated in England as an attorney. He loved his native land and longed for the time that she would be free from the domination of Great Britain. Most of his life he lived in a mud hut that had no electric lights, no running water, no telephone. He didn’t own an automobile, and he never sought or held a public office. By some he was thought to be the most Christ-like person who had ever lived, and yet he was not even a Christian. To India he was the “Mahatma” or “The Great Soul.” He described himself as a “self-remade man.”

When Britain was struggling for survival against the Axis powers during World War II, and some prominent Indian leaders wanted to revolt and throw off her authority, he said, “We will not steal even our independence.” In his efforts to stop the continual fighting between India and Pakistan he often subjected himself to prolonged fasts. During one of those lengthy ordeals a medical doctor tried to get him to take a small portion of beef broth, to which he commented, “Even for life itself we may not do certain things. There is only one course open to me—to die, but never to break my pledge.” And as they begged him to eat or drink, fearing for his life, for his kidneys had begun to fail, he simply said, “Life is more than science and God more than chemistry” (see Sterling W. Sill, The Glory of the Sun [Salt Lake City: Bookcraft, 1961], pp. 309–10).

Someone has said, “When Cicero speaks, the people say, ‘How eloquent!’ When Demosthenes speaks, the people say, ‘Come, let us march!’” When this humble Indian went out from his house to walk, multitudes followed him. Thousands were willing to submit to death rather than take up arms against their enemies because he did not believe in violence, but rather in the principles of peace and love.

On 30 July 1948, as he hurried to the village prayer ground, blessing the people as he went, a religious fanatic shot and killed him. The Mahatma was gone. His name was Mohandas K. Gandhi. Only one man! Yet through his efforts, India was granted her freedom. The name Gandhi will live on forever—in the annals of time.

But it’s not only in public ways that the gospel helps the youth in Alice Springs. For Ivan Munn, 18, the gospel has brought the reassurance that he can turn to the Lord for help.
“I’ve learned some things the hard way,” Ivan says. “I fell away from the Church, but now I’m back. I’ve stopped doing the bad things, and I’m working to show my love for the Lord. Repentance is a hard job, but it’s worth it.”
Ivan says Church friends have made a difference. “The youth here, the missionaries, the leaders—they’ve all helped me sort things out,” he says. “But faith in the Savior and in Heavenly Father is what keeps you going. The Book of Mormon talks about the servant and the master in the fruit fields [see Jacob 5]. It talks about cutting out the bad fruit so that good fruit can come forth. I think that symbolizes my life. With the Lord’s help, I’ve cut away the bad fruit. I believe the good fruit is starting to come forth.”

Emma Whitney’s life was completely different to what it became as a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Twenty years old, living in Scunthorpe, England, Emma describes her life before discovering the Church as full of drink, drugs, partying, toxic friends, no respect for herself, little education, and challenges to her mental health.
Learning and understanding God’s words has always been a desire for Emma. One life-changing experience brought Emma to her knees; pouring her heart out in prayer led to an answer a few weeks later, by accepting a request to participate in a Bible study class with full-time Church missionaries. Understanding the words of the Bible has been a struggle for Emma; on the other hand, she says, “Even though the words are old English words, I understand the Book of Mormon clearly.”
Scripture study and prayer are factors that enable Emma to stay strong and to say no to situations that she deems would be bad for her. Inspiration which led Emma to change her ways and join the Church, was understanding that she could turn over a new leaf and all would be forgiven. Therefore, after five weeks of investigating the Church, Emma was baptised on the fifth of May 2021.
In 2022, clean from drugs and alcohol, surrounded by good friends, a good relationship, good family relationships, and studying the subject of communications using the online BYU-Pathway programme, Emma says she is genuinely happy and strengthened. Dealing with her past has been easier for her as she talks about the importance of looking after her body, “I was just abusing my body in every way you could think of. I’ve come to realise that to take pride in our bodies is a gift from God.”
Follow Emma’s journey at lds.scripturestudy on Instagram.

When I decided to go to the temple, it meant that I committed to following the Ten Commandments and the rules and regulations of the Church. But I also knew that I would get lot of blessings if I went to the temple. My goal in life is to return to live with Heavenly Father.
Nepali people can’t afford to go to the temple again and again, but with help from the Temple Patron Assistance Fund, I was able to go at least once.
I had to arrange time off of work and arrange things financially at home to be able to go. My wife is not a member of the Church, so she could not go. It was difficult for me to leave her alone at home.
Getting a passport was not a problem, but there were concerns about getting needed visas for travel. (No visa was needed to enter the Philippines, but depending on the route of travel and airlines, visas might be needed. The group ended up traveling through Malaysia. It was not the direct route, but no visa was needed.)
Getting an airline ticket proved difficult. The less expensive flights didn’t have enough seats available for our group of ten. But we finally made it to the temple.
When I saw the angel Moroni on the top of the temple, I felt peace, happiness and comfort. There were several housekeeping things we had to do before we entered the temple. We had to check into patron housing and go to the distribution center to buy garments. We had to eat meals and dress in our best clothes. At last we were ready to go inside the temple. I was so excited and felt more and more happiness as we did all we needed to do to be ready to go inside. Once there, we all changed into white clothing. I saw many people from different countries, but we were all dressed in white. I felt like I was I heaven. I felt so peaceful inside.
I want to go to the temple again.

Illustrations by Anna Sutor
On July 29, 1977, Sister Cook and I had just finished visiting the Bolivia Santa Cruz Mission as part of my assignment as a member of the Seventy when we had a layover in the Cochabamba, Bolivia, airport for about five hours. We were very tired, so we were both delighted to have a few hours to rest. As I was drifting off to sleep, I had a strong impression that I should awaken and write down some ideas flowing into my mind.
I wrote for nearly three hours, solving some organizational problems I had struggled with in my responsibility at Church headquarters for a number of years. I felt a great outpouring of the Spirit and excitedly wrote down each inspired thought.
Finally we left for La Paz, Bolivia. We were graciously met by President and Sister Chase Allred at the airport and driven in their van to the mission office. We locked the van, leaving our luggage and my briefcase inside, but only did so because Sister Allred asked an elder to keep his eye on the van.
Upon entering the office, the president was confronted by a woman whose husband was dying. Both the president and I helped calm her and assist with her needs. Meanwhile, Sisters Cook and Allred left for the mission home.
When the president and I returned to the van, all of our property was gone. I assumed that Sister Cook had taken the things with her to the mission home. But while we were driving toward the home, I discovered that the right front small window-wing had been damaged and began to fear that perhaps our property had been stolen.
Upon arrival at the mission home, we realized that all of our property had indeed been stolen. The loss of the clothing and a large amount of cash created an immediate but only temporary problem. What was more disheartening was that my scriptures were in the stolen briefcase along with the inspired ideas I had just received in Cochabamba. I was overwhelmed with discouragement, anger, and feelings of helplessness.
After we had all prayed for the recovery of our possessions, we tried to enjoy our dinner but could not. My scriptures had been given to me by my parents, with a sacred inscription to me from my mother and my father before he died. I had spent thousands of hours marking, cross-referencing, and loving the only earthly possessions I had ever considered to be of much value.
Though President Allred and I had much to discuss, I felt a strong impression that we must do all in our power to recover the scriptures. So after supper all of those present knelt to pray once again. I pled with the Lord that the scriptures would be returned, that the persons who had taken them would be led to know of their unrighteous act and repent, and that the return of the books would be the means of bringing someone into the true Church.
We determined to search the area near the mission office and in a nearby field, hoping that the thief or thieves might have taken the saleable items and discarded the English books.
About 10 of us then loaded into the van with flashlights and warm clothing. We drove up and down streets, scouring vacant lots and talking with people until we’d exhausted all possibilities. No one had seen or heard anything. Finally we returned home dejected. President Allred and I finished our business late into the night, and the next day Sister Cook and I flew back to our home in Quito, Ecuador.
Over the next few weeks, the missionaries in Bolivia kept searching. In sheer desperation, they decided to place an ad in two daily newspapers offering a reward.
Meanwhile, in Quito, I was struggling. I had not studied the scriptures at all since mine were stolen. I had tried to study, but every time I read a verse, I could recall only a few of the many cross-references I had made over 20 years. I was disheartened, depressed, and had no desire to read. I prayed many times that my scriptures would be found. My wife and young children also continued praying every day for three weeks, saying, “Heavenly Father, please bring back Daddy’s scriptures.”
After about three weeks I felt a strong spiritual impression: “Elder Cook, how long will you go on without reading and studying?” The words burned, and I determined that I must be humble enough and submissive enough to start all over again. Using my wife’s scriptures, I began reading in Genesis in the Old Testament, and with her permission, marking and cross-referencing once again.
On August 18, a Church employee, Brother Eb Davis, arrived in Ecuador from Bolivia with a package from the mission president in La Paz. He laid my scriptures on my desk along with the inspired notes I had made of my spiritual impressions.
The joy I experienced is indescribable. To realize that the Lord, in some miraculous way, could lift those books out of La Paz, a city of 700,000–800,000 people, from the hands of thieves and return them intact—not one page removed, torn, or soiled—is still beyond me. That day I promised the Lord I would make better use of my time and my scriptures than I had ever made before.
A few days later I returned to Bolivia and discovered that a lady had been in a marketplace—one of hundreds in La Paz—and saw a drunken man waving around a black book. She was a member of a Protestant church and had a strong spiritual impression that something holy was being desecrated. She approached the man and asked him what it was. He did not know but showed her the book. She asked if he had anything else. He pulled out another black book. She asked if there was more. He removed a folder full of papers that he said he was going to burn. She then asked to purchase those things from him, to which he agreed, for the price of 50 pesos (about U.S. $2.50).
Afterward, she felt unsure why she had purchased the books. They were in English, but she didn’t even know English. And they had been expensive—nearly 10 percent of her monthly income. She had no reason to buy the books except for her spiritual impression. She immediately began a search for the church that was named on the front of the books: The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
After approaching a number of churches, she finally arrived at the mission office of the Church in La Paz. She hadn’t heard about the reward or seen the ad in the newspaper, which was to appear that day. She did not ask for any money, not even to reclaim the 50 pesos she had paid. The elders received the books with joy and paid her the reward anyway.
She told the missionaries that she was associated with a Pentecostal sect but listened intently as they told her about the gospel. She recalled reading something about Joseph Smith from a pamphlet she had picked up in the street two or three years previously. She accepted the missionary lessons, and after the second lesson, she committed to baptism. Two weeks later, on September 11, 1977, on a Sunday afternoon at a branch in La Paz, Bolivia, Maria Cloefe Cardenas Terrazas and her son Marco Fernando Miranda Cardenas, age 12, were baptized.
The Lord had transformed my overpowering feelings of helplessness when the scriptures were lost into great feelings of joy at seeing His hand revealed. The Lord said, “Therefore I say unto you, What things soever ye desire, when ye pray, believe that ye receive them, and ye shall have them” (Mark 11:24).
God does hear and answer our prayers if we exercise faith in Him and in His Son, the Lord Jesus Christ.

Early in 2002, my mother was diagnosed with terminal cancer. A few days later, my husband was also diagnosed with cancer. These were some dark, difficult days for us as we tried to handle the challenges we faced. It would have been easy to do what Job was encouraged to do: curse God and die—ignoring our commitments to the Lord and others and wallowing in despair. However, even when our circumstances change, our commitment to the Lord must not change. There is no sliding scale. We cannot get a rain check or opt out from our commitments, even for a time. We must stay on track and be lifted up by Jesus’ example. Putting our trust in the Lord and following His example is the best way to endure the trials of life and keep our commitments.

One ever remembers that Christmas day when giving replaced getting. In my life, this took place in my tenth year. As Christmas approached, I yearned as only a boy can yearn for an electric train. My desire was not to receive the economical and everywhere-to-be-found windup model train; rather, I wanted one that operated through the miracle of electricity. The times were those of economic depression; yet Mother and Dad, through some sacrifice I am sure, presented to me on Christmas morning a beautiful electric train.
For hours I operated the transformer, watching the engine first pull its cars forward, then push them backward around the track. Mother entered the living room and said to me that she had purchased a windup train for Mrs. Hansen’s son, Mark, who lived down the lane. I asked if I could see the train. The engine was short and blocky, not long and sleek like the expensive model I had received. However, I did take notice of an oil tanker car that was part of his inexpensive set. My train had no such car, and pangs of envy began to be felt. I put up such a fuss that Mother succumbed to my pleadings and handed me the oil tanker car. She said, “If you need it more than Mark, you take it.” I put it with my train set and felt pleased with the result.
Mother and I took the remaining cars and the engine down to Mark Hansen. The young boy was a year or two older than I. He had never anticipated such a gift and was thrilled beyond words. He wound the key in his engine, it not being electric like mine, and was overjoyed as the engine and two cars, plus a caboose, went around the track.
Then Mother wisely asked, “What do you think of Mark’s train, Tommy?”
I felt a keen sense of guilt and became very much aware of my selfishness. I said to Mother, “Wait just a moment. I’ll be right back.”
As swiftly as my legs could carry me, I ran home, picked up the oil tanker car plus an additional car from my train set, and ran back down the lane to the Hansen home, joyfully saying to Mark, “We forgot to bring two cars that belong to your train.” Mark coupled the two extra cars to his set. I watched the engine make its labored way around the track and felt supreme joy, difficult to describe and impossible to forget. The spirit of Christmas had filled my very soul.

I thought I'd start out today by telling you a little about my family. Sister Wheelwright and I have been married for 42 years, and we have five wonderful children, three daughters and two sons. Over those 42 years, we've made a lot of wonderful memories together and created many wonderful traditions. One of those recurring details which has become a real favorite for us and our children, and now also for their spouses and our grandchildren, is a special recipe of Sister Wheelwright's, affectionately referred to as "Mom's Orange Rolls."

"Mom's Orange Rolls" are not just your standard dinner rolls with a hint of orange flavoring added. These rolls are divine! Sister Wheelwright has perfected the process so that the result is a fluffy, light roll with just the right amount of buttery gooey-ness and tangy citrus to melt in your mouth and compel you to eat far more than you ought to! Due to the work entailed, they are normally reserved for special occasions such as Thanksgiving dinner or Christmas dinner, but they occasionally make an appearance at other special events, like birthday dinners or missionary homecomings. They are a sure indicator of a memorable day!

Over the years, our daughters, and even our daughters-in-law, have been taught the process for making these exquisite rolls. However, the results are not always the same as their mother's! Kristy, our third daughter, loves to cook. As she works in her kitchen, she is focused, careful, and patient. She has a knack for following a recipe precisely and is able to create an end product that is exactly as intended. When our daughter Kristy pulls out the orange roll recipe, mouths start watering because people know what a treat they are in for!

Our second daughter, Mindy, on the other hand, has acquired a rather strong dislike for cooking, in no small part because of the great disasters she has experienced when trying to prepare the famous orange rolls! Mindy is focused and diligent in many areas of her life, but when it comes to the kitchen, she is impatient! She is easily distracted by the many other things she'd rather be doing, and tends to improvise or "wing it" in order to save time. She doesn't always measure out her ingredients, and she's likely to skip a step or two that seems insignificant. Well, many of you probably know that any recipe which calls for yeast requires a bit of caution! So it's no surprise that Mindy's version of "Mom's Orange Rolls" are nothing like her mother's on some occasions. In fact, she describes them as sticky hockey pucks.

As you may have guessed, I share these details with you not only to introduce you a little to our family but also to create a framework with which to discuss an important gospel idea. I'd like to call that the Lord's "Recipe for Success."

I remember how the shrill scream of a siren gave me goose bumps whenever an ambulance went rushing by. Oh how I wanted to be at the wheel of that machine, rushing to the aid of sick and injured people. As I grew older, my dream became a reality. I took first-aid classes, human science classes, and finally, an emergency medical technician training course.
I was fresh out of high school when I got my first job as an ambulance attendant for a private ambulance, and I progressed rapidly in my knowledge of emergency treatments. I learned many things about life that most people never learn until their 20s. I was also exposed to many trials and temptations that I’d never come across before.
I worked in a non-Mormon atmosphere. It was the type of atmosphere that my church leaders always had warned me about, but at the time, I thought I wouldn’t have to worry about it. My work began conflicting with my church attendance. I started asking myself questions and often wondered about my future. I could see myself progressing into higher fields of medicine, and it seemed that nothing stood in my way. Then, on my 19th birthday, I made my way to California and applied to a hospital paramedic program. I was accepted and could enter in the fall semester. I knew then that was exactly what I wanted to do.
Suddenly it dawned on me. What about a mission. Oh sure, I always told my friends and family that I would go. I even told my employer I was planning on a mission. But all of that seemed unimportant now. All I could see was personal satisfaction, and I didn’t care what kind of spiritual development I’d surely miss. The voice of the prophet still echoed in my mind, “Every young man is to fulfill a mission.” But the thought always came back, “In two years’ time, look how far you could be as a paramedic.”
I didn’t know what to do! I knew deep down in my heart that a mission was the right thing, but I was so terribly blinded by worldly greed. The decision to go or not to go was constantly on my mind. I thought about it from the time I got up until the time I went to bed at night. Because we worked 24-hour shifts, I had lots of time to think.
One night right after I had gone to bed, I was awakened by the ring of the telephone. The highway patrol was calling for an ambulance to respond to a car-truck accident on the freeway, and soon I was at the scene of a two-car accident. A small car had run into the back of a semitrailer loaded with wooden fence posts. The badly mangled car had two occupants—a young couple that had recently been married. The husband, who was driving, had been killed instantly. His wife was critically injured. We worked desperately to save the slowly fading life of that beautiful nineteen-year-old woman. I thought to myself, How could something so terrible happen to this fine couple and totally destroy their future plans and happiness?
We rushed her to the hospital, where a team of highly trained doctors and nurses were waiting. Soon a helicopter arrived to transport her to a hospital in Salt Lake City, where she could receive special treatment for a severe head injury.
After I calmed down from the shock of such a terrible accident, I remembered talking to the highway patrolman who would be responsible for notifying the next of kin. I’ll never forget the solemn look on his face, and the glaze of tears in his eyes as he drove away. I thought to myself, What a horrible assignment! What if they were my parents being notified? Then another thought came to my mind: What will be the look on my face when I give an accounting to the Savior of the time I spent here in mortality?
The night air was chilled with a late frost. As I gazed up into the night, I noticed how clear and calm the sky looked. Tears ran freely down my cheeks, and I found myself pleading with the Lord for that young woman’s life. At that moment, when my heart actually seemed to swell painfully with love and compassion, I finally began to understand. Doctors and nurses and paramedics were wonderful, but they could only treat the body. They couldn’t heal the deeper wounds, the ones that would keep us from going home to our Father. Only one Physician could do that, and I was denying myself the chance to be his helper. I made a decision. I would do all I could to further the work of the Master Healer. I would serve a mission!
The days came and went. Finally, one month later, I learned my prayers had been answered. The young woman was released from the hospital, completely recovered. How I thanked our Eternal Father for that answer. But now came the biggest step of all, my mission.
As I prayed and prepared myself, the Spirit confirmed the fact that I was to serve my Heavenly Father in the mission field. I’ll never forget that calm, sweet feeling that came as the words fell from the lips of our stake patriarch, when he pronounced that blessing upon me. And I’ll never forget that same feeling as I opened the letter from a prophet of God, calling me to serve in the Pennsylvania Harrisburg Mission. Even as I served in Pennsylvania, as a representative of Jesus Christ, I had that special calm feeling, knowing that I had made the right choice.
Before I left for the mission field, I thought there was no feeling in the world like knowing someone was walking again because of your help, but I was wrong. There is no greater feeling in the world than knowing you helped someone in their search for true joy and happiness found in the gospel of Jesus Christ.

[The boat captain sits near the boat. The narrator enters.]
Narrator: In the spring of 1831, groups of Church members traveled by boat from New York to Ohio. Lucy Mack Smith, the mother of the prophet Joseph Smith, led one of the groups.
[Lucy Mack Smith leads the Church members onstage.]
Lucy Mack Smith: Brothers and sisters, we have set out just as Father Lehi did to travel to a land that the Lord will show unto us if we are faithful. I want you all to lift your hearts to God in prayer continually that we may be prospered.
[They all get on the boat with the captain.]
Narrator: Lucy’s group traveled safely on the Erie Canal. But when they got to Lake Erie, the harbor was frozen!
[Sheets of “ice” block the boat.]
Captain (pointing to the ice): When will this ice melt? We can’t sail until it has melted.
Church member 1: We’ll never make it to Ohio!
[The townspeople enter and see the Church members.]
Church member 2: Look! Maybe those people can help us find a place to stay until the ice melts.
Townsperson 1: Good day. Who are all of you?
Church member 1 (speaking quietly, to Lucy Mack Smith): Don’t tell them who we are. Some people treat us badly because of our beliefs.
Lucy Mack Smith: I am Lucy Mack Smith, and we are members of the true Church of Jesus Christ restored to the earth.
Townsperson 2 (calling from below the boat): I have a question for you. Is the Book of Mormon true?
Lucy Mack Smith: That book was brought forth by the power of God and translated by the same power. It is true!
[Lucy Mack Smith continues talking silently and gesturing to the townspeople.]
Church member 1: Will we ever have a comfortable home again?
Church member 2: Not if we’re stuck here on this frozen harbor.
Lucy Mack Smith: Friends, let us trust God. He will provide.
Lucy Mack Smith (turning to the Saints on the boat): Brothers and sisters, if you will all raise your desires to heaven that the ice will let us through, as sure as the Lord lives it shall be done.
[Lucy Mack Smith and the Church members pray together.]
Narrator: Just then a noise like thunder was heard.
[Kids playing the part of the ice stamp their feet loudly and pull the two “sheets” of ice offstage.]
Church member 1: Look! The ice is breaking!
Captain: Everyone to your post. Let’s get this boat moving!
Lucy Mack Smith: Soon we’ll be with the Saints in Ohio!
[The Saints cheer, and the boat starts moving forward.]
Narrator: After the boat sailed through, the ice closed again, and other boats had to wait. But Lucy and her boat sailed across Lake Erie and reached Ohio safely a few days later.

Photographs courtesy of the Lewis family and by Richard M. Romney and Donal Pearce
Blake Lewis, 17, was among the leaders at the Utah 6A state high school cross-country championships, and his best friend and teammate, Sean Rausch, 18, was right behind him. “Our team, Riverton, had never won state before, and we were going for it,” Sean says.
The race was intense, but Riverton was doing well. With only 200 meters (220 yards) left in the three-mile race, the first runners were about to leave the hills and grass behind, make a sharp turn, and enter the stadium where they would sprint to the finish.
Then, Blake fell. Not from a trip or a stumble. He collapsed. The tibia bone in his lower leg had snapped.
“I came around a corner and saw Blake lying on the ground, holding his leg and screaming in pain,” Sean remembers.
Even though Sean was a senior and this was his last chance to race at state, he didn’t hesitate. “I had no thought of leaving Blake and just finishing the race,” he says. “He wanted to finish and so did I, and I was ready to help him the whole way. So, I put him on my back and carried him to the finish line.”
Two hundred meters is a long way to carry somebody that’s your same height and weight. “I wanted to comfort him,” Sean says. “So, I kept reminding him of the years we’d been running together, of the 1,250 miles (2,012 km) we’d run together over the summer.”
In between Blake’s groans, Sean kept repeating, “We’re a team, and we’re a family.” An official rushed up to tell them giving assistance to another runner wasn’t allowed, but Sean said it didn’t matter. “We’re in this together,” he said, “and we’re going to finish it together.” The official disqualified them both, but allowed them to continue.
At the end of their ordeal, Sean gently set Blake down so that he could step—actually, hop—over the finish line. Then Blake, with help, climbed into an ambulance.
The Riverton men’s team took third place as a team, but they didn’t celebrate. Instead, they kneeled and prayed for Blake. And when the women’s team found out about Blake, they did the same.
“I was in the hospital when I heard they had prayed for me,” Blake said. “That was so emotional, that my teammates would do that for me.”
“We prayed that Blake would be all right, and that nothing too serious would result,” Sean says. And he believes the prayer was answered. “The doctor said the injury could have been a lot worse if Blake had tried to finish the race on his own.”
“And the doctor told my mom it was a miracle that it was a clean break, lined up so straight that no surgery was necessary,” Blake says. “Otherwise they would have placed a metal rod in my leg, and running would have become painful.”
Websites, TV stations, and newspapers across the USA featured accounts of Sean carrying Blake to the finish line. A social media video went viral, and the story popped up in Asia, Australia, South America, and Europe.
“I think our story became popular because people like to be reminded there’s still good in the world,” Blake says. Sean agrees: “It’s nice to see that a simple act of kindness can touch so many lives.”
The local community also celebrated Sean’s good deed. At Riverton’s annual Veteran’s Day celebration, which features a 5K and a one-mile run, Sean was recognized as a “local hero,” and Blake was invited to sound the horn to start the race.
In a short speech, Sean said, “I’m not a hero. I was just taking care of my brother.”
Both young men feel their experience reinforced gospel principles to them.
“We all have hardships in our lives,” Blake says. “But just like Sean was there for me, the Savior is there for us. If we let Him, He’ll pick us up and help us finish.”
“If any one of us on the team went down,” Sean says, “the rest of the team would be there for him.” The same is true for his priesthood quorum. “We’re always there as a team, serving together. For Mutual, Church meetings, sacrament, and any service that anybody needs, we’re always trying to help and support each other.”
“When we run, we always set goals, then train to meet those goals,” Blake said. “If you don’t train, you’re not going to get better. Our ultimate eternal goal is to have eternal life and to return to our Heavenly Father. So, we have spiritual goals, and we train through prayer, scripture study, service, staying worthy, repentance—so that we can make it to the spiritual finish line.”