Gospel Story Finder

Another of the great missionaries of the Church, who later became an apostle, was Parley P. Pratt. In 1830 Parley was twenty-three and serving as a missionary in Ohio. While in the course of his travels he was arrested falsely and taken to court. Ordered to pay a heavy fine, he had no money, so the judge committed him to prison. It was late at night, and there was not time enough to travel to the prison, which was several miles away, so Parley was taken by an officer to a hotel to spend the night. After the night’s rest and breakfast, he was taken to the public square by the escorting officer, Mr. Peabody, ready to be taken to prison. Here is the episode as Parley told it:
“Said I, ‘Mr. Peabody, are you good at a race?’ ‘No,’ said he, ‘but my big bulldog is, and he has been trained to assist me in my office these several years; he will take any man down at my bidding.’ ‘Well, Mr. Peabody, you compelled me to go a mile. I have gone with you two miles. You have given me an opportunity to preach, sing, and have also entertained me with lodging and breakfast. I must now go on my journey; if you are good at a race you can accompany me. I thank you for all your kindness—good day, sir.’”
Parley then took off on a dead run. By the time Mr. Peabody had gotten over his astonishment and was able to stir himself to action, Parley had covered 200 yards, leaped a fence, and was running through a field to the forest. The officer came hallooing after him and sent his huge dog to seize him. The dog overtook Parley in due time and was about to grab him, when Parley, in a moment of inspiration, reached out his arm and pointed in the direction of the forest, all the while imitating the officer by yelling “Stu-Boy.”
“The dog hastened past me with redoubled speed towards the forest; being urged by the officer and myself, and both of us running in the same direction. Gaining the forest, I soon lost sight of the officer and dog, and have not seen them since.”6
No one could have warned Parley Pratt of the danger his mission might place him in, but once there he didn’t fail to see the humor of his situation and turn what could have been a “cost” into a “benefit” in an experience to be enjoyed in retrospect.

When I opened my mission call and learned I would serve an English-speaking mission in America, I was relieved. I struggled in vain to learn a language in high school, and I was glad I wouldn’t have to deal with that again in the MTC.
During my mission I served in a Samoan ward. Most of the members spoke English as well, so we could easily work with them.
Then my companion and I began to teach a part-member family who had been raised in Samoa and had just moved to America. When one of the girls asked me to perform her baptism, I felt impressed to learn how to say the baptism prayer in Samoan. I knew my weakness in learning other languages, but my love for her and her family overcame my fear.
That night I went to another member’s house so he could teach me how to say the prayer in Samoan. Despite 30 minutes of practicing, I left discouraged and frustrated because I had not gotten very far. That night I asked the Lord to bless me with the gift of tongues if He wanted me to say the baptism prayer in Samoan.
When I practiced the next morning, I quickly found I was not only able to say the baptism prayer, but also recite it from memory. The day of the baptism came, and I was able to say the baptism prayer in Samoan nearly perfectly. I felt the Spirit work through me. I know the Lord can work miracles for us if we have the faith and allow Him to work through us.

When Angel was eight years old, she was introduced to gymnastics. “I had always loved sports. I had tried swimming, soccer, kung fu, skating, and ballet,” she says. But she felt none of those sports were challenging enough to interest her.
At her first gymnastics class, however, she was presented with a variety of feats that seemed physically impossible. Her interest was piqued, and from that point on she was drawn to the gym like a magnet. Angel had finally found a sport that matched both her energy and her athletic abilities. “I wanted to excel in gymnastics,” she says. “I knew God gave me an amazing gift. He gave me a healthy body and the talent to do gymnastics. So, I set my goals high and worked toward them with intensity.”

During my freshman year in high school, I decided to join the track team. This choice required a lot of commitment because we practiced running every day for two hours after school. We also had to give up weekends to attend track meets. It was a tough but invigorating and rewarding sport.
One Wednesday after school we traveled two hours on the bus to attend a track meet. I had packed all my things but felt uneasy. Had I eaten right? Did I have good form? Should I do something to help me run better today? Questions and uncertainty filled my mind. My friend, Hayley, and I were in the first event. We were both nervous. Quickly we went to our coach and asked, “Is there anything we can do right now to make us better?” He smiled and replied, “You should have asked me that on Monday.”
Being a good track runner requires preparation, and we felt foolish for not having asked this question before the big day came.

James Forten had been fifteen years old when he enlisted on the privateer Royal Louis as a powder boy in 1781. His job was to fetch gunpowder for the cannons as they were fired in battle. After several successful raids on British ships, the privateer was captured by the British warship Amphyon. The British captain was so impressed with James’s intelligence and warm personality that he offered James a comfortable life in England for the duration of the war.
But James told him, “I cannot be a traitor to my country.”
James had then been placed on the Jersey. It was a fate preferable to slavery, James felt. At least on the Jersey he might have a chance of returning to his home in Philadelphia. Now the opportunity he had been waiting for had arisen.
James searched the hold of the wretched ship for men who had not survived the night. To his relief, there were none. Then, looking for sick men to help to the deck, he found his friend Daniel Brewton, former ship’s boy on the Royal Louis.
In the sunlight on deck, James saw that Daniel’s eyes were glazed. His body was covered with sores, and his sunken face was pale. With a horrible feeling, James realized that Daniel was dying. Unless …
James tried to thrust the thought from him. He’d made his plans. He would not spend another night on the Jersey!
“James,” Daniel whispered. “Would you get me some water?”
James scooped up a dipperful of the thick, almost-green water from its cask. Daniel choked down the liquid and lay down again with a shudder.
The next morning, Daniel Brewton escaped in the officer’s sea chest and returned to his home in Philadelphia to recover. James was finally released from the Jersey almost three months later. Although he was weak, he made his way on foot back to Philadelphia. He went to work for the sailmaker, Robert Bridges, who had employed James’s father for many years. Two years later, when he was only twenty-two, James was supervising twenty black and twenty white employees. He was known for his fairness and generosity to all. Later, Bridges sold his sail loft to James Forten, and he became one of the most successful and respected businessmen in Philadelphia.
Forten fought for equal job opportunities and equal citizenship for blacks in the United States. Even though he amassed a large fortune during his lifetime, at the time of his death, only a fraction of it remained. Most of it had been used for buying the freedom of many slaves and for the struggle for equal rights. He wrote eloquent pamphlets and made moving speeches against unfair laws and practices.
When James Forten died in 1842, he had earned his place in history for helping not just his country but all mankind.

When area conferences first began, the meetings were held in only one city at a time, such as Manchester, Mexico City, or Munich. Traveling to the conference and then back home again was a relatively simple schedule for the Brethren to follow. As the idea of taking the conferences to the people expanded, particularly under President Spencer W. Kimball’s leadership, it came to mean scheduling five or six area conferences back to back. This made the travel schedules more than hectic—they became absolutely strenuous.
When the area conference plans were announced for Asia in 1975, I became a little concerned and felt that someone should go along as a physician to the General Authorities, their wives, and other members of the group. There were quite a few people traveling together, and it seemed appropriate to have medical help available if needed. A recommendation was made and accepted to have a physician accompany those traveling to the various area conferences. In 1976 I was asked to go to Europe in this capacity.
From the very start of our journey, I was moved by President Kimball and Sister Kimball’s concern for the others traveling with them. When my wife and I boarded the airplane in Salt Lake City, we took seats to the side and in back of President Kimball. A few minutes after the plane took off and the seat belt sign was turned off, President Kimball turned around and said to us, “Are you comfortable?” I was there to serve him and the others traveling with him, and yet he showed this concern for us. Throughout the entire trip this great, kind, friendly man was always interested in the welfare of the people around him. We felt so comfortable traveling with him because of his warmth and graciousness.
After the first area conference in Paris, we traveled to Helsinki, Finland. President Kimball had been going strong now for three days. He was up early every morning, worked a very heavy schedule throughout the day, and then went to bed late at night. His responsibilities were greater than anyone else’s.
His jobs included not only presiding and conducting, but he spoke for long periods of time using a translator. He had held an exhausting press conference and had interviewed and set apart many local Church authorities. We boarded an airplane late in the evening for Helsinki. It was necessary to change planes in Copenhagen, and as we walked through the hallways of the airport, President Kimball carried a travel bag with his suits in it. I had a free hand and walked up and said, “President Kimball, let me carry that.” He turned and said, “No, thank you, I have to have a reason for being here.” He was almost serious in humbly expressing his desire to carry his own weight; he didn’t want to be a burden on anyone. I was impressed with that same beautiful attitude during the entire trip.
In Dortmund, Germany, during the last area conference on this trip, we stayed in an older, beautiful hotel. The manager was an austere, tall, straight, gray-haired Prussian gentleman. He looked as if he could have been an officer in the army. On the second day after arriving at the hotel, the manager commented, speaking of President Kimball, “Every time that man walks through this lobby, I feel goose bumps all over me.” He felt the spirit that radiates from President Kimball. After making that remark he was introduced to the prophet. President Kimball spoke with him briefly and gave him a family home evening manual. Arrangements were made for him to receive the missionary discussions.
The hotel manager was vividly influenced by that very brief contact with the living prophet. On the day we left, we boarded a bus in front of the hotel and drove around the block, passing the hotel again because of the one-way streets. As we passed the hotel, this handsome, stately gentleman was standing outside on the sidewalk waving good-bye to President Kimball with his white handkerchief. It was significant that the hotel manager could feel the Spirit of the Lord just by watching our prophet walk through the hotel lobby. You know, President Kimball looks like any one of the rest of us. Some may not think that there is anything unusual about his appearance—but there is an unusual spirit that he carries with him.
After the Dortmund conference, while most of the group returned to the United States, President Kimball, President Tanner, and their wives, and a few others traveled to Bern, Switzerland. Here the two members of the First Presidency were busy for an additional day and a half in the Swiss Temple. They had been traveling now for 14 days while participating in the five area conferences. They had been going unceasingly when we boarded a bus at Bern to go to Zurich where we were to catch our flight to New York and then on to Salt Lake. I saw President Kimball’s exceptional enthusiasm in action again.
There had been 14 days of going, going, going, and in the 30 hours ahead there would be no opportunity for the prophet to go to bed or really relax. On the bus most of us leaned back in our seats and began to nap. I was seated behind President Kimball and expected that he would use the next hour for some well-deserved rest. We had not quite reached the autobahn when President Kimball stood up and made his way up the aisle to a jump seat next to the bus driver. As I sat in my seat feeling almost exhausted, our prophet, who had reason to be more tired than anyone else, couldn’t rest because there was a person on that bus who hadn’t been taught the gospel of Jesus Christ.
As I watched what happened, I had a feeling of guilt—I had been content to sit back and relax, but the prophet, realizing the transcending importance of missionary work, didn’t let weariness dampen his burning desire to share the gospel with others.
I wondered how he was going to talk with the bus driver who seemed to speak little English. President Kimball doesn’t speak German. Initially there was some difficulty as they tried to speak to one another. After only a few minutes, however, the two of them were obviously quite able to understand each other. Now my worry was transferred from how they would communicate with each other to whether the bus driver, while glancing frequently at President Kimball, would be able to keep the bus on the road. It was clear that he understood and was interested in President Kimball’s sincere message. Their conversation continued until we reached the outskirts of Zurich when President Kimball returned to his seat.
When the bus pulled up at the Zurich airport, President Gary E. O’Brian, president of the Zurich Switzerland Mission, was waiting on the curb. President Kimball went to the door of the bus as it opened. He asked President O’Brian to step on the bus, and while shaking hands with him, said, “President O’Brian, this is Mr. __________. Will you promise me you will teach him the gospel?” President O’Brian said, “Yes, President.” And then President Kimball said, “Mr. __________, this is one of our mission presidents. Will you let him teach you the gospel of Jesus Christ?” The bus driver nodded his head and said he would.
This experience really taught me the importance of sharing the gospel. Our prophet is in close communication with our Heavenly Father and sees beyond the veil much more clearly than I do. He puts this degree of urgency on missionary work. Even when he has every reason to be tired, when sitting back and resting would seem to be a valid excuse for passing up a missionary opportunity, President Kimball continues to be a vigorous missionary. How can you or I do less than share the gospel with our families, our neighbors, our friends, and everyone else we meet?

The Ebola outbreak also brought widespread unemployment. "I was almost without hope," said Sister Sai Kamaia of the Allentown Branch, a mother of three children who makes her living trading small goods. "All of my money was gone in September, even before the lockdown. People were afraid to trade. I did not know what I was going to do." Like others, she shed tears of joy when she received Church supplies.

Twelve-year-old Elizabeth watched Carol’s long fingers glide smoothly over the black and white piano keys.
“Excellent, Carol!” Mrs. Brown exclaimed for the second time in a matter of minutes. “You’ll do beautifully in Saturday’s competition. I’m expecting you to win that trophy again this year.”
Elizabeth squirmed uneasily and rubbed her moist palms together. The grandfather clock against the wall seemed to stare at her. It wasn’t easy following Mrs. Brown’s best student at piano lessons every week. No matter how hard Elizabeth practiced, she always felt a bit inadequate compared to Carol.
“The competition begins promptly at two o’clock Saturday,” Mrs. Brown told Carol.
“I’ll be here,” Carol replied. “I want to add this year’s trophy to my collection. See you Saturday, Mrs. Brown.” Carol walked confidently across the room to the door, ignoring Elizabeth.
“Let’s get started, Elizabeth,” the teacher said, motioning her toward the piano. The bench felt hard and unfriendly as Elizabeth sat down and slid to the center. In a way, Mrs. Brown still frightened her, even after two years of lessons.
“Arch those fingers, and wrists down,” Mrs. Brown began. “And please count out loud.”
Elizabeth began her scales. “One, two, and three and four and one,” she repeated again and again. Her fingers were loose and steady. Those extra hours of practicing were making a difference.
“Sounds good, Elizabeth.” Mrs. Brown’s voice sounded a little surprised. “Now let’s try your piece for the competition Saturday.”
Elizabeth took the teacher’s request as a challenge. Her fingers were like the smoothly moving parts of a machine as they glided almost effortlessly over the keys. The music was soft, then loud; sweet, then proud. She turned the last page and finished the piece boldly.
“Good, Elizabeth!” Mrs. Brown exclaimed. “Very good. In fact, Elizabeth, that performance deserves a bravo!”
Elizabeth smiled, her eyes glistening happily. She knew that she had to be good to receive comments like those from Mrs. Brown.
“Those judges are going to have quite a decision to make on Saturday if you play this well then, Elizabeth,” her teacher praised her at the end of the lesson. “The best of luck to you. Remember, the competition starts at two o’clock.”
Elizabeth walked outside in a daze and waited for her ride. Bravo! she thought, recalling Mrs. Brown’s words. She sat down on the grass and began imagining herself in a large, dark concert hall, bowing to thunderous applause. Hot theater lights made her perspire as she curtsied proudly.
The out-of-tune honk of her mother’s car horn startled Elizabeth and brought her back to reality. “Mother!” Elizabeth cried. She grabbed her books, jumped up, and ran excitedly to the car. “Mrs. Brown liked my playing today. She said I even have a chance for the trophy at the competition on—“
“Slow down, Elizabeth,” her mother interrupted. But there was a pleased look on her face. “Tell me all about it from the beginning.” She pulled the car slowly into the street.
“Oh, Mother,” Elizabeth began, “after I listened to Carol play today, I was really discouraged. She never makes a mistake, and she’s won the trophy the past three years.”
“Carol is a good player,” her mother responded honestly.
“But when I played my piece for Mrs. Brown, she liked it. She said ‘Bravo,’ Mother. And she said that the judges would have a hard time choosing a winner on Saturday.”
“All those hours at the piano are really beginning to pay off,” her mother replied encouragingly. “I always believed that you had a real talent for the piano.”
Elizabeth spent many hours the next three days seated at the upright piano in the corner of the living room. Her fingers worked endlessly. All she could think about was winning the trophy.
Autumn turned annoyingly into winter the Saturday of the competition. Gray black clouds filled the sky, and before noon large snowflakes were falling.
Elizabeth practiced playing her piece for what seemed to be the thousandth time. Nervously she put on her favorite blue dress. Her shining dark brown hair lay clean on her shoulders.
“I’m ready to go,” she told her father. Her little brothers wore their white shirts and dress pants.
“Let’s get started then,” Dad said. “This storm has turned into a blizzard. We’ll need extra time to get to the competition.”
The windshield wipers on the car slapped noisily from side to side, sweeping the snowflakes aside as they accumulated. As the car wound slowly toward the studio, the storm worsened, and cars began sliding on the road.
“What if we’re too late, Dad?” Elizabeth asked anxiously.
“I think we’ll make it, if we’re careful,” her father reassured her.
Elizabeth relaxed momentarily, leaned back in her seat, and closed her eyes. We just have to make it! she thought. I’ve worked too hard to miss the competition.
The monotony of the windshield wipers was interrupted by a slushy, skidding sound. Elizabeth opened her eyes to see a large sedan slide off the road.
“Looks like they’re in trouble,” her father said grimly.
Elizabeth stared out the window at the struggling vehicle as their own car crept slowly by. The sedan seemed to be hopelessly stuck.
Suddenly Elizabeth recognized it. It was the one always parked in front of the piano studio when she arrived for her lesson. Carol was inside that car! Mrs. Brown’s best piano student was agonizing, no doubt, as she listened to the car’s wheels whine desperately.
A triumphant smile spread over Elizabeth’s face as she imagined the trophy on her dresser. After all, it was not her fault that Carol’s car had slipped off the road.
The big sedan was not much more than a spot in the distance now, and Mrs. Brown’s studio was just a few minutes away. But Elizabeth felt uneasy. Her earlier enthusiasm for an easy victory had disappeared. Several times she squinted out the back window at the stalled car. It had not moved.
“We’re going to make it, Elizabeth!” her father said happily. “We’ll be there in no time.”
“Dad, you have to turn back,” Elizabeth declared firmly.
Elizabeth’s mother and brothers stared at her.
“Carol was in that car back there that slid off the road. If we don’t go back and help, she’ll never make it in time to play.”
“I’ll do whatever you want, Elizabeth, but we’re sure to be late.”
“Then stop and turn around, Dad. Now. We can both still make it if we play last.” Elizabeth sounded sure about her decision.
Slowly her father brought the car to a halt. He turned it around carefully and drove back to the car that was stuck.
Later the audience clapped enthusiastically as Carol stood and walked to the judges’ stand. She had performed flawlessly. Her hands grasped the tall trophy.
Behind Carol, out of the bright lights, Elizabeth stood with the other contenders. She had not won the trophy, but she knew that her parents were equally proud of her. A feeling of contentment came over her as she realized that some things were even more important than winning a trophy.

In your quest to define yourselves, do not get caught up in comparisons with role models or body types that may seem to be macho or chic but in reality are not becoming to you as sons and daughters of our loving Heavenly Father. One 17-year-old girl became so obsessed about her figure that she began to skip meals and ended up with an eating disorder. When it became apparent to her father, he insisted that she eat a substantial meal. This confrontation ultimately brought her to her senses, and she wrote:
“All my life I had done things for everyone else. The grades, the manners, the awards—everything for them, nothing for me. This eating thing, this losing weight had become mine. It represented me and my choices, and now my dad was trying to take that away from me, too!
“As I lay in bed that night crying and feeling fat, I knew I needed help. I knew I was hurting people I loved.
“After staying up all night, I came to the conclusion that it wasn’t my dad I hated. I hated ME! I realized that I wasn’t in control. For the first time in my life, I understood that this was my problem. I needed to take control of my life—not let the disease control it.
“Things didn’t change overnight. In fact, it was one long road to recovery. But slowly, with the help of friends and family, I began to heal. Now that I’m at my ideal weight, I have stopped weighing myself altogether. I no longer peruse fashion magazines, either—I may not be ‘in style,’ but I feel just right!”

“This is home,” 18-year-old Marcelle Collins said, crossing her arms and looking over her shoulder. Behind her, across the stubble of a fresh-mowed field, the two-story house, the silos, barns, pens, machinery, even the windmill, all said this was farm country.
But the fields said it even more.
Here in the heart of South Dakota the plains are flat and the sky runs forever. The soil is fertile but the work is hard. Here, as on family farms everywhere, life is land and work—and a clinging hope that maybe there will be enough profit to keep things going one more year.
Marcy’s parents, Al and Tonnie, don’t actually own the farm. They rent it. But they’ve lived here long enough to raise a string of children. Debra, Connie, and Dan live in the area. David, 23, is still on the farm, along with Noah and T.J., Marcy’s four-year-old twin nephews. Al and Tonnie are their legal guardians.
Before the nephews came, Marcy was the youngest. Now they seem like little brothers, some days so noisy and into everything that Marcy thinks she’ll be glad to get away from them when, in a few weeks, she leaves for college.
College. It’s a place of changes, Marcy knows. She’s been thinking a lot lately, wondering exactly what it is she’s leaving behind:
The smallness. Gettysburg (say GET-iss-burg, not get-EES-burg), a hometown more like a cluster of farms. Gettysburg High, with a student body of 198, “if you count the junior high kids on the third floor.” The Gettysburg Branch and its Young Women program, much of which has been—you guessed it—Marcy Collins.
Chores and schedules. “You live on a farm, you work,” Marcy explains. She can drive a tractor, operate machinery, grind feed for the pigs. She helps with planting, calving, cutting, harvesting. She gets up at 5:00 A.M. to be ready for seminary, goes to school, then comes home to work at whatever Dad needs help with. Or whatever Mom needs help with. Oh yes, and there’s homework too. And sleep.
But as Marcy makes her list, it also fills with pleasant things:
An LDS neighbor. Lori Thompson, only a year younger, lives a mile down the dirt road. Lori comes up each summer from Denton, Texas, to farm with her parents. “And what a relief just to be able to talk to another Mormon girl my own age,” about things like standards and testimony and spirituality. Together Marcy and Lori were responsible for their branch’s training for girls’ camp, the two of them in charge of five others. All seven certified.
A non-LDS neighbor. Sarah is learning about the Church.
Prayer. The strength of kneeling with her family.
Privacy. The sanctuary of her room, where on her own she can let off steam or study scriptures. She hangs her picture of the Savior there.
Space. The open freedom of the fields, and the beauty of a South Dakota sunset.
It is one year later. Marcy is standing in a field again. Well, not really. She’s standing in a parking lot.
“This is home,” she says, crossing her arms and looking over her shoulder. Behind her, the Manwaring Center, the library, the dorms, the administration building, all say this is Ricks College, Rexburg, Idaho.
But her classes say it even more.
Go with Marcy to the third floor of the Spori Building and watch her draw. It isn’t just a matter of sketching. It’s two and a half hours of analyzing—structure, form, shading, foreshortening. It is listening, observing, imitating as the teacher shows examples from the masters.
Or go to the ceramics lab in the Kirkham Building, where Marcy takes a lump of clay, kneads it to remove the air, then “throws” it, centering it carefully on a wheel, opening it with her thumbs, smoothing it with her fingers, pulling with equal pressure inward, outward, upward. Then, just as it’s taking the form of a vase, Marcy groans. Her fingers have slipped, and the clay twists, ill-shapen and uneven. She cuts it free, kneads it again, and starts over.
This is learning of a fundamental kind, learning by doing. Successes outweigh failures only after hours, weeks, and months. But it’s a learning Marcy is coming to understand.
A year can make a lot of difference. As Marcy stands in the parking lot she makes a list of what she’s found here:
Growth. An understanding of new places, new people, and roommates from as far away as England. A student body of thousands, but a ward where everyone is about her age, and activities and opportunities abound. “The challenge here,” she says, “is to not take the Church for granted.”
Family. The joy of letters from home. “Noah and T. J. are growing fast,” she says. “I really miss them.”
Chores and schedules. Someone has to shop and clean and cook. Someone has to do the laundry. And the schoolwork! “Some days it seems like I live in the labs,” Marcy says. Some days she does.
But Marcy can’t help but add to her list, this time a list of lessons:
Independence. “I’ve learned to rely on myself,” she says. “In college you have to. There’s a law of the harvest in school, too. You do good work, you get good grades.”
Priorities. No matter where you are, turn your life to things that matter. If you’re not with your family, have prayer with your roommates. If you don’t have the sanctuary of a private room, study your scriptures in the hall.
Friends. People who matter will always matter. Sarah and Marcy are still in touch, Lori’s back in Texas, and Marcy’s found a new friend, fellow art student Diedra Newville from Fort Myers, Florida, whose sense of adventure keeps them both from getting overwhelmed by pressure. What’s more, the people who matter most, Marcy’s parents, her brothers, her sisters, are still in the background cheering.
Not long ago, Marcelle Collins got word from her parents that the farm had been sold. They’ve moved to another small town, Faith, South Dakota, where her dad was born. A lot of people might say Marcy can’t go home now. The home in Gettysburg belongs to someone new.
But Marcy knows how to be at home wherever she is. And that’s a lesson more profound than she may realize. Long before she left South Dakota, she left another place, a place she may have been nervous to leave. But she trusted her Father, and so began her journey.
And someday, if she continues to turn toward the things that matter most—things like faith, obedience, and honesty—she’ll return to hear her Father say, “well done.” Maybe at that moment, she’ll cross her arms, look over her shoulder, and say, “This is home.”

When I was growing up, young men went on missions when they were 20 years old. Not all young men were expected to go on missions, as they are today. My father had always hoped I would go on a mission, and he had encouraged me. But as I got older, I wondered, Is that really what I want to do?
My priests quorum adviser, Dale Waite, was a great example and a wonderful teacher. One time he took us to a ward outing at a swimming resort. We had a good time swimming, playing volleyball, and just being together. That night we piled into Brother Waite’s car to go home—the car sure was full! Full of good memories of the evening’s activities, we were starting up the old highway in the dark of night, when Brother Waite asked, “Did any of you hear the First Presidency’s announcement today?”
None of us had; we were all ears. Brother Waite told us, “The First Presidency has announced that young men can be called on missions at 19 years of age.” When he said that, the Spirit of the Lord came over me, filling me from the crown of my head to the soles of my feet. I knew the message was, “You are going on a mission.” I had never had that kind of experience before, but the feeling that I was to go on a mission never left me.
When I came home from my mission, it was with the firm resolve that I would never be the same—and I never have been. And all that happened because a priests quorum adviser stayed close to the young men in his quorum, taught them the gospel, and helped them learn in a very simple way that they could go on missions and be touched by the Spirit of the Lord.

Estelle ate her last bite of Mama’s yummy enchiladas and scooted her chair away from the patio table. It was a warm summer night—perfect for eating outside. And perfect for playing! She couldn’t wait to play fetch with her dog, Rufus.
But first she had to clear the table. She piled the plates into a tall stack. She knew the stack was getting too wobbly. But she didn’t want to make a lot of trips inside.
Estelle balanced the stack in one hand and carefully opened the door with the other. But the stack started to tip. Crash! Two plates smashed onto the patio, right in front of the door. Dad ran out to see what happened and went to get a broom. Then Estelle saw Rufus. He was trotting toward the door.
“Rufus! Don’t step on the broken plates!” She ran around the table and jumped in front of him. “No! Rufus, stay!”
But Rufus didn’t stop. He tried to get around her. Estelle bent down and put her hands in front of him.
“Rufus, I’m trying to keep you safe,” she said. “The pieces are sharp. They’ll cut your paws.”
Then Estelle had an idea. “Where’s your ball? Do you want to play fetch?” Rufus turned away to look for his ball. Now he was safe!
As she swept up the broken plates with Dad, Estelle thought about why she told Rufus no. If he stepped on the pieces, he would have been hurt. He wouldn’t be able to do what he liked to do—like playing fetch.
Dad always said that Heavenly Father gives commandments to keep us happy and safe. But Estelle sometimes thought that commandments felt more like rules to keep her from doing what she wanted.
Estelle looked down at the broken pieces. Maybe Heavenly Father says no to some things because He’s trying to keep me safe too, she thought.
Rufus ran to Estelle and dropped the ball at her feet. She scratched his ears. Then she threw the ball and laughed as Rufus ran after it.
Rufus was safe. And he was happy! Estelle wanted to keep following Heavenly Father’s commandments to stay happy and safe too.
This story took place in the USA.

There have been hiccups—an October 2023 rainstorm washed dirt and debris from farmland through a back door and into the building, necessitating the temporary removal of the school to the local M?ori marae (community building) while the mud was cleaned up and the carpets were replaced. But McFarlane says the kids have proven very resilient and were anxious to come back to this building.
“What are the odds of having to pack up twice?” McFarlane said with a laugh. “The marae welcomed us in, and Maui (Aben, the president of the Gisborne New Zealand Stake) arrived that afternoon with the facilities maintenance people, and we got everything in motion to take care of that issue really fast,” McFarlane said.
But five weeks later, when school began again, they were still missing a key component of all elementary schools—a playground area. While there was plenty of grass around the Nuhaka Ward meetinghouse, there were not many shady trees and nothing to climb.
Enter Pacific Assist Foundation. As detailed last September, Pacific Assist Director Callum Blair was able to obtain some stored equipment from Torbay School in Auckland.
After a few months tying down some loose ends, it was shipped to Nuhaka and installed, along with some overhead shade provided by the Church, with the assistance of local missionaries in February.
Elder Nathan Woods, of Garden City, Utah, USA, and Elder Jacob Hughes of Branson, Missouri, USA assisted in the installation of the playground, along with Blair and other members of his Pacific Assist Team. Elder Woods said he and Elder Hughes were delighted to be of assistance.
“As missionaries, we cherish opportunities to serve others,” Woods said. “When you help others, it helps you remember the times that people have helped you, and you remember how it feels and how much those people mean to you.”
Elder Hughes agreed, noting that the opportunity to serve is an opportunity to grow as a person and to appreciate others even more. “It’s amazing to know that when we serve those around us, God remembers that effort.”
He continued, “I think when I get to help someone in a way that brings them joy, it gives me a glimpse of the love He has for them. It was an awesome experience to see how excited everyone was who helped with this.
“They just knew how much joy it would bring to these children who had gone through so much.”
And the kids really appreciated the effort expended to make it possible for them. “They were so excited when it was finally ready for them,” McFarlane said. “We couldn’t keep them focused on their work, so we finally just told them to go try it out!”
Meanwhile, the old primary school is being removed and a new school is being planned for the same site. While McFarlane hopes the new school will be completed and ready to move into in 2025, she says she, her staff and students are so grateful for the gift of the use of the Nuhaka Ward meetinghouse they have now.
“Having to go to the marae last October really reminded us how fortunate we were to be able to hold school in this building,” she reflects. “Everything we need now is here, and we’re able to teach our students all the things they need to grow and thrive.
“It is such a blessing and I’m sure, after we eventually move out into our own new space, that we’ll all look back on our time here with tremendous fondness and gratitude,” McFarlane said. “These kids will remember and talk about this for the rest of their lives.”

“I remember a little six- or seven-year-old girl whom I met in Ethiopia. She was collecting water from an irrigation ditch. It was full of silt and mud, but it was the only water available. She went down a very steep bank with a basin and a cutoff plastic bottle, which she used as a dipper, and filled the basin with the black water. Then she carried it home on her head. God bless those dear little ones. How He must love them. And how heavy are the burdens that they have to carry. It tears at my heart.

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.

Dear Reed,
Sam and I need your help. We need it soon. You see, our family had Sam’s family come for family home evening last night. Dad taught a lesson about being a family forever. Sam and I sang “I Am a Child of God.” Then we made fruit sundaes with frozen yogurt and watched family movies.
Sam’s mom and dad said that they want to start having family home evenings at their house, and Sam asked if we could come to their house for one next week. His dad said that he has to be out of town next week and that he needed to practice giving lessons first. So Sam asked if we could come the Monday after that and said that he and I would give the lesson—and his parents said OK!
Now Sam and I have to get a lesson ready. We went through the Family Home Evening Resource Book, but we can’t decide what to do. What would be a good lesson for Sam and me to give? Please write soon!
Love,Buddy

The technical phase of training began after boot camp as we headed East to Great Lakes, Illinois, and then to Orlando, Florida, before turning West to Idaho Falls, Idaho. We were young, married, and parents of a newborn and far from home. We wondered when we would see Polynesians like us again, so we were grateful to meet a Samoan sister in our ward in Illinois. What are the chances, we thought? Imagine then how overjoyed we were to go to church in Orlando and find Hawaiians, Samoans, Tongans, and Tahitians all in our ward! Of all the places we could have lived and all the possible wards we could have been in, what are the odds that we would find ourselves in a place that felt like home? Chance had nothing to do with it, shipmates. Once again, and time after time after time, over the entire course of our career in the Navy to the present day, the Lord reminded us that He knew who we are and where we are, and He cared about us.

Today is the 47th anniversary day of my baptism in 1962. One small high school boy was introduced to the Church by his classmate. I did not know much about the gospel and church when I was baptized but I developed the testimony and faith in Jesus Christ and became to like the Gospel. I have been blessed in so many ways except for my physical height. It was not a problem at all because still I was able to marry a beautiful woman who is taller than me and now my wife. I love this gospel because it always gives me hope and helps me get the positive thinking and attitude. I always try to serve “with an eye single to the glory of God.” I like this scripture, “Seek ye first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things shall be added unto you.” And I testify that this is a true word of God.

I was recently told of a woman in Idaho Falls, a widow. Over a period of 15 years she acted as proxy in giving the temple endowment to 20,000 individuals in the Idaho Falls Idaho Temple. She completed her 20,000th endowment on a Friday and returned on Saturday to do five more. She passed away the following week.

Just think of what this one little woman did. She performed these vicarious endowments for as many people as are assembled in this Conference Center this morning. Think of the reception she must have received on the other side.

Someone who did this very thing was Eric Liddell, who won a gold medal in the 1924 Olympics in Paris. His story surrounding these Olympic events, including his refusal to run on Sunday, is portrayed in the great movie Chariots of Fire. At the end of the movie there is a short sentence that indicates that after the Olympics, Eric went to China, where he died. That is true, but a large part of the story is missing.

After the Olympics, Eric became a missionary in China. He married and had three girls, the youngest of whom he never knew because before she was born, his wife and children left China due to events leading up to World War II. Eric and many others who stayed in China ended up in a Japanese internment camp. To me this is where Eric’s life mission and trust in God became evident.

Camp life was tough—the prisoners were not given adequate food, and other restrictions were placed upon them. It was hard, as you can imagine. However, Eric, as he had his whole life, continued to live what he preached. He had come to know God; so where he was did not matter so much as how he acted.

He was assigned to teach science to the children who were also in the camp (Eric had graduated with a degree in science at the University of Edinburgh). They did not have the equipment to do the experiments, so he spent hours articulating and drawing out what would happen, making sure the children understood.

In addition, he oversaw sporting and recreational events. Children who were there in the camp remembered him always patching up hockey sticks using the sheets his wife had left him for his house. He was always serving others. He helped carry the coal for those who were older or disabled to ensure their stoves would continue to burn. He did not let the fact he was hungry, imprisoned, or away from his family stop him. He did die in the camp due to an inoperable brain tumor that had caused him great headaches. So he did all these things when not always comfortable himself.

The number of lives that he touched and shaped during this time is incredible. Scores of letters and tributes have been written by those who were in the camp with him. Yet the most touching tribute is one from his own daughter, who for years could not understand why her father had to be separated from his family. However, as she heard the tributes from the children he served, she realized the Lord knew her father was needed there to help those children who were also separated from their parents, and she knew how that felt. (See “Daily Encouragement Tuesday—Classical Testimonies . . . Eric Liddell; Finishing His Race!” Scotwise Blog, 14 August 2007; http://scotwise.blogspot.com/2007/08/daily-encouragement-tuesday-classical_14.html; see also Ellen W. Caughey, Eric Liddell, Heroes of the Faith series [Uhrichsville, Ohio: Barbour Publishing, 2000].)

At his funeral, the Reverend Arnold Bryson, a close friend of Eric, said, “What was the secret of his consecrated life and far-reaching influence? Absolute surrender to God’s will” (Sally Magnusson, The Flying Scotsman [New York: Quartet Books, 1981], 174). Eric’s last words were said to have been “complete surrender”—a motto he used often in his sermons.