Gospel Story Finder

I know this is true. When I attended college, like you, I was having one of those "bad hair" weeks. It was a Lemony Snicket, Series of Unfortunate Events moment in my life. The events weren't major problems or setbacks like Joseph's, but they seemed major at the time. While attending BYU in Provo, I worked with the BYU Student Association (BYUSA) and applied to be one of the vice presidents, but the selection committee chose someone else. I walked home from campus discouraged but thought, "That's okay; I applied to be an EFY counselor." As I walked in the door to my apartment, I saw on the kitchen table a letter from EFY. I tore it open with eagerness. My heart pounded with excitement. However, the excitement quickly turned to sadness as I read the part that said my request was declined.

Now, this was the same time period that I called a girl named Myra Mains to set up a blind date. I got her phone number from the girl I home taught. The girl I home taught asked me what I perceived as the perfect girl to marry. After I described this "perfect" girl, she replied, "No way; I totally have the girl for you." She then described this friend of hers. The description almost matched perfectly the description I gave. This was truly a match made in heaven. "Wow!" I thought. This was my dream girl. What I didn't know was that I was about to be duped.

She gave me the girl's phone number, and I called the next day. I was surprised, however, when on the other end of the line I heard, "Berg Mortuary."
Confused, I said, "Uh, I'm looking for someone who apparently works there. Is Myra Mains there?" There was silence on the other end of the line. "Excuse me, is Myra Mains there?"
"Sir, is this some kind of a joke?"
"No, this is the number I was given. I was careful to dial it correctly. So Myra Mains isn't there?"
She was silent again, then chuckled, "Sir, you don't get it, do you?" And you know what, I didn't. I know what you're thinking: "He's not the sharpest knife in the drawer." (Believe me, no one is more aware of that then I.)

"Sir," she said, "think about it!" Then she said slowly, "This is a mortuary, sir. 'Is my remains there?' Do you get it now?"

Humbled and embarrassed, I said, "Yeah, I get it."

Well, this is the kind of week I was having when I came home and opened that EFY letter. After I set the letter down, I saw a hand mirror sitting on the table. I could tell by the opened package next to it, it was something my roommate Miglosh ordered through the mail. He would order lots of things. It seemed odd he would order a hand mirror. Intrigued, I picked up the mirror. (Remember, I feel like I'm at the bottom of the food chain.) No sooner than I caught my reflection in the mirror, it started laughing at me. Seriously! It was one of those gag mirrors with a built-in speaker that projected an obnoxious cackle right about the time you picked it up and saw your reflection.

My misfortunes, my defeats pale in comparison to Joseph's. But that is part of the point in sharing them with you. They are the everyday, garden-variety type of week you've no doubt experienced too. Your roommates probably didn't throw you into an empty cistern like Joseph (maybe they threw you in the snow), but you do experience misfortunes and mishaps. I suspect none of you has fallen for the "Myra Mains" gag, but I suspect many of you have fallen in love only to have it end. You've had health issues, family problems, financial difficulties, dropped majors, changed majors, and major problems of every kind. You've been turned down, turned out, and turned away. You didn't get what you wanted. I promise, though, with God you will get what you need. And it may just be that what God knew you needed was something in the end you wanted. I wasn't happy that God gave me what I apparently needed. In the end, though, I discovered that what I needed was actually something I wanted.

When those doors I mentioned closed in my life, other doors opened. One door that opened led me to become a seminary teacher for the Church Education System. It was an occupation that was ideal for my personality and family, and eventually it would bring me here to BYU-Idaho to teach in the religion department--a move I consider the greatest blessing of my career. And what if Myra Mains were a real girl? What if I had married her? She wouldn't have been Heather Sampson, the woman I did marry, the woman I love. And I wouldn't have my children: Curt; Carli; the twins, Brigham and Brynn; and Cutler.

Barbados is a charming island belonging to the Lesser Antilles. On its beautiful beaches, as well as on other Caribbean islands, there are protection zones for sea turtles.
On a mission tour, we had the opportunity to visit the island. One morning, Norma and I went for a walk on the beach, which is in front of the hotel where we were staying. As we did, we saw one of the senior missionaries who was working on the side of the path that separates the beach from the road.
As we got closer, we asked her what she was doing. She told us: “A large turtle had spawned in that part of the beach. The tortoise had found a good place to lay its eggs. She covered them and then left.”
The challenge would be for the little turtles, who, at birth, would search for the ocean and a recently built pedestrian path that had left a slope, would be an impossible hurdle to avoid on their way to the ocean. On the other hand, during the night the little turtles would mistake the lights of the vehicles and the city for stars and when going towards them they would die either by the vehicles or by starvation going in the opposite direction of the ocean.
Inspired by the missionary, we set out to look for baby turtles. Some were trapped among the plants, others had died, and others were struggling to climb the causeway that separated them from the beach and the ocean. We rescued as many as we could. Some people passing by told us that what we were doing was a waste of time.
Later, in a service activity, the missionaries leveled that path so that in the future the turtles that were born could find their way to life.
Personally, I felt an indescribable joy at being able to hold a little turtle in my hands and put it on its way to the sea.

When I was 16, the stake presidency announced that our stake would visit the temple in Buenos Aires, and I was invited to go. I saved money and worked hard to be worthy to obtain a temple recommend.
After I received the recommend, temptations attacked me from every side, all trying to make me lose that worthiness. But I had a desire to attend the temple. I didn’t want to just hear the experience and testimony of others; I wanted to have my own experience and testimony.
The night to travel came. Even before getting on the bus, I had thoughts about not going, but I didn’t give in. During the 10-hour trip, I sat by a member of the Church who was very friendly to me. He was around 60 years old. He told me about his life and how happy he was to have gone through the trials he had.
I began to tell him about my life and how I felt very alone because many people had distanced themselves from me because I was following God. He told me, “God will give you a great friend, and that friend will always be there for you. Don’t forget it.” When he finished saying these words, I felt calm and peaceful because I felt that what he told me was true.
When I entered the temple, the heaviness I was carrying disappeared. It felt like there was a spiritual embrace telling me, “Welcome, my son. I have been waiting for you.”
I felt that the temple really was the house of God, not just a beautiful structure. After doing some baptisms and confirmations, I went outside. I felt the burdens return, but now I felt like I had the strength to overcome them.

The children called the Prophet “Brother Joseph,” and he always had a smile for them. Once a group of children were playing in a home where the Prophet was hiding from wicked men who wanted to kill him. They overheard the older people tell of the Prophet’s danger, and one seven-year-old girl said, “I know what we can do. We can pray and ask our Father in heaven to keep Brother Joseph safe from harm.”
A few minutes later the Prophet went past a bedroom door in time to see the children kneeling together and to hear their simple prayer for his safety. Tears filled his eyes and then rolled down his cheeks as the children rose from their knees and one of them said, “I know Brother Joseph will be safe now.”
Then the Prophet returned to the room where his older friends had come to guard him through the night and told them that they could go to their own homes. He said he knew that the prayers of the children would be heard and answered and that he could sleep in peace that night. And he did!

One such account written after the 1968 Olympic Games held in Mexico titled, "The Greatest Last Place Finish",
is worthy of reflection:
"Out of the cold darkness he came.
John Stephen Akhwari of Tanzania entered at the far end of the stadium, pain hobbling his every step, his leg covered by a blood stained bandage.
The winner of the marathon had been declared over an hour earlier. Only a few spectators remained. But the lone runner pressed on.
As he crossed the finish line, the small crowd roared out its appreciation. Afterwards, a reporter asked the runner why he had not retired from the race, since he had no chance of winning. He seemed confused by the question. Finally he answered:
'My country did not send me to Mexico City to start the race. They sent me to finish.'"
What a remarkable example of human endeavor and dedication to a cause.

At the end of every session, they invited me to pray. Again I resisted. I had never prayed and felt very awkward at the very thought. Eventually, they wore me down – I agreed. They suggested a simple format, and I knelt and voiced a prayer.
And while I grappled for words, I felt a bright effusion of light in my mind. It was something real and profound. I suddenly felt that there were other ways of knowing beyond the limits of human reason. This spiritual experience unlocked my soul to God and all the associated possibilities.

Eleven-year-old Jennifer stared out the window of her Primary classroom. Marshmallow clouds drifted across a blue March sky. Sometimes she saw imaginary faces in the clouds.
“Jennifer,” the teacher said impatiently, “what do you think of the idea?”
“I’m sorry, Sister Sparks. I guess I wasn’t listening.”
“I know,” Sister Sparks said dryly, at which the other students giggled. “We’ve been discussing a service project, and it’s been decided that we will visit the Golden Years Rest Home once a week for the next two months.”
“What will we do there?” Jennifer asked.
“We can sing, put on skits, play checkers and other games, and just visit with the folks who live there.”
Jennifer didn’t think that sounded like very much fun. She was apprehensive about being with people she didn’t know, especially older people.
The first visit to the home was not very successful. The children felt awkward and uncomfortable. The second visit was better. They felt a bit more relaxed, and the residents seemed to enjoy their company.
By the third visit the children felt at home, and they hurried to pick out their favorite partners to visit and play games with.
During one visit Jennifer noticed an elderly lady for the first time. She sat alone, looking out the window. Her fine, wispy white hair framed a face with deep wrinkles. Jennifer went over and stood silently beside the lady for a moment. Finally she said, “Hi, I’m Jennifer Wheeler. Would you like me to read to you?”
The old lady looked up with watery blue eyes. Her pale lips spread in a slow, sweet smile. “That would be very nice, dear, but if you don’t mind, I’d rather just talk.”
Jennifer drew up a chair and sat down. “What’s your name?” she asked.
The old lady laughed softly. “It might be one you’ve never heard. It’s Clementine. Clementine Dodd. But everyone here calls me Clemmie. Tell me about yourself.”
Jennifer told her about school and her family and friends. Her eyes sparkled as she added, “Oh, you should see my cat! Her name is Bounce. Don’t you think that’s a nice name?”
Clemmie agreed, and they sat in silence for a while. Then Jennifer said, “Tell me about when you were a little girl. Did you like school?”
Clemmie’s eyes misted over as her memory went back to those long-ago days. She was quiet for so long that Jennifer thought she hadn’t heard the question.
At last she said, “Yes, Jennifer, I liked school, but I had to quit in the sixth grade. We were very poor. Oh, the chores we had to do! There was wood to chop and carry in, buckets of water to bring in from the well, oil lamps to clean and fill. We didn’t have much time for school or for play.”
Jennifer found it hard to imagine Clemmie as a young girl, harder still to think of anyone’s working so hard just to survive. She thought of her own warm, bright home and the simple chores she had to do. “But didn’t you ever get to do anything you wanted to do?” she asked.
Clemmie chuckled. “I remember one time when I was about sixteen. I had a beau, one of the hired hands from a neighboring farm, who had invited me to a barn dance. Shortly before the dance my father noticed that the chicken coop hadn’t been cleaned and reminded me that it was my turn to clean it. I had completely forgotten! He said I couldn’t go out that night until the job was done.”
“What did you do, Clemmie? Did you have to stay home?”
Clemmie smiled as she continued: “No, I talked my brother into doing it for me. I had to promise to take his turn the next three times. If you knew what a hated job it was, you’d know how much I wanted to go to that dance!”
Jennifer went back home, thinking that things were sure a lot different now than they were in Clemmie’s day.
Over the next few weeks, Jennifer and Clemmie became great friends. Clemmie had new stories of her childhood to tell every visit, and Jennifer came to appreciate what it was like to live in those bygone days.
As they were going to the nursing home one week toward the end of April, Jennifer was thinking about how much she would miss Clemmie and her stories at the end of the month. When they entered the home, Jennifer noticed right away that Clemmie was not in her usual spot by the window. “Where do you suppose Clemmie is?” she asked her teacher.
“I’ll find out,” Sister Sparks replied and went to talk to the head nurse.
When she came back, Jennifer could tell by her expression that something was wrong. “What is it, Sister Sparks? Is Clemmie sick?”
“No, dear. I’m sorry to have to tell you, but Clemmie died a few days ago. The nurse said she went peacefully in her sleep.”
Jennifer felt the hot tears burn her eyes, and she turned away so the others wouldn’t see her crying.
Sister Sparks put an arm around her shoulders and said, “You brought a lot of pleasure and happiness into the last weeks of her life.”
As the class left the nursing home, Sister Sparks drew Jennifer aside. She handed her a small leather-bound book. The cover was cracked and worn at the edges, and Jennifer could just make out the faded gilt lettering, Daily Journal.
“The nurse gave me this to give to you,” Sister Sparks said. “It was Clemmie’s journal when she was a young girl. Clemmie wanted you to have it.”
Jennifer almost cried again as she looked at the writing on the worn pages. She knew the journal was something she would treasure always.

I had this principle vividly impressed upon me one day a long time ago. I was living back in Virginia at the time, and one beautiful fall day I drove out into the country to pick up some walnuts. There were sixteen Stop signs between my home and the very, very heavily wooded lane where I turned in to get those walnuts. I stopped fifteen times. The last Stop sign was way out in the country. I could see in both directions. There were no other cars in sight. I thought to myself: “Why should I stop? Stop signs are to protect people, but I am the only one around. So why stop?” So I didn’t! I wasn’t speeding. I just went through at the speed limit. When I reached the heavily wooded lane, I found I couldn’t see around the corner. It’s that way back there in Virginia. So I slowed down and turned in. Just as I did, there was another car coming out of the lane, and because we couldn’t see each other, we ran together at about five miles per hour. It wasn’t a hard impact and the cars weren’t severely damaged. As I recall, it only cost me $168 to replace my grill and headlights.
Now, that accident had to be perfectly timed. Of course, if I had stopped at the last Stop sign, it would never have happened. I said, “Lord, I get the message. You really didn’t have to go this far, but I do understand.” In fact, I stopped sixteen times on the way home with the front end of my car beat up.

In my heart of hearts I wanted to serve a mission. But I was in love. Sure I know guys usually leave girlfriends behind, but Chris was different. She was a cheerleader in our high school, blonde, beautiful, with a clever personality, and not stuck-up. I had a crush on her when we went to high school in Nebraska but didn’t have the courage to ask her out until we met in college. She was a year older than I.
For a guy in high school to win an older woman is nearly hopeless. It gets easier in college where you can’t tell how old a guy is by the books he carries. So I asked her out. My heart raced when she agreed to a date. Friendship quickly blossomed into romance. I felt my life was now complete and nothing else much mattered, even a mission call.
Then we argued about something really important. I can’t remember what right now, but I know it was life-or-death because of how angry I felt about it. I did not sleep that night. I continued to sulk without relief. Something had to change, and I was pretty sure it was not me.
In a physics class the next day, as Professor Hill talked about light, I wanted to collapse with some distant galaxy into a black hole. Maybe light was what we had lost. Radiant, burning light. This is how I had felt in the beginning when I was with her—like stars exploding in the skies. But now I felt uncertainty, darkness even. For the first time I longed for what I had been hearing about in religion class—pure love, selfless but fervent caring. I thought of Christ and how he felt for the little children. I knew he was the source. And I knew prayer would help.
I had always said my prayers at night. It was a childhood habit. But, unfortunately, they had become routine. It was more like brushing teeth than communion with deity, a way to prevent spiritual cavities. Please bless … please bless … please bless. Night after night I had been describing to the Lord exactly how I thought my world should be ordered.
But that day in physics I realized my whole world was turned inward. I knew that to escape the confusion I must find a way to reach out to other people. But how? I could not even reach out to my girlfriend. Instead I had tried to annex her personality into my own, to possess it, to lock her up inside me. The problem needed more maturity and strength than I had. All of the routine prayers in the world wouldn’t be adequate. I needed a prayer of faith like Enos offered in the wilderness.
So there in the wilderness of 200 physics students, I looked down as if at my textbook, and with one hand shielding my eyes, offered a simple, heartfelt prayer. My idea was to prepare the Lord for what I would be asking later, to humbly and sincerely bring him up to speed on what I had been feeling. But as I opened my heart the feelings gushed out. I told him everything. Tears trickled from my chin and wet the book. Then, suddenly, a profound peace washed through me. And with it came light, illumination, an unmistakable understanding.
I knew missionary work was the key. I needed a mission more than the Lord needed me to be a missionary. I needed to put aside my own problems and help those who were wandering in darkness worse than my own. I had learned to pray about problems. But those who lived in the dark did not pray because no one had told them they could.
After class I called my bishop.
That evening I met Chris to study in the library. I felt calm as I explained the events of the day and my determination to go on a mission. She was supportive and complimentary. As I looked at her, I considered the real possibility that she would not be waiting when I returned. But peace replaced jealousy. I knew nothing could keep me from my mission.
For two years I wrote to her. Weekly at first, then less often. When I returned, we visited. I told her of the people I had met and the lives I had watched change. She told me about her studies of South and Central America. She had developed such a love for the people of those countries that she now wanted to serve a mission. It was the last time I saw her for several years.
The selfish emotions which had consumed me before were gone, replaced by a desire for service, a love for others, and a powerful new faith in the Savior.
Back in school, I met Julie. She was blonde, beautiful, clever, and someone who cared about other people. More surprising, she was attracted to me. We were married in the spring. I can say with conviction that the Lord knows better than we do how our lives should be ordered. The self-centered existence I would have chosen for myself cannot compare with the blessings that have followed obedience and service.

Transportation was either difficult to obtain or nonexistent. Brother Krause reported that it was common to walk twelve or thirteen hours, for distances of up to fifty kilometers, to visit various branches of the Church. But many members, like Sister Elli Polzin, still had to be found and cared for.
“I came from Stettin [now in Poland] with our children and my mother in 1946. … One day two missionaries, one of them was Brother Walter Bohme from Groitzsch, came by to help us make contact with the Church once again. They encouraged us to move into Schwerin where there was a branch of the Church. I got a job there … and after much difficulty I was able to bring my family to Schwerin. … For years we lived in one room until we got an apartment. And then in December of 1949, one day before Christmas Eve, my husband came home from prison” (Schutze, page 18).

When I was in the first grade, I experienced what I thought was a rather tough day at school. I came home, walked in the house, threw my book on the kitchen table, and let forth [some bad words] that included the name of the Lord.
My mother was shocked. She told me quietly, but firmly, how wrong I was. She told me that I could not have words of that kind coming out of my mouth. She led me by the hand into the bathroom, where she took from the shelf a clean washcloth, put it under the faucet, and then generously coated it with soap. She said, “We’ll have to wash out your mouth.” She told me to open it, and I did so reluctantly. Then she rubbed the soapy washcloth around my tongue and teeth. I sputtered and fumed and felt like swearing again, but I didn’t. I rinsed and rinsed my mouth, but it was a long while before the soapy taste was gone. In fact, whenever I think of that experience, I can still taste the soap. I have tried to avoid using the name of the Lord in vain since that day. I am grateful for that lesson.

One of the missionaries who served with me had a difficult time getting along with companions. I was required to transfer them frequently because they could not take it. Finally, I asked one of my finest missionaries to become his companion, urging him to do all he could to help his fellow missionary love his work. As I approached a conference in the city where they were laboring, I feared he, like his predecessors, would ask for a transfer. To my surprise, when I asked how he was getting along with his companion, he responded: “We are doing great! We discovered we had something in common. Neither of us has been to Africa!”

Each of us can cite numerous examples of church leaders who have been great teachers. Elder Oaks shared in his recent book, Life's Lessons Learned, the example of his own mother and of his Bishop when he was a 12-year old deacon. That Christmas, his Bishop invited him to help deliver baskets of fruit to each of the widows in the ward. When he had delivered all the baskets but one, the Bishop drove him home. Elder Oaks recounts that when the Bishop drove him home, he gave him the last basket and said, "This is for your mother."

Elder Oaks then continued, "I stood in the front of our house...holding the basket and wondering. I had never thought of my mother as a widow. I had never heard her refer to herself as a widow." He then continued, "That Christmas experience was formative in my understanding of the eternal family and in my appreciation for the faith of my mother. She always taught us that we had a father and she had a husband and that we would always be a family because of their temple marriage." (Life's Lessons Learned, Dallin H. Oaks, SLC: Deseret Book, 2011.) Clearly his Bishop and his mother had taught him powerful lessons as faithful leaders.

by Mark Reed
After much study and two days practice on a small river, our teachers quorum was ready for the big event of our summer—a canoe trip down the Waitara River! Our plans were to cover about 35 miles with at least 50 rapids of varying length and turbulence during the two-day trip.
When the day came for departure, the four of us met at our adviser’s home with life jackets, crash helmets, sneakers, and small waterproof packs that contained our food, utensils, and tents. We launched about 10:00 A.M. and spent the next two hours in hard, solid paddling. After a lunch break, however, we began meeting the rapids. At first this was a little scary, but we soon found that we could maneuver the canoes quite easily in and out among the big rocks, away from huge fallen trees and into the best channels of the fast-flowing, mud-colored river. The beautiful and ever-changing landscape added to the thrill of the trip. One minute we were dwarfed in a magnificent canyon with huge towering and overhanging cliffs and waterfalls and in the next instant we had shot out into the serenity of rolling, bush-clad country.
Around 5:00 P.M. it began to rain, so we decided to stop for the evening and make camp. We soon had a roaring fire going that dried our wet clothing and provided heat to cook a scrumptious meal. By then the day’s paddling had taken its toll, so after group prayer, we dragged ourselves off to our sleeping bags.
The next day’s journey was exciting, colorful, and unforgettable—but ended too soon. As we progressed down the widening, winding course of the river and saw farmland ahead, we knew that the tough job of guiding these little crafts along the river with its pleasures, dangers, thrills, and excitement would soon be over. And it was. But our shared memories, strengthened friendships, and increased testimonies had made the trip something we would always remember. (We are members of the New Plymouth Branch, New Plymouth District in the New Zealand Wellington Mission.)

When I studied experiences in Church history, I realized that I might not be the only one who has felt this way. I found hope in the story of William W. Phelps, who was an author, missionary, and leader of the early Restoration. He was a good man. He preached the gospel wherever he traveled and became a trusted member of the Missouri High Council. William was also a close friend of Joseph Smith.
Which is why his betrayal of Joseph was particularly painful.
In 1838, mobs and militiamen attacked and pillaged the Saints in Missouri, destroying homes and beating resisters. In the aftermath, Joseph Smith and other Church leaders were arrested for baseless crimes. Afraid of being prosecuted alongside them, William W. Phelps and several others made a deal with the prosecutor: testify against Joseph Smith and go free.
Under oath, William joined others in bearing false testimony against the Prophet. After the trial, Joseph and other Church leaders were incarcerated in Liberty Jail. While William left the courthouse a free man, he felt the weight of his actions on his shoulders. Several years later, Joseph Smith received a letter from William asking Joseph for forgiveness.
“I am as the prodigal son,” wrote William. “I have been greatly abased and humbled.”
The Prophet wrote back, “Believing your confession to be real, and your repentance genuine, I shall be happy once again to give you the right hand of fellowship, and rejoice over the returning prodigal.”
Joseph Smith was filled with compassion for William. Just as the father celebrated the return of the prodigal in the scriptures (see Luke 15:11–32), so too did the Saints receive William Phelps back into the fold.
Repentance and forgiveness for William—which likely seemed impossible to him—was now a reality. And it can be a reality for us too!
Joseph Smith acknowledged the pain that William had caused: “We have suffered much in consequence of your behavior—the cup of gall, already full enough for mortals to drink, was indeed filled to overflowing when you turned against us.”
But Joseph continued, “However, the cup has been drunk, the will of our Father has been done.”
Joseph recognized that William’s sins had been paid for and that there was no need for William to suffer any longer. William’s repentance to Heavenly Father could free him from guilt.

President James E. Faust was deeply moved when he visited the route of the handcart pioneers. These are some of his thoughts.
In celebration of July 24th several years ago, I joined the Saints of the Riverton Wyoming Stake. … The youth and youth leaders of that stake reenacted part of the handcart trek which took place in 1856. We … went first to Independence Rock, where we picked up the Mormon Trail. We saw Devil’s Gate a few miles up the road. Our souls were subdued [quieted] when we arrived at the hallowed ground of Martin’s Cove, the site where the Martin Handcart Company, freezing and starving, waited for the rescue wagons to come from Salt Lake City. Numerous members of the Martin Handcart Company perished there from hunger and cold.
It was an emotional experience to see the Sweetwater River crossing, where many of the 500 members of the company were carried across the icy river by several brave young men.
We went farther along the trail where members of the Willie Handcart Company were rescued. We felt that we were standing on holy ground. Many members of that party died from starvation and cold there. We continued to travel up over Rocky Ridge, 7,300 feet (2200 m) high. … It was very difficult for all of the pioneers to travel over Rocky Ridge. It was particularly agonizing for the members of the Willie Handcart Company, who struggled over that ridge in the fall of 1856 in a blizzard. Many had worn-out shoes, and the sharp rocks caused their feet to bleed, leaving a trail of blood in the snow. …
We went on to Rock Creek Hollow, where the Willie Handcart Company made camp. Thirteen members of the Willie Company who perished from cold, exhaustion, and starvation are buried in a common grave at Rock Creek Hollow. Two additional members who died during the night are buried nearby. Two of those buried at Rock Creek Hollow were heroic children of tender years: Bodil Mortinsen, age nine, from Denmark, and James Kirkwood, age eleven, from Scotland.
Bodil apparently was assigned to care for some small children as they crossed Rocky Ridge. When they arrived at camp, she must have been sent to gather firewood. She was found frozen to death, leaning against the wheel of her handcart, clutching sagebrush.
Let me tell you of James Kirkwood. James was from Glasgow, Scotland. On the trip west, James was accompanied by his widowed mother and three brothers, one of whom, Thomas, was nineteen and crippled and had to ride in the handcart. James’s primary responsibility on the trek was to care for his little four-year-old brother, Joseph, while his mother and oldest brother, Robert, pulled the cart. As they climbed Rocky Ridge, it was snowing and there was a bitter cold wind blowing. It took the whole company twenty-seven hours to travel fifteen miles (24 k). When little Joseph became too weary to walk, James, the older brother, had no choice but to carry him. Left behind the main group, James and Joseph made their way slowly to camp. When the two finally arrived at the fireside, James, “having so faithfully carried out his task, collapsed and died from exposure and over-exertion. …”
I have wondered why these [courageous] pioneers had to pay for their faith with such a terrible price in agony and suffering. Why were not the elements tempered to spare them … ? I believe their lives were consecrated to a higher purpose through their suffering. Their love for the Savior was burned deep in their souls and into the souls of their children and their children’s children. …
Francis Webster, a member of the Martin Company, stated, “Everyone of us came through with the absolute knowledge that God lives for we became acquainted with him in our extremities [greatest suffering].” I hope that this priceless legacy of faith left by the pioneers will inspire all of us to more fully participate in the Lord’s work of bringing to pass the immortality and eternal life of His children.
(See Ensign, July 2002, pages 2–5.)

Light of the World by Brent Borup
When President Russell M. Nelson spoke about using the correct name of the Church, his message was very clear to me: “It is the command of the Lord. … To remove the Lord’s name from the Lord’s Church is a major victory for Satan” (“The Correct Name of the Church,” Oct. 2018 general conference [Ensign or Liahona, Nov. 2018, 87, 88]).
Committed to using the Church’s full name, I waited for the next opportunity to claim my membership in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Sure enough, that opportunity came. “You Mormons are such kind people,” someone told me.
“Well, thank you,” I answered. “As members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, we believe we’re all brothers and sisters.” Then the conversation continued with him and everyone else talking about the kindness of “Mormons.”
Although I had done my part in saying the full name of the Church, my friends and associates still viewed me as part of the “Mormon Church” and not necessarily as a follower of Christ, let alone as a member of Christ’s restored Church.
Over the next several interactions about my faith, I found it awkward to say the full name of the Church multiple times in the same conversation. Everyone I spoke to seemed to give me odd expressions. And they continued to use the term “Mormons.”
I wanted to make my interactions feel more natural. But this turned out to be more difficult than I expected, particularly with individuals I didn’t want to offend. I didn’t want to be embarrassed or lazy about living my faith, but I also didn’t want to come across as harsh, since many of these people had previously called me “Mormon,” with me accepting it. I also heard many members of the Church still calling members of the Church “Mormons.”
I found myself asking whether using the full name of the Church was really that important in the grand scheme of things. The “Mormon” brand, after all, is quite positive in the minds of many people—being a “Mormon” had often been an asset to me. But in revisiting President Nelson’s talk, I was impressed that this really is that important, even if it did cause some awkwardness in conversation. So I recommitted myself.
One day I was visiting a friend at a church of another faith. Someone came up to me and with a bright smile asked if I was a Mormon. “Yes, I am a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints,” I said.
He started asking me several questions, each beginning with: “Does the Mormon Church believe … ?”
And each time, I began my answer with the phrase: “In the restored Church of Jesus Christ, we believe …”
This banter went back and forth several times. When he noticed that I wasn’t accepting the title “Mormon,” he asked me point-blank, “Are you not Mormon?”
So I asked him if he knew who Mormon was—he didn’t. I told him that Mormon was a prophet, a historian, and a military general in the ancient Americas. I am honored to be associated with a man who was so dedicated to the service of God and others.
“But,” I continued, “Mormon didn’t die for my sins. Jesus Christ is my God and my Savior. He is my Redeemer. And it is by His name that I want to be known at the last day, and it’s by His name that I hope to be known today.”
I felt the assurance of the Spirit supporting me in this short testimony to my new acquaintance. After a few seconds of silence, he said, “So, you’re a Christian?”
“Yes, I’m a Christian,” I responded, “and a member of Christ’s restored Church.”
Seeking to follow the instruction of the prophet seemed simple, but it turned out to take more effort than I expected. I’m still not perfect at following everything I’m asked to do, but I make sure to use the full name of the Church.
I’m grateful for the Spirit that I feel when I get to testify to others about my Savior and my membership in His Church.
The author lives in Virginia, USA.

In 2008, she desired to find her paternal grandmother’s family history. Since she had passed away, Anu tried to find her grandmother’s sister. All Anu knew was her name, the city, and that she lived on Temple Street.

Anu traveled to another city, seven months pregnant with her two little children on her quest. When she arrived at Temple Street, she began asking people if anyone knew her. She said, “It was like the Lord’s hand was there, helping”. Each person she asked drew her a little closer until she found her great-aunt. It was like a miracle.

At first, she was worried if she would be accepted. Her great-aunt is Hindu and Anu is a member of the Church. She had only met her once before. However, her grandmother’s sister warmly welcomed her.

Anu eagerly sketched the four-generation family pedigree as they visited for two hours, “she was like an encyclopedia of information”. Anu exclaimed, “It was an amazing experience! I’ll never forget it! I felt a strong connection with my ancestors, like they were waiting for me to get the information recorded.” Anu explained that India’s government didn’t record birth and death dates. Approximate dates were typically remembered by lunar calendar. For example, a birth date may be recorded as five days after the full moon.

I remember my husband telling our teen-age daughter "I taught high school for a long time, and I can't ever remember one righteous girl turning around a whole group of unrighteous friends. Too often, the one who is trying to keep her standards high begins to relax, then accept, then embrace the talk and dress and attitudes of the world." Based on that counsel, our daughter made some different choices concerning who she associated with, and when she enrolled at BYU–Hawaii, she created strong bonds with an excellent peer group who shared her values and eternal goals. We believe those decisions made all the difference in instilling a desire to serve a full-time mission. Hermana Kammerer is now serving in the Texas Fort Worth Mission, where she is finding great joy in her journey despite the inherent challenges of missionary service.

“See you later!” Patrick waved to the missionaries as they left his house. He always liked the feeling he had when the missionaries came over—it was a warm, good feeling.
The missionaries had been coming to Patrick’s house a lot lately. They were teaching his family about Joseph Smith, the Book of Mormon, the priesthood, and all sorts of other things about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Patrick and his mom had even gone to church with them. Patrick liked Primary because they sang and colored and listened to stories.
“If Mom and Dad join the Church, I can go to Primary every Sunday,” Patrick thought happily.
Mom was excited about the Church and all the things the missionaries taught. But Dad just seemed to listen because Mom wanted him to. After the missionaries taught Patrick how to pray, he knelt down every night and prayed that Dad would want to go to church.
One evening, Patrick saw Dad lying on the couch. He didn’t look so good.
“Dad, are you OK?” Patrick asked.
“Sure, buddy,” Dad said. “I just have a little stomachache. I’ll be fine.”
Patrick didn’t think Dad looked fine. He went to find Mom.
After feeling Dad’s forehead, Mom suggested they go to the emergency room.
“No, I’ll be OK. I just need to—” Dad groaned and scrunched up into a ball as a look of pain came over his face.
Patrick was worried. Then he thought of something. “Why don’t we call the missionaries?” he said. “Maybe they can give Dad a blessing.”
Patrick had learned about blessings when the missionaries had taught them about the priesthood. He knew the priesthood was the power to act in the name of God and that someone with the priesthood could heal the sick, just like Jesus did in the Bible.
Mom looked at Dad. When he nodded his head, she went to call the missionaries. A little while later there was a knock at the door. The missionaries said hello to Patrick and Mom. Then they went straight to where Dad was lying on the couch. The missionaries took out a small container of consecrated oil and placed a drop on Dad’s head. Then they placed their hands gently on his head and gave him a blessing.
After the blessing, Dad was smiling and had tears in his eyes. He didn’t look like he was in pain anymore. Dad sat up and shook the missionaries’ hands.
“Thank you,” Dad said.
Patrick smiled too. That warm, good feeling was back, and he knew Dad was going to be OK.
The next morning, Patrick was excited when he realized it was Sunday. As he and Mom got ready for church, Patrick saw Dad standing in front of a mirror, tying his tie. He was going to church with them!
“Ready for church, buddy?” Dad asked Patrick.
“You bet!”
Patrick felt happier than ever before. He silently thanked Heavenly Father for answering his prayers and for sending two missionaries with the power of the priesthood to bless his family.