Gospel Story Finder

The scriptures say the Sabbath day is a holy day, a joyful and delightful day, a day of rest, a day to celebrate.1 But a few years ago, while in my late teens, I found Sundays miserable. Instead of peace, I felt stress. Instead of joy, sadness. Instead of hope, guilt. I had a full-on case of the Sabbath blues.
Each Sunday morning, after an embarrassing amount of time hiding under my covers, I’d finally admit it was indeed Sunday and get dressed for church. At church, I’d review my past week. During the sacrament, I would add up all my failures, never finishing before the first speaker got up. The rest of church became a battle of staving off tears as the guilt intensified with the new regret of feeling so rotten at church.
The afternoon was much the same. I’d feel guilt about past choices, stress about future choices, and sadness about present circumstances. Without school and extracurricular activities to distract me, I would spend my time dwelling on negative thoughts.
After listening to, reading, and then re-reading President Russell M. Nelson’s October 2015 general conference talk about how the Sabbath is a delight, I prayed for peace on and love for the Sabbath rather than the misery I currently felt.2 And an answer came.
I felt prompted to shift my focus from my woes to my relationship with Heavenly Father and the Savior. Rather than ponder my failures, I took time to ponder Their involvement in my life.
When negative thoughts came, I repeated to myself what I knew and believed about God and Jesus Christ: I am a child of God. He loves me. Jesus Christ is my Brother, and He atoned for me. They want me to be happy and return to Them. The Sabbath is a gift from God.
I began to exercise faith in this testimony.
Changing my focus led me to also reconsider how I approached the sacrament. For so long I had treated the sacrament as time to punish myself. But that’s not its purpose. The sacrament is a sacred ordinance to renew our covenants. It is a chance to become clean again through the atoning power of Jesus Christ. Focusing on the ordinance and the covenant with faith and a repentant heart, I realized that the sacrament offered peace as I accepted the gift of forgiveness, kept my covenants, and received the Lord’s Spirit (see D&C 20:77, 79).
Thinking of Christ’s Atonement during the sacrament brought another gift to my mind. Not only could I be forgiven, but I could also receive healing because my Savior took upon Himself my pain and infirmities (see Alma 7:11–12). Through His Atonement and the sacrament, I could find peace and strength on the Sabbath—or on any other day—rather than stress and sadness.
And I found that peace. My Savior is there for me on Sundays and always!
This wasn’t a one-week fix. It was a struggle, and it took time. “But if we hope for that we see not, then do we with patience wait for it” (Romans 8:25). I kept working on my focus and praying to feel love for the Sabbath.
In time, I did find peace and delight on that holy day, but I couldn’t quit there or I’d again slide into the Sabbath slumps. Each week requires diligent focus on the Savior and the purpose of the Sabbath, but I know the promise of peace and joy is true.

Over 50 years ago, I had the privilege to serve as the president of Ricks College in Rexburg, Idaho. On the morning of June 5, 1976, my wife, Kathy, and I drove from Rexburg to the Idaho Falls Idaho Temple to attend the sealing of a close friend. Of course, with four young boys in our home at the time, our temple trip could be only accomplished with the help of a courageous babysitter! We left our precious children in her care and made the short, 30-minute drive.

Our experience in the temple that day was wonderful, as it always was. However, after the conclusion of the temple sealing—and as we were preparing to return home—we noticed many temple workers and patrons nervously conversing in the lobby of the temple. Within moments, one of the temple workers told us that the newly constructed Teton Dam in eastern Idaho had collapsed! More than 80 billion gallons (300 million cubic meters) of water were flowing through the dam and into the 300 square miles (775 square km) of neighboring valleys. Much of the city of Rexburg was underwater, with homes and vehicles carried away by floodwaters. Two-thirds of the 9,000 residents were suddenly homeless.

As you might imagine, our thoughts and concerns turned to the safety of our dear children, hundreds of college students and faculty, and a community we loved. We were less than 30 miles (50 km) from home, and yet on this day, long before cell phones and text messaging, we had no way of communicating immediately with our children, nor could we make the drive from Idaho Falls to Rexburg, as all the roads had been closed.

Our only option was to stay the night in a local motel in Idaho Falls. Kathy and I knelt together in our motel room and humbly pleaded with Heavenly Father for the safety of our dear children and the thousands of others affected by the tragic event. I recall Kathy pacing the floors into the early hours of the morning with worry about her children. Despite my own concerns, I was able to put my mind at ease and fall asleep.

It wasn’t long thereafter that my sweet eternal companion woke me and said, “Hal, how can you sleep at a time like this?”

These words then came clearly to my heart and mind. I said to my wife: “Kathy, whatever the outcome, all will be well because of the temple. We have made covenants with God and have been sealed as an eternal family.”

At that moment, it was as if the Spirit of the Lord confirmed in our hearts and minds what we both already knew to be true: the sealing ordinances, found only in the house of the Lord and administered by proper priesthood authority, had bound us together as husband and wife, and our children had been sealed to us. There truly was no need to fear, and we were grateful later to learn that our boys were safe.

A short Japanese man wanders everywhere, offering advice, spotting for tumblers, cheerfully shouting encouragement. He is assistant coach Makoto Sakamoto, himself a former U.S. Olympic gymnast and seven-time U.S. national champion. The team members call him “Mako.”
Mako remembers ten years ago when Peter tried out for his youth gymnastic club. He’s trained and taught him ever since. In 1982, when Peter was named gymnast of the year by the U.S. Gymnastics Federation, Mako was named coach of the year.

As soon as I read “Please Don’t Give In” in the September 1989 issue, I knew I must write. The young man who sent that letter does not know just how right he is. I, too, had many, many struggles in the Church, and I am one of those young women who gave birth to a baby in high school. Unlike some others, I finished high school and went on to college. I also went back to the Church. He is right. Repentance is possible, and he’s right again in saying it’s much better to stay clean from the start.
I dream of what my life would have been like if I had lived worthily and wasn’t now supporting my little family. But more than that, every day I think of a way, any way, to make other people understand that once you take a step down, it’s so much harder to get back up. I now have a stronger testimony of the truthfulness of the gospel than I ever thought I would have, and I thank the Lord sincerely for people who have the courage to stand up and tell their stories to help other youth of the Church.
Name withheld

My patriarchal blessing, received at age 13 from a beloved grandfather, includes this statement: “[Your Heavenly Father] sent you forth in this last and glorious dispensation that you might be born under the new and everlasting covenant by goodly, righteous parents.” With deepest appreciation I acknowledge that this has been the great foundational blessing of my life. I pay tribute to my parents and with love acknowledge my debt to them and to their parents and generations beyond. Not long after my call to the Seventy, I had occasion to be standing at the grave of one of those ancestors who had died years before I was born. As I contemplated the sacrifices entailed upon him and his family by their acceptance of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ, a sense of gratitude flooded my heart and a resolve welled up in me to honor his sacrifice and that of those who came after by being faithful to God and the gospel covenants, as they were.

About two months before prom is an awkward time in the life of high school girls. We want someone to ask us to the dance! For that to happen, you sometimes have to send some subtle hints in the direction of a few likely candidates.
I was starting to feel some possibility vibes from an old friend. He was not a member of the Church, but we had been square dance partners in fourth grade—a weak but definite connection. The old strategy of “his friends telling my friends to tell me” was in full force. And there was a tension, a new electricity, when we actually did talk to each other.
One night after a basketball game, we saw each other at a party. We met as I was on my way out and he was on his way in. My friends and I had realized immediately that this was not a party we should be attending. Most of the kids were drinking, and we had decided long ago not to drink or be where others were drinking.
For a moment, he stopped to talk to me. My friends waited patiently a few steps away. But I could feel the “remember who you are” message being sent from their anxious faces. He asked me to stay. Momentarily, I thought of the coming prom and my need for a date. I knew this was his first move and my next words would determine mine. But then I said, “Oh, you know I can’t stay here.”
“I know,” he said. “I just thought I would ask anyway. That’s okay.”
I left with my friends. And he did not ask me to the prom. I went with a good friend from another ward.
A few years later, my new husband and I were attending Brigham Young University. During the holiday break, I was working at a bookstore in my hometown that sells Latter-day Saint books. One day before Christmas, my old friend—the square dance partner, not the prom date—walked in. Excited at seeing old friends, we chatted for a few moments. Then I suddenly realized that he probably thought this was a typical bookstore. People often made that mistake. After all, why would he be looking for books related to the Church? So as politely as possible I said, “You know, we only sell things related to my church.”
“Oh, I think you can help me,” he said, “because I am looking for a set of scriptures to take on my mission.”
He told me that after high school, he had attended a small college to play ball. Several Latter-day Saint players had invited him to some institute classes. The rest was history.
For a moment, my thoughts went back to that night standing outside the party. I was once again glad for making the right choice. And I was grateful for some college ball players who had made a difference in the life of my friend.

At a church service I attended in a care center, after the wheelchair-bound residents received the sacrament, a young woman your age played a solo on her violin. The elderly sisters were so appreciative. They declared aloud their gratitude with comments such as “Beautiful,” “Wonderful,” “I love you.” Such distractions did not deter the violinist; rather, they enabled her to reach new heights in her performance.

That day she said to me: “I have never played better in my life. Something seemed to lift me beyond myself and my own abilities. I felt the inspiration of my Heavenly Father’s love.”

I reminded her, “When you are in the service of your fellow beings you are only in the service of your God.”

She nodded her acknowledgement, carefully placed her violin in its case, and, with tears of joy coursing down her cheeks, returned to her seat.

Peter had always heard in Primary and read in the scriptures that prophets feel a great love for Heavenly Father’s children. One hot summer day, he discovered for himself that it was true.
Peter and his family, who lived in Iowa, were spending the summer of 1999 in Salt Lake City, Utah, at the condominium of their grandparents, who were away serving a mission. On the afternoon of August 11, Peter and his sister, Robbin, stood on the balcony, looking across at the Church Office Building and the valley beyond.
As they watched, a huge windstorm engulfed the Delta Center (a downtown sports arena) in a towering gray-black cloud. They could hear angry pops as power transformers exploded and hail rattled down. Electrical wires snapped, sparking and wriggling like brilliant glowing snakes.
“Mom!” Peter called. “Come quickly! The Delta Center is coming apart!”
His mother appeared at the window, and they all watched as giant pieces of the Delta Center roof spiraled into the air. The day had turned nearly as dark as night as the swirling storm sucked up dirt and debris, growing ever larger. Something felt familiar about the spinning, funnel-shaped cloud that came churning straight toward them.
“That’s a tornado!” Peter’s mother exclaimed. “Quick, come inside away from those windows!”
Peter grabbed his sister’s hand, and they rushed inside. The condominium was on the corner of the building’s top floor, and the room where they stood had two walls of glass. Peter knew from tornado drills at school that flying glass could be deadly. They had to get out of there, but where could they go?
A deep rumbling shook the building, growing louder every second. The wind howled. Dirt, rocks, bits of cement and wood, and who-knew-what-else pelted the windows like fierce rain.
Could they make it to the hallway? What if the glass shattered first? “The bathroom!” Mother and Peter shouted at the same moment.
Grabbing each other’s hands, the three rushed into the bathroom and slammed the door. They clung together near the bathtub, waiting and listening. The wind’s shrieking grew so loud that it hurt their ears. There was a loud bang, and the electricity went out. The walls and floors trembled. It sounded as if a jet plane was trying to land on their heads. Peter wondered if the roof might be sucked off. He closed his eyes and prayed silently. In the darkness, noise filled the room, their ears, and their minds.
Suddenly it was gone. The winds died. The banging stopped. Peter breathed a huge sigh of relief and tried to stop trembling. They were safe.
Together they walked back out onto the balcony. Miraculously, none of their windows were broken. But across the street, huge trees lay on the ground as if toppled by a massive hand. Cars had been smashed. A gigantic yellow crane had fallen against the unfinished Conference Center. Some windows of the Church Office Building had been broken.
Robbin glanced at a nearby apartment building. “Look! Look!” she cried, pointing. “There’s President Hinckley!”
Peter turned and looked. There stood President Hinckley on his own balcony, gazing out over the damage. Peter forgot the chaos below and stood watching the prophet for a long moment. At last, rather slowly, President Hinckley turned away and went back inside.
Peter smiled and leaned against his mother. “Wow,” he said softly.
Mother nodded. “That was some storm. I mean, how often does Salt Lake City have a tornado?”
“No.” Peter quickly shook his head. “Not that. I mean President Hinckley. He came to see what had happened. And you know what?”
“What?”
“I could feel his love and concern from here.”
Mother slipped her arm around his shoulder. “Makes you feel good, doesn’t it?”
Peter gave her a quick hug. “I think he loves us just as much as we love him.”
Mother smiled. “I’m sure he does.”
Fire engines, police sirens, and helicopters drew Peter’s attention back to the destruction. But he felt only peace. He would never forget the day he saw a prophet watching over his flock.

Martha bested her husband, Angus Cannon, in a race for the Utah State Senate in 1896, and it was the talk of Salt Lake City.
But according to published reports, it didn’t upset her relationship with Angus. “As Mr. and Mrs. Cannon are not at all worried over the latter’s election to the state senate,” observed an article in the Salt Lake Herald, “it is needless for anyone else to be apprehensive over the effect of that fact upon their domestic affairs.” The article went on to state, “Nothing that has transpired in Utah shows greater advancement in civilization than the election of women to the legislature.”
Martha ran as the Democratic candidate and won by “a neat little majority of 4,000 votes.” She became America’s first female state senator on November 3, 1896, and served one four-year term.
In an interview that appeared in the Salt Lake Herald, Martha declared: “I do seem to be a sort of milestone, don’t I? Well, I will have to try to live up to my privileges.” Her humility and hard work helped set a high standard and buoy other women, stretching to our day.

As the Brooklyn sailed for the Sandwich Islands (now Hawaii) to deliver some freight, just the right amount of wind filled the sails. The bright green peaks that rose over Honolulu announced another tropical paradise like the Juan Fernández islands. We pulled up next to the Congress, an American warship anchored outside the reef. Commodore Robert F. Stockton came aboard the Brooklyn and told us that the United States was fighting against Mexico in California.
“I can’t believe it!” Papa said, shaking his head over the distressing news. “For five long, weary months, we’ve traveled to find a peaceful place to live. Now we’re heading for a war, instead!”
“Maybe it’s one of those things that seem awful at the time but turn out to be good,” I suggested in an effort to cheer him up.
“I don’t see how it could be,” he replied, “but I hope that you’re right.”
Commodore Stockton urged the Brooklyn passengers to help defeat Mexico. He proposed that our men capture Yerba Buena, the small settlement on San Francisco Bay, in the name of the United States.
Papa wasn’t the only one who was concerned about the situation. As we assembled for prayers that evening, there was a lot of discussion about what we should do. After the leaders of the company heard all the opinions, studied the options, and prayed, they decided to stay with the original plan to go to California. The Saints would prepare to fight, in case it became necessary.

15-year-old Nicole Luz’s voice isn’t the only thing that made an impact when she was on the Brazilian reality show The Voice Kids in 2016. People noticed the necklace she wore every time she performed—her Young Women medallion.
Nicole grew up in a musical family, surrounded by music since birth. “My parents have beautiful voices,” she says. “They inspired me to be a singer.” Since performing on The Voice Kids, Nicole has continued performing and recently placed second in an international talent competition. She still sets an example with her personal values and gospel standards.
“Music inspires me to strengthen my testimony. Through music, I can share my feelings with others and help them strengthen their testimonies, too.”

Frustrated with how hard it is to find modest clothing, young women in the Harris First Ward, Mesa Arizona Central Stake, gathered more than 1,500 signatures from like-minded friends and classmates in just three weeks. What started as a Laurel project for Lisa Prince and Julie Despain grew to include the other 30 or so young women in the ward and became front page news. The petition drive earned them a lot of attention, both from the media and from a couple of national clothing retailers.
The youth stood as witnesses in interviews with two Arizona newspapers, radio shows in Ireland and Arizona, and magazines in Germany and Australia. They also got to talk with vice presidents of two major department stores. The girls were invited to submit their ideas, participate in focus groups, and try out new fashions. Representatives of both department stores said more modest fashions were on the way.
“We had no idea we’d get the response we did,” said DeLynn Bodine, the Young Women president.
In the end the young women realized that living their values could bless people all over the world.

Upon his release from the hospital, Enzio immediately sought out his Lutheran minister, recounted his conversion, and declared his desire to follow Christ. But after a period of attending every possible meeting—and finding some satisfaction in the dignity and ceremony of the services—Enzio was troubled by doctrines and practices he could not understand. Why, for example, did infants need to be baptized? And why had ministers blessed the weapons of the war? The ministers and presbyters of the church could give him no sound doctrine—just conflicting opinions.
One evening Enzio and Jutta knelt in despair to tell the Lord of their situation. By now Enzio could form his own prayers, “I told the Lord we wanted to find his church,” Elder Busche recalls. “I knew that the earlier followers of Christ had been persecuted, so I told the Lord that it didn’t matter if his was an obscure church, even a ridiculed church.” After that prayer, the overwhelming peace Enzio had felt in the hospital returned.
Several weeks later, two Latter-day Saint missionaries stood on the Busches’ doorstep. At first, Enzio Busche was skeptical of their “strange” message, but he was always impressed with their sincerity and righteousness. His two years of investigation were accompanied by dreams and spiritual experiences that had the same sacred quality and authority that he had felt in the hospital. At last, he had to admit that the Spirit truly was in the message of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, although he still feared breaking with his social life and the traditions of his family.
When he was finally ready for baptism, he asked his wife to investigate the gospel. Jutta Busche had long before felt the Spirit in the message of the missionaries, though she had not been involved in the sometimes long discussions. After just three evenings of hearing them teach her the gospel principles—to her husband’s astonishment—she too had a testimony. Both were baptized on 19 January 1958 in a public swimming pool in Dortmund.

Moving forward takes practice, advises Lazare of Georgia, a convert in the country bordering Russia and Europe. Learning to trust LDS friends was his first step, after which he agreed to accept a priesthood blessing. “Then I could move forward with the missionary discussions,” he explains. As Lazare’s faith in Jesus Christ increased, “I took the big step of baptism even though I wasn’t 100 percent certain. But the Lord gave me courage with each phase, and I am so grateful now that I did it.”

I saw this in my parents’ marriage. In my mother’s final illness, the more uncomfortable she became, the more giving her comfort became the dominant intent of my father’s life. He asked that the hospital set up a bed in her room. He was determined to be there to be sure that she wanted for nothing. He walked the miles to work each morning and back to her side at night through those difficult times for her. I believe it was a gift from God to him that his power to love grew when it mattered so much to her. I think he was doing what Jesus would have done out of love.

When I was a boy of eleven, I used to go over to the old Richards Ward every Tuesday night. The Scouts would be having their troop meeting. I would lie on the ground and watch through the basement window. The Scouts would have patrol contests, build a fire using flint and steel, practice first aid, drill, and play games. I could hardly wait to become a deacon and a Scout.
When I was ordained a deacon I also registered in Scouting. Bruford Reynolds was the deacons quorum adviser for a period of time and also was the Scoutmaster.
Two months after I joined the troop I went to Brother Reynolds’s home to pass off the Second Class requirements. When I had done this, Bruford Reynolds said to me: “Vaughn, you have a lot of leadership ability, but we cannot use you because you are rowdy in troop meeting. When you get squared away, we need you.”
Having come from a large inactive family that was poor, I had little personal attention. My father had never told me that I could be anything. I gave a great deal of thought to my conduct. I decided to change. The following Tuesday I hardly moved an eyeball. I was as near perfect as I knew how to be.
Bruford Reynolds was true to his word. I became an assistant patrol leader, a patrol leader, assistant senior patrol leader, then senior patrol leader. He believed in me and had a profound impact on my life.

One cold winter morning he arose at 5:00 A.M. so that he could get in some early morning practice at the gym. Hearing him move about the house, I too arose.
While he showered, I cooked his breakfast. I put more slices of bacon in the frying pan than would have been allowed had his mother been there to supervise. Three eggs soon sizzled in the pan. Toast was in the toaster. I then blended some milk, ice cream, and protein powder (I had heard that such powder contained “rebounds”). He seemed most pleased when I placed such delicious food before him. As he ate, I sat and looked on.
Washing down the last piece of toast with the protein milkshake he said, “Got to go, pops.”
As we both stood, I said, “Could we just take a minute to kneel down and pray together?”
Without responding with words, he quickly knelt. Kneeling very near him, I spoke for the two of us. I thanked the Lord for such a son and expressed my gratitude for the love that bound the two of us together.
After many heartfelt words, we arose from our knees. Feeling so close to him, I embraced him. Then before he knew what was happening, I pulled his head down and gave him a kiss on the forehead.
He stepped back and grinned and said, “Gee, pops, I wonder how many other Provo High players got a kiss from their father this morning.”
I struck him on the arm and said, “Get out of here or there will be at least one Provo High player who will get a kick in the pants this morning.”
I stood at the window and watched him until he had disappeared across the snow-covered landscape.

We are fortunate in our family to have a special member who has touched everyone’s heart. My grandfather is blind, but his handicap has made him all the more special to me.
My grandpa, Maurice Beckstead, began to go blind in 1967. My brother Shane was the last grandchild my grandfather was able to see. Grandfather now has three more grandchildren and one great-grandson. When we told him he was now a great-grandfather, his comment was, “I know, I’ve always been great!”
When he started losing his sight, it was hard for him to adjust. He had worked hard his entire life. He enjoyed working and was proud and independent. It was a difficult step in his life for him to accept the fact that he would have to take an early retirement because of his eyesight.
After Grandpa retired, he continued to work hard on his yard and garden, something in which he and my grandmother took great pride. Even with his failing eyesight, he would walk quite a distance every week to turn the irrigation water down to his property in order to water his garden, pasture, and lawns. One summer night his turn came at midnight, and it was a dark and frightening time in his life. After he had taken his water turn and was attempting to return home, he became lost in a cornfield adjoining the right-of-way to the canal. He lost his sense of direction and panicked. He was lost for over an hour, with my grandmother and the neighbors searching, thinking he might possibly have drowned in the canal. They had decided to call the police, but at that moment, a neighbor found him crawling along the side of the road quite a distance from his home. After that incident, his neighbors insisted that they turn the water on for him. He also started to use his cane, a need that was difficult for him to accept.
Grandpa has a terrific memory. He can remember birth dates and special events in great detail. He is also the family taste tester. He likes to sample special dishes and desserts we make for family dinners. And when Grandpa says it’s good, we consider it high praise. For his birthday, Father’s Day, or Christmas, it is difficult to buy him a gift because he can’t enjoy many things, so we usually give him chocolates or candy. When he receives these gifts, he hides them from everyone else so that when he and Grandma are alone, they can enjoy them. And boy, does he enjoy them!
He knows his yard and house by heart. If anyone moves anything of his, such as his shoes, hat, or cane, it makes it nearly impossible for him to help himself and he must ask for help. He always has a horse or cow that he feeds at a specific time twice a day. He usually cares for my uncle’s colt. He knows exactly how much grain, water, and hay to give it. He is always proud of his accomplishments, and whenever someone comes around, he takes pride in showing them how well the animal looks. Because he can’t see a clock, all of his children bought one that chimes on the half hour and the hour. He listens carefully for the chimes.
Grandpa loves to have the grandchildren perform. It doesn’t matter if it’s in marching, singing, dancing, reciting the alphabet, or just talking to him. He will sit and listen to the comments of other people around him, and when someone comes to see him he will say, “You should have seen my granddaughter the other night. She looked great. She was the cutest thing you’d ever want to see.”
My grandfather has taught me a lot through his example. I hope I can learn to be like him with his great sense of humor, his determination, and his love.

For some, the suffering is extraordinary.
Stillman Pond was a member of the Second Quorum of Seventy in Nauvoo. He was an early convert to the Church, having come from Hubbardston, Massachusetts. Like others, he and his wife, Maria, and their children were harassed and driven out of Nauvoo. In September 1846, they became part of the great western migration. The early winter that year brought extreme hardships, including malaria, cholera, and consumption. The family was visited by all three of these diseases.
Maria contracted consumption, and all of the children were stricken with malaria. Three of the children died while moving through the early snows. Stillman buried them on the plains. Maria’s condition worsened because of the grief, pain, and the fever of malaria. She could no longer walk. Weakened and sickly, she gave birth to twins. They were named Joseph and Hyrum, and both died within a few days.
The Stillman Pond family arrived at Winter Quarters and, like many other families, they suffered bitterly while living in a tent. The death of the five children coming across the plains to Winter Quarters was but a beginning.
The journal of Horace K. and Helen Mar Whitney verifies the following regarding four more of the children of Stillman Pond who perished:
“On Wednesday, the 2nd of December 1846, Laura Jane Pond, age 14 years, … died of chills and fever.” Two days later on “Friday, the 4th of December 1846, Harriet M. Pond, age 11 years, … died with chills.” Three days later, “Monday, the 7th of December, 1846, Abigail A. Pond, age 18 years, … died with chills.” Just five weeks later, “Friday, the 15th of January, 1847, Lyman Pond, age 6 years, … died with chills and fever. Four months later, on the 17th of May, 1847, his wife Maria Davis Pond also died. Crossing the plains, Stillman Pond lost nine children and a wife. He became an outstanding colonizer in Utah, and became the senior president of the thirty-fifth Quorum of Seventy. (See Leon Y. and H. Ray Pond, comps., “Stillman Pond, a Biographical Sketch,” in Sterling Forsyth Histories, typescript, Church Historical Dept. Archives, pp. 4–5.)
Having lost these nine children and his wife in crossing the plains, Stillman Pond did not lose his faith. He did not quit. He went forward. He paid a price, as have many others before and since, to become acquainted with God.

Thanks for an uplifting and wholesome magazine. Recently I had the opportunity to see the Lord’s hand in helping me to make a right decision. At the beginning of the week, I quit the school musical because of the language used. At the end of the week, the director came to me and invited me back, as all offensive language had been changed. I had read about this happening often, especially in the New Era. But I didn’t feel it would happen to me. I am a keen reader of the magazine and I know it just keeps on getting better. Whenever I am down, I reach under my bed in the overflowing box of New Eras. Thanks for the motivation.
Sariah WesenerLogan City, Queensland