Gospel Story Finder

Years ago, when my brothers and I were boys, our mother had radical cancer surgery. She came very close to death. Much of the tissue in her neck and shoulder had to be removed, and for a long time it was very painful for her to use her right arm.
One morning about a year after the surgery, my father took Mother to an appliance store and asked the manager to show her how to use a machine he had for ironing clothes. The machine was called an Ironrite. It was operated from a chair by pressing pedals with one’s knees to lower a padded roller against a heated metal surface and turn the roller, feeding in shirts, pants, dresses, and other articles. You can see that this would make ironing (of which there was a great deal in our family of five boys) much easier, especially for a woman with limited use of her arm. Mother was shocked when Dad told the manager they would buy the machine and then paid cash for it. Despite my father’s good income as a veterinarian, Mother’s surgery and medications had left them in a difficult financial situation.
On the way home, my mother was upset: “How can we afford it? Where did the money come from? How will we get along now?” Finally Dad told her that he had gone without lunches for nearly a year to save enough money. “Now when you iron,” he said, “you won’t have to stop and go into the bedroom and cry until the pain in your arm stops.” She didn’t know he knew about that. I was not aware of my father’s sacrifice and act of love for my mother at the time, but now that I know, I say to myself, “There is a man.”

On a vacation, I was traveling by ship down the Volga River in Russia, far from any LDS chapel. That Sunday I had planned to read the Book of Mormon alone in my cabin.
My plans changed when I found out the ship was leased for summer tours to a Latter-day Saint family. With permission from their Church leaders, they had scheduled a worship service for LDS passengers, including several Russian Latter-day Saints traveling on the ship. I was asked to bless the sacrament. I wondered if I would bless the sacrament alone and if I would be the only teenager there. I hoped not.
Later that morning when I entered the music salon where the meeting would be held, my anxious heart quieted as I saw other young men in ties and young women in dresses. I looked around for something resembling a sacrament table. To my right, I noticed that a white tablecloth from the dining hall had been spread over the piano bench. The bread and water trays sat on the white linen. The brother who had asked me to bless the sacrament introduced me to a young man.
“This is Sergei,” he said. “He will bless with you.”
Sergei, from Moscow, had just completed his service in the militia. He had met two missionaries in the subway. That eventually led to his baptism.
“Dobray Dien!” I said, practicing what little Russian I had learned.
“Dobray Dien,” he responded with a chuckle.
“Minyah Savoot, William,” I said, introducing myself.
“Minyah Savoot, Sergei.”
“Do you speak English?” I asked.
“A little.”
He pulled out a sheet of paper—tattered from use—and unfolded it. It contained LDS religious terms with their definitions. He pointed to the word sacrament as if to communicate our role in the worship service. I nodded. He next pointed to the word bread and then to himself.
“Me?” he asked.
Then he pointed to the word water and then pointed to me, I understood. He would bless the bread. I would bless the water.
“Da,” I said in Russian, agreeing with his plan.
The music began, and a young man, Vladimir, led the congregation in “Come, Come, Ye Saints.” The curtains of the room had been drawn aside, and through the windows we saw a panoramic view of Russia’s countryside.
Sergei’s copy of the Book of Mormon was well used. He thumbed through its pages for the sacrament prayer.
We stood and broke the homemade Russian sourdough bread. I could hear the congregation singing “I Stand All Amazed,” half singing in Russian and the other half in English. No one had hymnbooks, so we sang from memory. I was impressed to hear the combination of Russian and English as if our voices were creating a new language.
When the hymn ended, I knelt with Sergei. As we knelt on the floor, I could feel a slight rocking of the ship. The congregation bowed their heads. Sergei began saying the prayer in Russian.
I felt the Spirit of God enter my heart and burn through my chest. Here we were, Sergei and I, on a ship far from our homes and families, two people from different continents and speaking different languages—but feeling the same Spirit. I understood the words he spoke, clearly and peacefully. I felt solemnity fill my mind.
After wiping a few tears from my eyes, I stood with Sergei. We passed the bread trays to three young priesthood holders, who then passed the bread to the congregation.
A few minutes later, I blessed the water in English, saying the prayer with more conviction than ever before. I felt as if I were actually speaking to the Lord. My heart swelled with joy as I said amen and stood to serve the water trays.
That day, Sergei and I had come together to do the Lord’s work. We had blessed the emblems Christ instituted just before his death and sacrifice. Sergei had spoken Russian. I had spoken English. But for all of us who were present, the language spoken was the Spirit.

Several years ago while visiting a dear friend, I saw that he looked unusually discouraged. He is a school teacher, and his wife does not work outside the home. With nine children, they have had rather limited financial resources.
I asked him how he was. He hesitated, not wanting to talk about his troubles. But finally, with tears in his eyes, he told me his worries about his family. One of his sons had dropped out of high school and had moved out of their home; he now spent his time drinking, chewing tobacco, and partying with his friends. My friend’s eighteen-year-old daughter had transgressed and planned to marry outside the temple. His sixteen-year-old son had a serious drug and alcohol problem. My friend’s oldest son was on a mission, but the costs of the sixteen-year-old’s drug treatment were jeopardizing missionary funds and the family’s financial stability.
My friend told me he felt guilty and unworthy. Because of all the strain on the family, he and his wife were blaming each other for their children’s problems, and their marriage was under a great deal of stress. It was obvious that he was struggling, wondering why all these things were happening to his family when he had tried to live the gospel.
Like Lehi, my friend also came to the end of his own personal “wilderness.” His children have returned to the faith of their parents and are trying to pattern their lives after Christ’s. The struggle wasn’t easy, but they have all endured it well.

Illustration by Steven Keele
I was traveling from Mexico to Montana, USA, and had a layover in Denver, Colorado. I walked around the airport, looking through huge windows at planes landing and taking off. I was nervous because I had never flown before. The airport seemed really big.
I looked at my ticket and realized I had two hours before my flight would depart. I decided to find a place to sit down and read until I boarded the plane. I felt scared as I looked for a place to sit. Almost every seat was taken. I decided to sit next to an older lady who seemed to be alone. She was the only one who didn’t seem scary to me.
An hour or so passed before I decided to talk to her. I introduced myself; she seemed really nice and eager to talk to me about her grandchild’s accomplishments. She asked me a little bit about myself, and I told her all about my life in Mexico. Then I had a sudden urge to share the gospel with her. She asked me about my religion, and I told her that I was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
She said she had never heard of it.
I smiled and said, “We are also known as Mormons.”
She immediately changed her attitude. Her facial expressions and the way she talked to me changed. She didn’t seem to know what to say. I had a feeling that our conversation had come to an end, but I tried to keep talking to her. I asked her about her religion. She said without hesitation, “I am Catholic.”
She then said, “I don’t understand. You are such a nice girl. You seem decent. Why, then, would you want to be a Mormon?”
I was shocked by this comment, and I didn’t know how to respond. I offered a silent prayer, asking Heavenly Father to help me explain what being a Latter-day Saint meant to me. I told her that I loved being a member of the Church, and because of the teachings of the gospel, I was able to be a better person and see things with perspective.
She looked surprised and said, “Mormons don’t believe in God.”
I tried not to laugh at this comment; instead I smiled and realized that this was my chance to share the truth with her. I explained some of our basic beliefs. I taught her about the plan of salvation and the importance of families. She still didn’t seem convinced, so I decided to bear my testimony to her. There in a huge airport, I was blessed with the courage to share my testimony about Joseph Smith, about the living prophet and apostles, and about the love I feel toward the gospel and the Book of Mormon.
I looked at the clock. It was time for me to catch my plane.
That afternoon strengthened my testimony in a way that I had never experienced before. I was happy that I shared my testimony with her and grateful that I was able to help change her mind about members of our Church. I can now be more confident when someone asks me about the Church.

James Peter Fugal was an honest man! He herded sheep much of his life in the rolling hills of Idaho—both his own sheep and sheep for others.
On one bitterly cold winter night, he was herding sheep for another man when a blizzard set in. The sheep bunched together, as sheep do, in the corner of a fenced area, and many died. Many other sheep on surrounding ranches also died that same night because of the weather.
Though the death of the sheep was no fault of his, James Fugal felt responsible. He spent the next several years working and saving to repay the owner for his lost sheep. This was the type of deep moral honor and accountability that was fostered by scripture-reading, God-fearing settlers on the early frontier.
I thought about James Fugal, the humble sheepherder, and about how wonderful it was that these children were being taught the same values that made him a man of such noble character.

Preston loved maps. He had a placemat with a world map that he studied every morning at breakfast. He drew pretend maps of islands with pirate treasure and real maps of his neighborhood. Even the pattern on his bedspread had maps on it.
So when Preston’s Primary teacher, Brother Greene, started drawing a map on the board during Primary class, Preston paid close attention.
“Today we’re going to talk about where the Book of Mormon came from,” Brother Greene said. “Everyone open your Bible and find the maps.”
“I didn’t know the Bible had maps,” Michael said.
“I know where the maps are,” Preston said.
Brother Greene smiled. “Let’s find the map that has Jerusalem on it.” Brother Greene pointed to a dot on the map he’d drawn on the board. “Here’s Jerusalem. Everybody put your finger on Jerusalem on your map.”
Preston listened while Brother Greene explained how a prophet named Lehi had to leave Jerusalem with his family. As he told the story, Brother Greene drew lines on the board that showed how Lehi’s family traveled all the way to America.
Preston studied the map Brother Greene had drawn. He was fascinated. He’d heard the story of Lehi’s family many times, but no one had ever told him the story with a map before.
On the way home, Preston told his parents all about Brother Greene’s Primary lesson. “And did you know that Lehi lived 600 years before Jesus was born?”
“You’re absolutely right,” Dad said. “You were really listening today.”
“When I get home, I’m going to draw a map just like Brother Greene’s,” Preston said.
Preston worked on his map most of the afternoon. He used his best colored pencils. When it was finished, he showed it to Dad.
“This is a fine map,” Dad said.
“Can we use it for family home evening tomorrow?” Preston asked.
“Hmm,” Dad said. “I’ve invited a friend from work over for dinner, and I asked him to stay for family home evening.”
“Aw, Dad,” Preston said. “I like it when it’s just our family. Just you and Mom and me.” Preston was often shy around people he didn’t know.
Dad put his arm around Preston’s shoulder. “I know, but this is important. We want to let other people see how we live the gospel. Mom has a special lesson planned, so maybe we’ll save the map for another time.”
Preston agreed.
Dinner on Monday night was not much fun. Dad’s friend, Mr. Shay, was nice, but the grown-ups did most of the talking. Finally it was time to go into the family room to have family home evening. Dad spent a couple of minutes explaining to Mr. Shay what family home evening was all about.
“Before we start our lesson,” Dad said, “are there any questions you’d like to ask?”
“I have one very big question about your church,” Mr. Shay said. “I want to know about the Book of Mormon. Where did it come from? What is it about?”
“I know!” Preston said. “I know where the Book of Mormon came from!” Preston ran to his room and came right back with his map. He showed it to Mr. Shay. Preston put his finger on Jerusalem and told the story of Lehi’s family just like Brother Greene had told it in Primary.
Mr. Shay looked at the map. He looked at Preston. Then he looked at Preston’s dad. “Is that right?” Mr. Shay asked.
Dad smiled and nodded. “I couldn’t have explained it any better myself.”
Mr. Shay looked at the map again. “Did you draw this map yourself?” he asked Preston.
Preston could only nod. He could hardly believe he had told that long story to Mr. Shay. Now that it was finished, Preston felt shy again. The funny thing was, when he was telling the story, he hadn’t felt a bit shy.
“How old are you?” Mr. Shay asked.
“I’ll be seven next month,” Preston answered.
Mr. Shay leaned back in his chair and smiled. “I used to wonder how all those young men can be missionaries for your church when they are only 19 years old. But now I think I understand. If Preston already knows this much about the Book of Mormon, he will be an excellent missionary.”
Preston felt happy and warm inside. He wondered if that’s how missionaries feel when they teach the gospel.
“I think Preston has given us an excellent lesson tonight,” Mom said. “All we need now is a song and a prayer.”
“Don’t forget dessert!” Preston said.

Whenever the family of Joseph Smith, Sr., saw their father feel for the eyeglasses he carried in his vest pocket they knew it was time for the evening devotional; by custom, each day in their home ended with song, prayer, and Bible reading. Father Smith conducted, read from the Bible, and prayed. However, shortly after the initial visits of Moroni to the young Prophet Joseph in September 1823, these family gatherings took on according to the Prophet’s mother an exceptional aspect. She wrote:
“From this time forth, Joseph continued to receive instructions from the Lord, and we continued to get the children together every evening, for the purpose of listening while he [told us] of the same. I presume our family presented an aspect as [unusual] as any that ever lived upon the face of the earth—all seated in a circle, father, mother, sons, and daughters, and giving the most profound attention to a boy, eighteen years of age. …
“During our evening conversations, Joseph would occasionally give us some of the most amusing recitals [reports] that could be imagined. He would describe the ancient inhabitants of this continent, their dress, mode of traveling, and the animals upon which they rode; their cities, their buildings, with every particular; their mode of warfare; and also their religious worship. This he would do with as much ease, seemingly, as if he had spent his whole life with them.”

Before my conversion, I used to read novels and magazines that did nothing for my spirituality. But following my baptism, I happened to find a copy of L‘Etoile (French) with an article “Come unto Me” that seemed to be written just for me. The Spirit inspired me to read the article several times. Since then, worldly books and magazines no longer interest me.
I read each issue of the magazine, and I especially enjoy the articles and testimonies of Saints all over the world because their testimonies help to increase mine.
I would encourage everyone to read and use the Church magazines to improve their lives and feel of the Spirit.
Bokota B. LouisonKinsuka First Branch, Kinshasa Zaire Masina District

The shrieks of delight told me the party had started. Needing a break from studying my Gospel Doctrine lesson for the next day, I went to the living room and looked in. There they were, most of my daughter’s track team, eager to celebrate “taking state.” They had just come from the meet, and some were still dressed in their uniforms.
The ten o’clock news announced the sports, and every eye was turned toward the TV. Yes, there was the announcement that they were now number one. What a pleasure to see our school’s name flash across the screen!
After the news, the coach brought out his part of the evening’s entertainment, a video of the track meet. I watched for a few minutes and then went back to my studies. I could hear the enthusiasm of the team members as they watched the video of the meet. “Look at her go! Run! Run!” “Why did you drop the baton?” “She catches it! Go. go!” “Turn it back, and let’s see that again.” “Wow! You really do know how to pour it on.” “She wins!” “Boy, that looks terrific on color TV.”
I closed my bedroom door, so I’d be able to concentrate. Some time later I suddenly noticed how quiet the house had become. Again I went to the living room and looked in. The track meet video was over, and two of my daughter’s teammates were adjusting another video, this time a movie.
I had picked up my studies once again when Kate burst into my room and closed the door behind her. Her quick, agitated movements told me that something was not right.
“Hello, Kate. How’s the party going? It sounds like fun.”
“Okay, I guess. I’m not at the party anymore.” An apologetic sadness came over her face as she looked away.
“So tell me why you’re not at the party anymore. It is rather late and quiet. Have they gone home?”
“They’re still here. The party’s no good anymore. I’m going to my room to study.” Tears welled up in her eyes.
“What happened? You’re the hostess. This is your party. Why are you going to study now?”
“Mother, I can’t stay in there. They’re showing a video movie rated R. How can I stay there? I have never seen an R-rated movie and never want to. How can I stay there?” she demanded.
Whatever answer I gave I would be responsible for. While her father was out of town I was the head of the family, and I needed help. Should I ask them all to leave? Or should I tolerate this movie in our home? Either way, what would be the implications for my Kate? What should I do?
Stalling for time, I began to question her. “Are you sure that it’s R rated?”
“They told me it is.”
“Do they know that you left? Did you tell them you would not stay and watch?
“Yes, I told them. They didn’t seem to care. No one even asked me to stay or tried to talk me into staying.” More tears welled up. “What shall we do? What do you think Dad would do?”
I agreed that it was a good and heavy question. I said a silent prayer.
“They already know I’m not staying to watch. I’ll just study, and when they’re through they can take their old movie and go home.” Kate seemed decisive.
Voices came from the living room. “‘Bye, Julie. See you Monday.” Kate went to tell her best friend good-bye. I followed her, thinking I should tell them to leave and wishing her father were home.
Then someone began playing the piano. A few voices took up the melody, and then more voices joined in. From the door Julie saw the coach disconnecting the video machine, and she and Kate walked back into the living room.
We sang and told stories and laughed. The track party was a success.
I later asked why Julie had started for home. Kate replied, “Julie said that when I wouldn’t watch the R-rated movie, she decided that she wouldn’t watch it either. She said that when I had the courage to leave, she also found the courage to leave. That’s what made them change their minds about watching the R-rated video. I guess that this was a time when just one person could influence the crowd for good. And, Mother,” Kate cried jubilantly, “I was the one—and I did!”

“Why can’t you keep your half of the room clean?” Alicia complained to her new stepsister. “It looks like a tornado just hit the place!”
“It isn’t that bad,” Megan answered. “Anyway, as soon as softball season ends, I’ll have more time to clean up. I may have to spend some extra time in practice for the next few days.” She folded a pair of jeans and put them into a drawer, threw her baseball mitt onto a chair, and put her pajamas under a pillow. “There—a start!”
Alicia sighed. She was glad to have Megan as a stepsister, but they were about as different as night and day. Megan was tall, slender, and very good at sports—but not very good at cleaning her room. Alicia was short, not-so-slender, and very good at cleaning her room—but her athletic skills were limited to being a substitute umpire in the junior girls softball league.
No wonder, then, that after Megan’s dad married Alicia’s mom, patience was in demand in their new home!
Actually it was a new home only for Alicia and her mom. After the marriage, they had moved into Megan’s dad’s house. “Welcome to my jungle!” Megan had said. “Here, let me push some of my junk out of the way. You can have this half of the room, OK?”
Alicia’s heart sank. Her old room had been as neat as a pin. Here, the clutter was unavoidable! On the floor were magazines, socks, baseball mitts, jeans, shoes, softball trophies, pillows, even orange peelings. Well, Mom told me there would be adjustments, she thought. I guess this is what she meant.
There were two more adjustments Alicia had to make. The first one came that weekend. Alicia’s old ward had been small enough that everyone knew everyone else’s first name. That’s where her dad’s funeral had been held three years ago. That’s where she had been baptized, had learned about Heavenly Father’s love, and had prayed for guidance when her mom said that she was going to remarry.
Her new ward was so big! So many people! After Megan had introduced her friends, she felt a little better. Singing the old familiar hymns was comforting too.
“You’ll get used to our new ward,” her mom told her that first Sunday. “Just remember, the important thing is not the building, but the reason for the building—to worship Heavenly Father and to learn to live the gospel.”
The next adjustment came when Alicia went to her new school. All the kids stared at her in her new classes.
Some of them giggled and whispered behind their hands to each other.
The teachers were all nice. And when Miss Younger found out that Alicia had been a substitute umpire at her old school, she asked her to umpire at the softball game that evening. “Megan’s team is playing for the school championship,” Miss Younger explained. “Our regular umpire is sick today. We could really use someone with your experience.”
Alicia wasn’t sure she was that experienced, but Megan had said, “Oh, come on, Alicia! You can do it! Just call them the way you see them.”
“OK,” Alicia had reluctantly agreed.
Now she reminded Megan as they headed out the door for the ballpark, “Remember that during the game I’m not your stepsister—I’m the umpire!”
“Fair enough!” Megan replied. “And you remember that if we win this game, we go to the city championship game next week.” She grinned. “I hope that won’t affect your decisions, Miss Umpire!”
“Why would it?” Alicia asked.
Megan laughed. “Because that means it would be another week before my half of the room gets cleaned!”
Alicia laughed too. “Well, if you win, I’ll clean your half of the room myself.” She quickly added, “But just for one week. And I don’t do orange peelings!”
* * * * * *
The stands were crowded. Alicia’s heart pounded as she took her place behind the catcher. “Play ball!” she called. She hoped that her voice sounded more confident than she felt.
As the game progressed, Alicia’s self-confidence returned. Finally it was the bottom of the last inning. Megan’s team, one run behind, was at bat.
The first batter flied out to the shortstop. The second batter drew a base on balls. After the next batter struck out swinging, Megan—the cleanup hitter—was up!
“Home run! Home run!” her team’s fans shouted.
“Strike out! Strike out!” the other team’s fans screamed.
“Strike one!” Alicia called as Megan let the first pitch go by without swinging.
Megan turned to look questioningly at Alicia but didn’t say a word. She tightened her grip on the bat, took a practice swing, then stepped back into the batter’s box.
The next pitch was right over the middle of the plate. Megan put all her strength into a smooth, level swing. The crack of the bat against the ball echoed over the field like a rifle shot. The ball arced high, headed for deep center field.
The center fielder took off like a small cyclone, but the ball landed just beyond her outstretched glove. Quickly scrambling after it, she wheeled and threw with all her might toward home plate.
The runner on first pounded around second, then third. The ball and the runner seemed to reach home plate at the same time.
“Out!” shouted Alicia, raising her thumb high in the air.
“What? No way!” Megan’s teammates shouted angrily, crowding around Alicia. Their shouting grew louder and angrier. Butterflies began doing flip-flops in her stomach.
Megan pushed her way through the crowd. “Leave her alone! If she called her out, that’s the way it was.” She led Alicia through the crowd. “Come on, Ump, let’s go home.”
Home! The word sounded like music to Alicia. She had a new ward, a new school, a new home—and a new family. She smiled gratefully at Megan. “You can stop calling me ‘umpire’ now. The game’s over. Now you can call me ‘sister!’” She laughed. “And even though your team didn’t win, I’ll still help you clean your half of the room!”

Caroline is a holder of a PathwayConnect certificate and has had to pause her studies to allow for the birth of their second baby a few months ago. “I will pick up again this coming September; I have already enrolled,” she said. Looking back on her journey through PathwayConnect, Caroline says, “The journey was not easy because we have many things that we need to accomplish as mothers. However, with faith and lessons from BYU–PathwayConnect, I forged ahead and finished PathwayConnect. Weekly devotionals were the daily drive to keep me moving on. Meeting my fellow students during weekly gatherings and getting to hear their experiences built me and encouraged me. I pleaded with my Heavenly Father for help and strength so that I could accomplish my studies.”

George Pierce Billings was only seven years old, but no one had told him to go to bed. Never before had he been allowed to stay up so late. He was beginning to wish that he could go to bed, but the air was thick with suspense and fear. Sleep was impossible.
Father had taken his wagon down to the river time and time again. George had wanted to ride along, but there was no room. Father was helping people move out of Independence, Missouri, before morning. Angry men had threatened to burn anything and anybody still there when the sun rose.
George kept checking the night sky. Father had been gone a long time, and Mother was still busy packing. George was worried. His job was to watch his little sister, but he was watching for sunrise, too.
Four-year-old Eunice was getting very tired. Leaning against the wooden porch, George cradled her small curly-haired head in his lap and thought about their Missouri home. He had been only five when they had come, and they had planned to stay forever. He had watched and tried to help his father clear the land. Together, they had built this home and the barn. Father had planted crops on most of the 34 acres, not only for his family, but also for the many new Saints who would not have time to raise a crop that season. George liked Missouri. He liked playing in the trees. He liked catching fireflies. “Even the fireflies must be sleeping now,” he thought.
Then he remembered the big fire. Father had cut 24 tons of hay and hauled it six miles to the property rented by Bishop Partridge from Governor Boggs. He had stacked it there in a long, tall pile. Then, last month, someone had set it on fire and burned it to the ground. George felt sorry for his father.
The night was very dark. Where was Father? Why didn’t he come to get them?
George thought he heard an explosion. Light flashed, but he couldn’t tell where it had come from. In fear, he jumped to his feet, startling Eunice. Light exploded all around him. No, it was above him, high above him—higher than any cannon or musket could fire. George could not believe his eyes! They were fixed on lights in the heavens bursting and streaming across the sky.
George rushed into the house, Eunice right behind him. “Mother! Mother! The sky is on fire!” Mother pulled them close. “Have the mobs come for us already?” she cried.
“No, Mother, no!” George pulled her to the doorway. “It’s not the mobs, Mother. It’s a miracle from Heavenly Father!”
And so it was. The heavens danced with a glorious meteor shower for the rest of the night. Stars raced back and forth across the November sky, lighting the way for the fleeing Saints. In the miraculous light, George saw his father’s wagon returning. Cheered and strengthened by the heavenly signs, George’s family and many others safely settled themselves along the Missouri River banks before sunrise. The meteor showers continued until dawn.

As a child she traveled with her family by train across the country to be sealed in the Manti Utah Temple.
“That was a very sweet experience,” she said. “I remember dressing in white and what that meant to my family. It was a magnificent experience, and even though I was really young, I remember the feelings I had, glimpses of white, and the beauty of that day. That experience gave me my first desire to keep the temple in my life always.”

Long Bow pushed his way through a tall stand of dried weed stalks. The dry stems rustled together and popped noisily, no matter how carefully he placed his moccasins. It was a difficult place to hunt, but the three rabbits he had taken would be a welcome change from the venison and buffalo meat his family had been eating.
Although the air was still crisp and cold, tightly folded buds marched up reddening tree branches, and the Indian youth rejoiced at seeing tiny green shoots in sheltered places. It had been a harsh winter. The tribe had suffered much illness; many infants and old ones had died.
Long Bow turned his thoughts away from sadness, and he swerved toward a brush pile. One kick should send several rabbits running. He was halted by a sudden flash of light from a hill to his left. When he saw a series of flashes, he was puzzled. His people used pieces of shiny metal to signal, but he could not read this message. Is it an injured brave needing help? he wondered.
The youth left his hunt and started a steep climb up the bluff. Clinging to protruding roots as he searched for toeholds, Long Bow slowly made his way to the summit. He was exhausted by the time he pulled himself up onto level ground.
“It’s a child!” he gasped. “A white child!”
Where he had expected to find an injured brave, a toddler sat near the edge of a precipice, engrossed in playing with something shiny. The strange reflecting glass, unlike anything Long Bow had ever seen, was set in what appeared to be polished silver with a raised floral design. The light was blinding when the sun hit it a certain way.
Long Bow turned to leave. He did not want to get involved with white people, not even a toddler! He had seen the two-day-old trail of a passing wagon train. The girl had evidently wandered away from it.
A squeal of delight stopped Long Bow’s hesitant retreat. The little girl with golden curls had seen him! She rose and ran recklessly over the rocky ground toward the uneasy youth.
“Stay back! You’ll fall!” Long Bow cried, edging away. Instead, the child, who looked to be about two years old, ran even faster, her arms spread wide. Her toe struck a stone, and she pitched toward the edge of the bluff! Long Bow flung himself between the girl and the brink in time to get a strong grip on her long dress as she sailed by.
“What am I going to do with you?” the Indian boy sighed.
The girl sat in his lap, rubbing her tear-stained eyes. “Hungry,” she told him plaintively. The word was strange to him, but the youth understood her meaning. Children were always hungry, and from the dirt on her torn dress, she had probably been lost for more than a day. He searched out a squirrel’s hoard and fed her some hazelnuts stored in it.
Long Bow did not want to take her back to his village, but he could not leave her there to die. “You are going to be nothing but trouble,” he murmured. “If soldiers come, they may accuse my people of stealing you.”
The girl was too heavy for him to carry down the way he had climbed up. He would have to cross the hills and descend by the sloping game trail. It was miles out of his way, but he had no choice. “You see, already you are extra trouble,” he grumbled. But he smiled as the blue-eyed child patted his dusky cheek. He rose, tucked the reflecting glass into his waistband, and hoisted the unwanted charge to his shoulders.
Because he wanted to reach his village before dark, Long Bow loped along less cautiously than he normally traveled. Panic swept over him as the trail curved and he was confronted by a huge grizzly bear and her cubs!
Bears were something the youth knew about and feared. Bears alone were big trouble, and nothing was more dangerous than a female defending her young.
There was no time to retreat. Long Bow raced toward the edge of the bluff as the bear stood erect, growling her rage. The boy knew she couldn’t climb a tree, but there wasn’t one closeby. Their only chance for escape was to go down the bluff to a ledge.
His darting black eyes saw a mass of upended tree roots. The other end of the toppled tree was resting on a ledge! Quickly he dropped the rabbits he had killed, clasped the child in one arm, and began to descend the tree trunk. His heart skipped a beat as the tree creaked and turned slightly under their combined weight. Then the tree began to slide, pulling its roots over the edge of the bluff. Long Bow made a desperate leap for the ledge that the treetop had been resting on.
“We made it!” he murmured shakily, his drumming heart almost drowning out the fierce growls of the bear.
Long Bow pushed the girl into a depression in the face of the bluff as stones began to roll down. He, too, squeezed closer to the bluff as the tree groaned and twisted in the wind, then tore free and crashed down to the valley floor. Now they were trapped on the ledge!
When night came, the youth slept fitfully, keeping the child between him and the wall of the ledge. He shivered from the cold and curled around the girl to warm her. “There is no hope of rescue. We will surely die here,” he murmured, staring up at the stars.
At dawn, Long Bow shared his meager supply of dried venison with the girl. Then he spotted trickles of water dripping down from rocks above the ledge. The youth put several heavy rocks on the girl’s skirt to keep her from falling, then eased his way up far enough to collect precious drops of the water in a hollowed-out rock. How long can we survive? he wondered. If only I hadn’t left the rabbits up on the canyon rim.
The sun was high when Long Bow’s keen eyes saw a group of white men spread out over the valley floor. He was sure that they were searching for the girl. He shouted, but they were too far away to hear him. After a while the men assembled, then slowly turned away from the direction of the bluff. They had apparently decided that further search was useless!
Suddenly Long Bow remembered the flashing light that had first drawn him to the girl. He held the glass toward the sun and rotated the handle. At first no one noticed the flashes. Desperately the youth began to play the light across a deeply shadowed wall of rock in front of the men. The men stopped and stared, then turned, searching for the source. When Long Bow held up the little girl, one man darted ahead of the others, stumbling over the rough terrain.
Later, when he and the girl were safely in the white men’s camp, Long Bow used signs to explain about the flashing light that had brought him to the child. He made bear sounds to show why they had been driven over the edge of the cliff.
As the Indian youth prepared to return to his village, the father, cuddling the napping girl, rose to thank Long Bow again. The man had seen how much Long Bow admired the silver hand mirror, and although the man wished he had more to give Long Bow, it was gratefully given to the youth who had kept his child from certain death.
It was a good gift. Long Bow accepted the mirror with dignity, not realizing that the magnificent signaling device had once been part of a vanity set on a lady’s dressing table.

“Not long ago, my dad was caught in the beaters of a forage harvester bin. I know that Heavenly Father gave him the strength to break the drive chain to prevent further damage. As it was, his skull was broken in ten places and his neck was cut open to the windpipe. He said prayers and was given a blessing before he was raced from Kingaroy, where the accident happened, to Brisbane, the capital city of Queensland.
“From this I learned that someone could be lost at any time, so we should all endeavor to lead a worthy and clean life. This has brought me closer to my dad and taught me that if we have faith, the Lord will look after us. I love my mom and dad, and I know the Church is true and that Jesus lives.”
John Taylor, 14Kingaroy, Queensland, Australia

I had gained a testimony of the goodness of one seed of faith, but I had yet to see it grow to fruition (see Alma 32:35–36), and I had not yet received a confirming witness of other gospel principles. My trial of faith was not yet over.
Not long after I was baptized and confirmed, doubts crept into my mind. I felt conflicted between the very personal experience I had had when deciding to get baptized and my old logic, which did not accept faith-based knowledge.
Soon I again felt the haunting feelings of confusion and sorrow, and I did not know what to believe. Nevertheless, I had made a commitment, and I determined to remain active in the Church and apply the principles I had been taught until the trial of my faith resolved my conflict one way or another.
The Lord did not leave me to wander alone. I was given a calling to serve with the missionaries, and as we went proselytizing each week, the missionaries continued to shepherd me. My home teachers were faithful. My home teaching companion was prompt and consistent. Many ward members developed friendships with me by involving me in their lives, inviting me into their homes for dinners and for family home evenings. They prayed with and for me. The bishop and his family cared for and encouraged me. I could sense the honest intentions of their hearts, and that strengthened my resolve.
One day, some months later, it dawned on me that every time I read the Book of Mormon, I felt a subtle, familiar feeling of peace, much as I had felt during the discussions and baptismal invitations. I had a sudden moment of clarity: this was the Spirit. As I thought the words—“If this is the Spirit, then this book must be true”—that subtle feeling swelled in my heart, and my faith turned to spiritual knowledge of that principle.

Sister Gong and I met Meb and Jenny by video during the COVID pandemic. (We met many wonderful couples and individuals by video during COVID, each prayerfully introduced by their stake president.)

Meb and Jenny humbly said concerns in their lives made them wonder if their temple marriage could be saved and, if so, how. They believed Jesus Christ’s Atonement and their covenant commitments could help them.

Imagine my joy when Meb and Jenny received new temple recommends and returned together to the house of the Lord. Later Meb almost died. What a blessing Meb and Jenny have restored covenant relationships with the Lord and each other and feel the ministering love of many around them.

When I decided that I wanted to be baptized, my family wasn’t really excited about it. Although my mother and one of my brothers attended my baptism, other family members rejected me because we no longer shared the same religion.
In the beginning, this was quite hard, and I felt more alone than ever. But after a while, one of my cousins decided to become a devout Hindu, which was also different from what the rest of our family practiced. He respected my choice to join the Church because he had made a similar one. Because of his example of love towards me, some of my other family members stopped shunning me.

When I was about six or seven, I wanted to know if the scriptures were true. My mom said I needed to pray and find out for myself. I did, and I felt really warm inside. I know that the scriptures are true. I have a testimony that Jesus Christ suffered for our sins and that He helped many people. I also have a testimony of Joseph Smith. I know that the Church is true. I will always be a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

I have seen that promise fulfilled in my own life and in the lives of others. A friend of mine served as a mission president. He told me that at the end of every day while he was serving, he could barely make it upstairs to bed at night wondering if he would have the strength to face another day. Then in the morning, he would find his strength and his courage restored. You have seen it in the lives of aged prophets who seemed to be renewed each time they stood to testify of the Lord Jesus Christ and the restored gospel. That is a promise for those who go forward in faith in their priesthood service.