Gospel Story Finder

One day my father, who was bishop of our ward, left my brother and me to do some work. We thought he would be gone for some time doing his church work. But he returned sooner than we had expected and found us riding calves.
When he called us over, I will never forget how he looked at me and said, “My boy, I thought I could depend on you!”
That was a great lesson, a severe punishment, to me. I made up my mind then that neither he nor anyone else would ever have reason to say that again to me as long as I lived.

I had always planned on serving a mission when I turned 20, the age of missionaries at the time. After playing two seasons of football at Utah State University, I had a difficult decision to make. I knew that, at that time, very few returned missionaries played football after their missions. I had put a lot of effort into football, and I loved the game. I decided to delay my mission a few months so I could play one more season and then serve a mission. By the end of that season, I had won the starting quarterback position for the next year.
My coach was surprised and disappointed that after all my hard work in football, I was going to leave. He encouraged me to stay and play my final season. He couldn’t understand why I would walk away from this opportunity. I listened to his comments and his logic, but I told him that I could not wait another year to go on my mission. If I did, I feared I would miss my opportunity to serve a mission. After all my hard work in football, I said good-bye to the team and left for Great Britain to serve the Lord.
I never regretted that decision. I learned so many things on my mission. To witness people embracing the gospel was an incredible experience, which shaped the rest of my life in many important ways. My mission helped make me into the person I am today and had far greater impact on me than football ever could have.

It was just a normal Sunday morning until we entered the classroom. Our new Primary teacher, Brother Smith, was waiting for us.

“We’re going on a field trip today,” he announced after Sue gave the opening prayer. He put on his coat, grabbed his cane, and walked out the classroom door. “The bishop has given us special permission.”

Brother Smith had a twinkle in his eye, but he’s old and walks with a cane, so we didn’t have a hard time keeping up with him.

“Where are we going?” I asked as we went out the foyer doors and started down the walk.

“To a very special library,” explained Brother Smith, the twinkle in his eye getting brighter.

Our town had just opened a new library, but I hadn’t been to it yet. This was going to be fun! Then I remembered something. “The library is closed today—it’s Sunday!”

Brother Smith smiled as we reached the parking lot. “This library is open whenever someone wants to read and learn.” We all looked at each other with surprise; nothing in our town was opened that often!

“What kind of library is it?” asked David. David’s father was a lawyer, and he knew that lawyers had their own libraries full of law books.

“It’s a sacred library,” Brother Smith answered.

“You mean the meetinghouse library?” asked Sue, looking back. Her mother was the meetinghouse librarian, and she knew that it had lots of books and pictures and tapes about gospel subjects.

“No, not the meetinghouse library.” Brother Smith took out his keys and opened his van. “Everyone in!” We all piled in, jockeying for the window seats, as Brother Smith explained more about his mysterious library. “It has two rooms—an ‘old’ room and a ‘new’ room.”

“Our new city library has two rooms just for children’s books!” Jared piped up.

“This sacred library doesn’t have many books,” Brother Smith said. “In fact, it has only sixty-six.”

“We have more books than that at home!” exclaimed Justin.

“In the old room there are thirty-nine books,” Brother Smith continued with a smile.

“What kind of books?” asked David.

“Well, the first five are often called ‘The Law.’”

“My dad uses law books,” David bragged.

“These law books teach us God’s laws. They teach us about the Creation and about Adam and Eve. They also teach us about Moses and the laws God gave to him.” Brother Smith paused, but none of us said anything, so he continued, “There are twelve history books that tell us how the people were blessed when they obeyed God and how they were punished when they didn’t obey.”

“Is there any poetry?” Michelle asked. “I like poetry.”

“Yes,” Brother Smith replied, “there are four poetry books and another of wise sayings.”

By now I’d noticed that Brother Smith hadn’t started the engine; we were just sitting in the van, talking.

“And the last collection of books in the old room of the sacred library is seventeen books written by prophets.”

“What do they say?” Justin asked.

“They teach the people to obey God, and they tell us about future events.”

By now most of the class realized we weren’t going on an ordinary field trip. But we still wanted to know about this sacred library.

“Now, in the new room of this library,” Brother Smith continued, “there are only twenty-seven books.”

“Yes,” said Sue, “and four of them are history!”

Unlike me, Sue seemed to know what Brother Smith was talking about.

“Actually, there are five history books,” he told her, “but in four of them, sometimes called the Gospels, four different authors tell the story of Jesus and his life and teachings.”

“What are the rest of the books?” I asked.

“They are letters from church leaders to church members who lived in different places,” Brother Smith explained, pleased to see that I was interested.

“Where is this library?” I asked.

“In my hand.” Brother Smith held up a book.

“The Bible!” David announced.

“The Holy Bible,” Michelle added.

“The Holy Bible,” Brother Smith agreed. “In the Greek language, bible came to mean ‘divine library.’”

“The Old Testament and the New Testament are the two ‘rooms’!” I exclaimed.

“What did you learn today in Primary?” my mom asked later that day. She always asks, and in the past, I didn’t remember very often.

“We learned that we carry a whole library to church,” I answered proudly.

Mom gave me a funny look. But then Dad whispered, “Brother Smith’s his new Primary teacher,” and her puzzled look changed to one of understanding.

I can’t wait to go to Primary next week. Brother Smith says he’s going to take us on another field trip.

In 1962, Elder Harold B. Lee, then a member of the Council of the Twelve, used a very practical modern example of that principle. “It is sometimes very interesting to get the reaction of people,” he observed. “I recall when President McKay announced to the Church that the First Council of Seventy were being ordained high priests in order to extend their usefulness and to give them authority to act when no other General Authority could be present. I went down to Phoenix, Arizona, and I found a Seventy who was very much disturbed. He said to me, ‘Didn’t the Prophet Joseph Smith say that this was contrary to the order of heaven to name high priests as presidents of the First Council of Seventy when they were named in the beginning?’
“And I said, ‘Well, I had understood that he did, but had you ever thought that what was contrary to the order of heaven in 1840 might not be contrary to the order of heaven in 1960?’ You see, he had not thought of that. He … was following a dead prophet, and he was forgetting that there is a living prophet today. Hence the importance of our stressing the word ‘living.’” (“The Place of the Living Prophet, Seer, and Revelator,” address given to Seminary and Institute Faculty at BYU on July, 1964.)

When our youngest daughter returned home after her first day of school, I asked, “How did it go?”
She answered, “It was good.”
The next morning, however, when I woke her up for school, she folded her arms and firmly stated, “I already went to school!” Apparently I had not prepared her or explained that going to school was not a onetime event but that she was expected to go to school five days a week for many, many years.

The people of this island have a deeply spiritual side to their nature as well. Many, such as Doel Irizarry of the Guayanilla Branch, were converted to the gospel because of a dream or a spiritual prompting. “In 1979 the missionaries asked our family to pray about the Book of Mormon,” he says. “That night, I knelt in prayer with my wife, Cruz, and our children, Maritza and Eric, and prayed to know if the Book of Mormon was true. I had a dream that was repeated three times. When I went to church the next week, to my surprise I met the man whom I had seen in my dream. I knew this was the answer to my prayer.”

Just after completing graduate school, I was assigned by my new employer to the Marketing Research Department. There, we were presented with a problem: how to quickly identify a new model of a product that was very similar to the old model. Without the correct classification it was impossible for us to assess the impact of the new model on the marketplace. Our field interviewers were confused even after training. It seemed there was no easy way to get the information we needed.
As a new analyst I was invited to a meeting to discuss possible solutions to this problem, which was costing us tens of thousands of dollars. Many alternative ideas were being proposed. In the middle of the meeting I found myself slipping my wedding ring off my finger and onto the handle of one of the products. I found that the handle of the old standard model would barely fit through the ring but the handle of the new adjustable one would not. From there, it was a simple matter to make cards with various sized holes so the interviewers could easily provide accurate information. Market researchers still refer to this simple solution as the Hales Hole Card.

I was married, I had three kids, and I was unemployed. A work drought left me feeling hopeless. I worried about the safety of my family, and I stopped believing in myself.
My wife, Carla, encouraged me to attend a self-reliance group. It was embarrassing for me to admit that I didn’t have work, but she encouraged me to attend the group so I could take care of our family.
I reluctantly gave it a try. While attending the group, I realized that my English skills could be a valuable asset in the job world. I had studied English on my mission, but I only knew how to speak about religion. I enrolled in English classes offered by the Church to improve my vocabulary. When I returned home from English class one day, Carla handed me the phone.
“Who is it?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” she replied. “They’re speaking in English.”
It was a human resources representative from one of the biggest companies in Costa Rica asking to interview me. I was stunned, but the interview went remarkably well. I later learned that Carla had set up the interview.
I got the job, and I remembered how my self-reliance group had helped me. Then I thought about how I could better apply what I learned. I started looking for an even better job and got one. Then I worked toward starting my own construction business.
I can’t imagine where my family and I would be without the start we received from the self-reliance initiative. I learned to be humble and to ask the Lord for help. I also learned to allow those who wanted to help me to bless my life. We have so many blessings. I now have self-respect, and I can bless my family with the money I earn. I know the Spirit blesses us when we are humble.

The Dragon Boat Festival is held May 5. This festival honors a great poet named Wat Yuen who lived more than a thousand years ago. He tried to persuade the king not to go to war, but the king at that time was very wicked and didn’t care whether the people were killed or mistreated. Wat Yuen was so sad about this that he jumped into a river and was drowned. All the people grieved over the death of this great man, and in his honor they still hold the Dragon Boat Festival.

Several years ago, Brigham Young University honored with a presidential citation Sarah Bagley Shumway, a truly remarkable woman of our time. The citation contained the words: “It is often within our homes and among our own family members that the eternally significant—but usually unheralded—dramas of daily living occur. The people in these plain but important places bring stability to the present and promise to the future. Their lives are filled with struggle and deep feeling as they face circumstances that rarely fit neatly within the formulae of plays, films and newscasts. But their victories, however slight, strengthen the boundaries through which the history of future generations must pass.”
Sarah married H. Smith Shumway, then her “friend and sweetheart of nine years,” in 1948. The courtship was longer than most because Smith, an infantry officer in World War II, was blinded and severely wounded by a land-mine explosion in the advance on Paris, France. During his long rehabilitation, Sarah learned braille so that she could correspond with him in privacy. She couldn’t tolerate the idea of others reading her letters aloud to the man she loved.
Something of the spirit of this young couple comes to us in the simple candor of Smith Shumway’s proposal of marriage. Finally home in Wyoming after the war, he told Sarah, “If you will drive the car and sort the socks and read the mail, I will do the rest.” She accepted the offer.
Years of study led to a successful career, eight accomplished children, a host of grandchildren, and lives of service. The Shumways, along life’s pathway, have faced problems of a child with severe deafness, a missionary son developing cancer, and a twin granddaughter injured at birth.
My family and I had the privilege to meet the entire Shumway clan at Aspen Grove a year ago. It was our joy to be with them. Each wore an identifying T-shirt on which was a map depicting the location of each child and family, along with the names of all. Brother Shumway, with justifiable pride, pointed to the location on his shirt of his precious ones and beamed the smile of gladness. Only then did I ponder that he had never seen any of his children or grandchildren. Or had he? While his eyes had never beheld them, in his heart he knew them and he loved them.
At an evening of entertainment, the Shumway family was on the stage at Aspen Grove. The children were asked, “What was it like growing up in a household with a sightless father?” One daughter smiled and said, “When we were little, occasionally we felt Daddy should not have too much dessert at dinner, so without telling him, we would trade our smaller helping with his larger one. Maybe he knew, but he never complained.”
One child touched our hearts when she recounted, “When I was about five years old, I remember my father holding my hand and walking me around the neighborhood, and I never realized he was blind because he talked about the birds and other things. I always thought he held my hand because he loved me more than other fathers loved their children.”
Today Brother Shumway is a patriarch. Who would you guess learned typing skills so as to be able to type the many blessings he gives? You’re correct: his beloved wife, Sarah.
Smith and Sarah Shumway and their family are examples of rising above adversity and sorrow, overcoming the tragedy of war-inflicted impairment, and walking bravely the higher roadway of life.

Amanda had been watching through the window for what seemed like hours. Finally the car pulled into the driveway. “Daddy’s home!” she shouted as she ran out the door. Before Daddy was even out of the car, Amanda was showing him her letter.
“Look, Daddy, I got a letter from Grandma! It came in the mail today. Mommy read it to me already, but I want you to read it again.”
Letters from Amanda’s grandma are especially fun to get because Amanda’s grandma and grandpa are missionaries far, far away in Paraguay (pah-rah-gwi). Almost everyone in Paraguay speaks Spanish, so Grandma and Grandpa have learned to speak Spanish too. They teach the people there about the Church. They also teach them how to sew and how to plant gardens, and they help them to build chicken coops and other things. Grandpa is even helping to build a meetinghouse there.
As soon as Daddy had a chance to get in the house and sit down, Amanda crawled up onto his lap. “Here, Daddy. Read my letter,” she said.
Daddy gave Amanda a big hug, then read this letter:
Dear Amanda,
We had so many interesting visitors at church last Sunday that I thought you would like to hear about them. Grandpa and I went to church in a little town called Itakyrú (ee-tahk-ee-roo). We are building a nice new meetinghouse there, but for now the members come to the home of the Ugarte (oo-gar-teh) family for church. There are two rooms in the house: a bedroom, where the whole family sleeps, and a kitchen, where Sister Ugarte cooks over an open fire. Between the two rooms is a covered area for the animals. There is a big box of corn there, and the dogs and pigs and chickens and ducks go in and out whenever they wish. The Ugarte family also has a little brown burro, a calf, and a pretty gray cat.
On Sunday, however, all the animals have to go out into the yard, and Brother Ugarte sets up benches for our meetings in the area between the two rooms. It is a very cool and pretty place to have a meeting.
Sacrament meeting last Sunday started out as usual. Then, after the announcements and opening song, we heard a strange munching noise. It was the little black calf. He had come in to listen and to eat some of his corn!
A little later, during the first talk, Grandpa leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Grandma, there is a little pig between my feet!”
“I know,” I whispered back, “and there is a little spotted dog under me.”
Just at that moment the little dog under me playfully nipped the little pig under Grandpa.
“Ooee! Ooee! Ooee!” squealed the pig, and it ran into the yard.
“Woof! Woof! Woof!” barked the dog, following the pig into the yard.
“Amen,” said the speaker as he finished his talk.
Everyone stood up to sing a rest song. The little brown burro, which had been very reverent in the yard the whole time, decided he would like to sing. Have you ever heard a burro sing? They don’t stay with the music very well, and they always forget the words!
The second half of the meeting was much quieter. The pretty gray cat fell asleep outside near the burro, and the only new visitors to church were some ducks and a mother hen that came to eat the corn that the calf had spilled on the floor.
Soon the new meetinghouse in Itakyru will be finished. Then the animals won’t be able to come to church anymore, which is really too bad, because they seemed to enjoy being there with us.
Grandpa and I are very glad that we can be missionaries in Paraguay. Maybe someday you can be a missionary too. Don’t forget to be a good girl for your mommy and daddy.
Love,
Grandma

His help has come to me on countless occasions throughout my life. During the final phases of World War II, I turned 18 and was ordained an elder—one week before I departed for active duty with the navy. A member of my ward bishopric was at the train station to bid me farewell. Just before train time, he placed in my hand a book which I hold before you tonight. Its title: The Missionary’s Hand Book. I laughed and commented, “I’ll be in the navy—not on a mission.” He answered, “Take it anyway. It may come in handy.”
It did. During basic training our company commander instructed us concerning how we might best pack our clothing in a large seabag. He then advised, “If you have a hard, rectangular object you can place in the bottom of the bag, your clothes will stay more firm.” I thought, “Where am I going to find a hard, rectangular object?” Suddenly I remembered just the right rectangular object—The Missionary’s Hand Book. And thus it served for 12 weeks at the bottom of that seabag.
The night preceding our Christmas leave, our thoughts were, as always, on home. The barracks were quiet. Suddenly I became aware that my buddy in the adjoining bunk—a member of the Church, Leland Merrill—was moaning in pain. I asked, “What’s the matter, Merrill?”
He replied, “I’m sick. I’m really sick.”
I advised him to go to the base dispensary, but he answered knowingly that such a course would prevent him from being home for Christmas. I then suggested he be quiet so that we didn’t awaken the entire barracks.
The hours lengthened; his groans grew louder. Then, in desperation, he whispered, “Monson, aren’t you an elder?” I acknowledged this to be so, whereupon he pleaded, “Give me a blessing.”
I became very much aware that I had never given a blessing. I had never received such a blessing; I had never witnessed a blessing being given. My prayer to God was a plea for help. The answer came: “Look in the bottom of the seabag.” Thus, at 2:00 a.m. I emptied on the deck the contents of the bag. I then took to the night-light that hard, rectangular object, The Missionary’s Hand Book, and read how one blesses the sick. With about 120 curious sailors looking on, I proceeded with the blessing. Before I could stow my gear, Leland Merrill was sleeping like a child.
The next morning, Merrill smilingly turned to me and said, “Monson, I’m glad you hold the priesthood!” His gladness was only surpassed by my gratitude—gratitude not only for the priesthood but for being worthy to receive the help I required in a time of desperate need and to exercise the power of the priesthood.

It was a lazy day in August. The sun was hot, and Tommy and Elija were lying on the ground near the creek, enjoying the shade of a big cottonwood tree. They had been assigned to watch the thirty head of cattle, which were grazing a half mile upstream.
“Herding cattle might be important,” said Tommy, “but it isn’t very exciting.”
Just then the cattle started to low. The boys heard them moving around as if they were frightened. “Something is bothering them,” said Elija. “Let’s see what it is.”
In a moment the two boys were running toward the cattle, but they stopped short when they saw a small band of Indians coming toward them. They had no way of knowing whether or not they were friendly. But Tommy knew that the Omaha Indians had given the Mormon pioneers permission to camp on their land for the winter and to use their water and their timber.
When the boys came within talking distance, a young Indian stepped forward and spoke to them in halting English. “Last night our enemies, the Iowas, attacked our camp. All of our men except Chief Big Head and I were on a hunting trip. The Iowas took our horses and all of our food. They wounded many women and children. Chief Big Head they left for dead. He will die if he does not get help.”
Tommy looked down on the willow bed that the Indians had made for their chief. What he saw made him want to close his eyes.
“I’ll go for help,” he said.
“I’ll go with you,” said Elija.
The young Indian put his arm across Elija’s chest to keep him from going. “You stay here till boy gets back.”
Tommy knew that Elija’s safety depended on his speedy return, so he ran almost all of the two miles to Winter Quarters.
He went at once to the home of his bishop and told him what had happened. “The Indians really need help,” he concluded, “and they’re keeping Elija with them to make sure I bring some back.”
Bishop Morley listened quietly; then he put his arm around the boy to comfort him while he thought about what to do. “We must find Brigham Young,” he decided. “He might be down at the ferry. You take my horse and ride down there as fast as you can. In the meantime I will look around here.”
The ferry was twelve miles away, and it took Tommy an hour to get there. When he arrived, he found Brigham Young and told him his story.
“We will help the Indians, of course,” Brigham Young said, “but our first concern is for Elija. You must get back to him as soon as possible. Take your wagon and ask Bishop Morley to take his. These two wagons should be enough to bring the badly wounded to Winter Quarters. I’ll meet you at my house.”
Bishop Morley was waiting for Tommy. They took the two wagons and went to get Elija and the Indians.
When they came to the small sad camp, Elija ran up and began talking to Tommy. “At first they were afraid I would run away,” said Elija, “but when I took off my shirt and wet it in the creek so I could cool the forehead of Chief Big Head, they knew I could be trusted.”
“I’m so glad you are all right,” Tommy said.
Bishop Morley and the young Indian helped Chief Big Head into Tommy’s wagon, and the boys started back to Winter Quarters. The other Indians who were badly wounded were put into the Morley wagon. The rest of the Indians walked beside it.
The sun was almost setting when the wagons arrived at the home of Brigham Young. He soon determined that the Indian chief would need special care. He turned to Tommy and said, “Please go and ask your mother if she could take Chief Big Head into her home and nurse him back to health.”
Tommy was off in a flash. He returned in a few minutes with his mother, who said, “Of course, I’ll take care of him.”
Brigham Young smiled and said, “You won’t be sorry. An Indian never forgets a kindness.”
The weeks that followed were anxious ones for Tommy and his mother. Chief Big Head was very sick and needed constant care. Either Tommy or his mother stayed day and night by his side. Then one day, without any warning, the Indian got out of bed. “Chief Big Head well,” he declared. “I must go to my people.”
That night he left Winter Quarters and took with him all of the Indians who had been staying there.

On a dark December night 36 years ago, a Lockheed 1011 jumbo jet crashed into the Florida Everglades, killing over 100 people. This terrible accident was one of the deadliest crashes in the history of the United States.
A curious thing about this accident is that all vital parts and systems of the airplane were functioning perfectly—the plane could have easily landed safely at its destination in Miami, only 20 miles (32km) away.
During the final approach, however, the crew noticed that one green light had failed to illuminate—a light that indicates whether or not the nose landing gear has extended successfully. The pilots discontinued the approach, set the aircraft into a circling holding pattern over the pitch-black Everglades, and turned their attention toward investigating the problem.
They became so preoccupied with their search that they failed to realize the plane was gradually descending closer and closer toward the dark swamp below. By the time someone noticed what was happening, it was too late to avoid the disaster.
After the accident, investigators tried to determine the cause. The landing gear had indeed lowered properly. The plane was in perfect mechanical condition. Everything was working properly—all except one thing: a single burned-out lightbulb. That tiny bulb—worth about 20 cents—started the chain of events that ultimately led to the tragic death of over 100 people.
Of course, the malfunctioning lightbulb didn’t cause the accident; it happened because the crew placed its focus on something that seemed to matter at the moment while losing sight of what mattered most.

Finally in July 1959 the plans were completed. Thirty faithful Tahitians had worked, saved, and sacrificed to raise the money necessary to finance a trip to the Hawaii Temple. It had taken much work to bring the Paraita (literally the Big Chief), the mission yacht, into dry dock, to repair it, and to repaint it. Then there had been the problems with the French government. The officials had argued against the proposed boat trip to Hawaii. They questioned why the Mormons didn’t want to head southwest to New Zealand to attend the temple there. “You like the Americans,” they taunted. “That is the only reason why you want to go to Honolulu.” Raituia T. Tapu (the skipper of the mission yacht and later the first stake president of the Tahiti Stake) had difficulty convincing the French officials that the trip north over the Pacific Ocean to Hawaii would be safer than the trip across wide expanses of open water to New Zealand because of the many islands that could be used as shelter in case of storms. When Brother Tapu insisted, “I will have 30 passengers with me, and I won’t take them to New Zealand and face the weather that way,” he convinced the harbor master and the two of them convinced the French governor that the Saints on the Paraita should be allowed to sail to Hawaii.
Brother Tapu not only obtained permission from the French officials, but he also wrote to Salt Lake City to get permission from President David O. McKay. That permission had been granted and everything was ready.
Then a fateful call came from the mission office. Everyone anticipating the voyage was to gather for a meeting at the mission home before the departure.
The president of the French Polynesian Mission, Ellis V. Christiansen, was nervous about the forthcoming meeting. True, permission to take a group of Saints to the temple in Hawaii had been granted by President McKay, but that day a special messenger, Ernest C. Rossiter, a former president of the French Polynesian Mission, had arrived direct from President McKay in Salt Lake City. The news he brought was stunning. The Saints had been asked not to make their long-sought voyage. According to Brother Tapu, President McKay gave no explanation. He merely asked Brother Rossiter to “go and stop them. They won’t make it, and if we allow them to come, we’ll be in trouble with the [French] government. We’ll be responsible for them. So you go and stop them.”
In the mission diary, President Christiansen wrote expressing his anxiety about telling the Saints who were ready to embark:
“I was much concerned and felt I needed the Lord’s help to assist me in giving an explanation to these humble, faithful members, who had such high hopes of receiving their endowments in His Holy House. I fasted and prayed about it. I called a meeting of the priesthood members for July 15, 1959, at 8:00 o’clock, and also asked six of the faithful brethren to come to my room at 7:30, and with the help of President Rossiter we told them of the decision that had come from the First Presidency, and told them that we desired their faith and prayers in presenting the message to the members of the priesthood who would assemble at 8:00 o’clock. After President Rossiter and I had finished talking to these men, they in turn spoke briefly their thoughts, and as I listened a great joy swelled inside me as they told their desire to obey the counsel of our prophet here upon the earth.
“We went to the meeting with the priesthood members. After hearing the message from the First Presidency, [they] expressed their convictions that if this word had come from the leaders of the Church then it must have come through the inspiration of the Lord, and the only way to show their love and appreciation for the blessings He had given them was to be obedient to the counsel given. I then called for a vote, and all hands were raised accepting the decision of the First Presidency.”
So the voyage was cancelled, and neither President Rossiter, nor President Christiansen, nor the faithful Tahitian Saints really knew why the prophet of God had told them not to go. They cancelled the voyage because they had faith in the prophet.
Later, Brother Tapu, the skipper, returned to his boat where a mechanic told him that a small gear was damaged and would only provide 100 to 150 more hours of service. This fact notwithstanding, the boat was launched and anchored. Then, according to the skipper, Brother Tapu, “I layed off everybody except my first mate. I left him on board and told him to keep an eye on the boat and to repair the sail.
“Well, a couple of days later I got a call. I was over here at the mission office working on our local Church magazine. The call was from the harbor master. He said, ‘Hey, your boat’s sinking.’ And I said, ‘What, I just got it out from dry dock!’ He still said, ‘Your boat is sinking. Hurry!’ So I rushed to the harbor and the boat was halfway down. My first mate was underneath the boat checking what was going on. He found that the exhaust pipe from the kitchen was rotten. The repairmen had painted over some very rotten wood and rusty pipe. It had broken and the water went in.
“So what would you say if we were two or three hundred miles away on a lifeboat? If we had sailed according to schedule, we would have been that far on our way when the rotten pipe and wood gave out.”
At the time when the Saints in Tahiti had accepted the counsel of the prophet, they could not understand President McKay’s reason for concern. But now they understood the ways of God. Brother Tapu expressed this knowledge when he said, “That’s why I always had a testimony of President McKay, a true prophet of the Lord.”
Editor’s Note:
This story is well known among the Saints and missionaries in the Tahiti Papeete Mission. Some misconceptions have grown concerning this incident. One is that President McKay told the mission president to sell the boat at the same time the warning was given, and this being done, the boat soon sank. According to Brother Tapu, this is not true. The Church actually bought a new engine fairly soon after this event and kept the boat for about three years. Then the ship was sold and used for about two more years. At that point the government inspectors declared it unsafe for further use. It was then sailed to the other side of the island from Papeete where it rotted and finally sank. It died a very natural death.

The highlight of Joseph’s beekeeping adventure was when his hives yielded 60 kilograms of beautiful wild honey. He gave away dozens of jars and received rave reviews. “Even my friend who runs a honey business said that my honey tastes better than what they produce,” Joseph beams. He couldn’t wait to see how his hives would perform in the next harvesting season.
Then one morning, he found an entire hive was empty. The bee colony had left!
Joseph searched the neighbourhood, with no luck. “Sometimes the queen [bee] just decides to leave and take her colony with her,” he explains. “Sometimes you can find them, and sometimes you can’t.”
He knew once a colony has left its hive, it’s unlikely that it will ever return. Also, bees never take over another colony’s hive. For these reasons, beekeepers tend to keep many hives—but Joseph only had two.
Tragically, a couple of months later, his second beehive was also abandoned.
Joseph was heartbroken: “I was so sad. I really felt like I had lost something.”
He hung up his beekeeper suit and went to tell his wife, Atelaite, the bad news. “Our bees are gone,” Joseph said to her. She encouraged him to pray.
From that morning, the couple prayed fervently, every day, for their bees. They would thank Heavenly Father for the privilege of having raised bees, and for the joy the experience had brought them, and then they’d prayed for a miracle—that the bees might somehow return.
After almost two weeks, however, Joseph began to lose faith. He told Atelaite he was ready to take down his empty hives and just purchase new bees in the next season. “These things happen,” he said to her. “Let’s just let nature take its course.”
But Atelaite wasn’t ready to give up. She had the words of Amulek in her heart: “Yea, humble yourselves, and continue in prayer unto him. . . .
“Cry unto him over the crops of your fields, that ye may prosper in them.
“Cry over the flocks of your fields, that they may increase (Alma 34:19, 24–25).
She did not stop praying.
One Saturday morning, Joseph noticed bees hovering above the flowerbeds in his garden. With the eyes of a trained beekeeper, he saw that many were carrying pollen, and that their flight path headed towards his hives.
Joseph hurried to put on his beekeeping suit and went to investigate. Bees swarmed especially around one of his hives, and when he opened it, it was filled with thousands of busy bees.
Joseph shed tears and said a quiet prayer of gratitude. He looked for the queen bee and thanked her for bringing her colony to this hive. Then he ran into the house to tell Atelaite.
“I said, ‘Honey, guess what? The bees have come back!’” He hugged and kissed his wife, and then told her, “Your faith is greater than mine.”
To this day, Joseph doesn’t know if the bees in his hive now are the same bees that left it, or if a new colony took over the hive. As neither situation is likely, he only knows that a miracle happened, and it was preceded by faith.
“I almost doubted and just, let nature take its course,” Joseph says, “but my wife never did. I have learned to never give up on our prayers and to trust in Heavenly Father. A miracle won’t always happen, but when it does, it brings great joy.”

I made my first covenant on November 13, 1977. I don’t remember much about my baptism, but I do remember Elder Pistone helping me into the water and Elder Morasco confirming me while my hair was still wet. I also remember the joy I felt as new ward friends gave hugs and kisses in the Argentine way and the strong desire I felt to be a faithful daughter of Heavenly Father.
Young Sister Spannaus (middle) with her parents (left), her sister Silvina (far right), and Elder Morasco.
Later I realized that the joy I felt came from the gift of the Holy Ghost. I learned that as I faithfully kept my covenants with God, the Spirit would be with me. The Holy Ghost is just one of the powerful blessings that come from a covenant relationship with God and Jesus Christ.

Not many teenagers get a chance to launch a small business with one of their parents. But when 15-year-old Blythe G. and her mom made a one-of-a-kind cloth doll for Blythe’s younger sister, they had so much fun that they decided to keep going. “We started selling them,” Blythe says. They also donate one doll a month to a sick child.
Blythe, an artist, loves her part of the process. “My main job is to paint the dolls’ faces,” she says. In addition, she’s acquired other talents along the way. “I’ve learned a lot about marketing,” Blythe says.
She’s also learned how to sew. “That’s been really fun,” she says. “Now I can make all sorts of things.” In fact, Blythe has already put those sewing skills to good use. As she and her mom sold more dolls, they added stuffed animals to their lineup. Blythe personally designed several of the stuffed animals they now sell.
Running this business has brought Blythe and her mom closer together. “I love doing it with my mom,” she says. “My mom is my best friend.”
To other youth thinking about starting a job, Blythe says, “Go for it! There are a lot of things you can’t learn in school that you can learn only from going out there and doing stuff.”

In October of 1879 a group of 237 Latter-day Saints from several small southwestern Utah settlements was called to blaze a new route and colonize what is today known as San Juan County in southeastern Utah. The journey was to have taken six weeks but instead took nearly six months. Their struggles and heroics are well documented, particularly their seemingly impossible task of crossing the Colorado River at a place called Hole-in-the-Rock. Those who have visited this place marvel that wagons and teams could have been lowered through this narrow crack in the red rock canyon walls to reach the Colorado River far below. Once the Colorado was crossed, however, many other severe tests awaited them on the trail to San Juan County. Tired and worn out, early in April 1880 they faced their final obstacle, Comb Ridge. The Comb is a ridge of solid sandstone forming a steep wall nearly 1,000 feet high.
One hundred and twenty years later, our family climbed Comb Ridge on a bright spring day. The ridge is steep and treacherous. It was difficult to imagine that wagons, teams, men, women, and children could make such an ascent. But beneath our feet were the scars from the wagon wheels, left as evidence of their struggles so long ago. How did they feel after enduring so much? Were they bitter after the many months of toil and privation? Did they criticize their leaders for sending them on such an arduous journey, asking them to give up so much? Our questions were answered as we reached the top of Comb Ridge. There inscribed in the red sandstone so long ago were the words, “We thank Thee, O God.”
Brethren, I pray that we might keep our hearts full of thanks and appreciation for what we have and not dwell on what is not ours. As holders of the priesthood, let us adopt an attitude of gratitude in all we do is my prayer in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

It was the worst electrical storm in 50 years, knocking out electricity and communications over a 200-mile region overnight.
Fifteen-year-old Shane had spent the evening huddled with his family around the fireplace, enjoying the warmth and light it gave. But at ten o’clock his parents suggested everyone go to bed, and so Shane took a flashlight and padded barefoot up the stairs to his bedroom, which had been converted from an attic several years ago.
He had just gotten into bed and turned out the flashlight when the door opened and someone else stepped into the room. At first Shane thought it was one of his parents coming to check on him, but the visitor didn’t say anything, just sat down on the other side of the bed.
Shane thought that it might be a burglar, and because he was afraid of being shot, he kept quiet.
The visitor, in pajamas, removed a wristwatch and then got in under the covers on the other side of the bed from where Shane was.
Shane jumped out of bed, grabbed his flashlight and a bat, and prepared himself for a fight.
The visitor likewise jumped out of bed and went into a karate stance. From the light of the flashlight, Shane saw that he appeared to be in his late twenties. There was something strangely familiar about the man’s face.
“What are you doing here?” the visitor asked.
“Look, this is my bedroom. What are you doing here?”
“You must be mistaken. This is my bedroom.”
“Look, all the houses on this block look alike. You must be in the wrong one.”
“4216 Cedar Street,” the visitor said.
Shane was puzzled. That was his address too.
“What’s your name?” the visitor asked.
“Shane Logan.”
“Don’t play games with me,” the stranger said.
“What do you mean?” Shane asked.
“I’m Shane Logan,” the stranger said.
“You can’t be,” Shane said.
“Why can’t I?”
“Because there’s only one Shane Logan that lives at 4216 Cedar Street.”
“I don’t live here now. I just came to visit for the night. My business brings me out here a few times a year. I always stay the night so I can visit with my parents.”
“This doesn’t make sense,” Shane said.
“I can’t see your face very well,” the stranger said. “Shine the flashlight on your face.”
Shane did as the man asked.
“I can’t believe it,” the visitor said.
“You can’t believe what?”
“Your face.”
“It’s not that bad, is it?”
“What year is it?”
“1988,” Shane said.
“You need counseling,” the visitor said.
“Why?”
“Because actually the year is 2003.”
“Look at the calendar on the wall if you don’t believe me,” Shane said. He pointed the flashlight at the calendar on the bulletin board.
“I think we have a problem here,” the visitor said. “The electrical storm must have caused some kind of a time warp. We’re the same person from two different times. You’re me at 15, and I’m you at 30.”
Shane paused. “This is a joke, right?”
“Afraid not.”
“Look, I don’t care who you are. You can’t spend the night here.”
“I’m afraid I have to.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because I’m supposed to be here overnight. If and when the time warp ever reverts back, we both have to be in this room, or else we might miss it and one of us be trapped in the wrong time.”
Shane pulled up a chair from his desk and gave it to the stranger.
“Are you married?” Shane asked, sitting on his bed.
“Yes.”
“What’s your wife’s name?”
The visitor paused. “I don’t think I’ll tell you that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I didn’t know who my wife was going to be, and since you’re me, I don’t think you should either. Does that make sense?”
“Is her first name Tara?”
“No.”
“Is her first name Melissa?”
“Look, let’s change the subject, okay? You’re on your own about who you marry. That’s the way it should be.”
“Okay, but what can you tell me about myself that might help?”
The visitor paused. “Obey your parents. Stay active in the Church. Live the Word of Wisdom. Go on a mission. Keep yourself morally clean.”
“You sound like my dad.”
“Well, maybe that’s because I am a dad.”
“You are? I mean I am? I mean I will be? What’s it like? How many kids do we have?”
“One, and one on the way.”
“Is our wife a knockout?”
“Let’s see, a knockout. It’s been a while since I heard that word. That means beautiful, right?”
“Right.”
“Then she’s a knockout.”
“How do we do next year in geometry?”
“Well, if we work hard, and get some help, we do okay.”
“But Mr. Adelstein is a tough grader.”
“I know, but he’s fair.”
“What about girls?” Shane asked.
“What about ’em?”
“Melissa Stewart, what about her? Does she ever get to like me?”
The visitor smiled. “Forget Melissa Stewart.”
Shane frowned. “Rats. What else can you tell me?”
“What do you want to know?”
“Am I going to turn out okay?”
The visitor smiled. “I think so, but of course I’m probably prejudiced.”
“Anything I should watch out for?” Shane asked.
“Drugs and alcohol.”
“Did you stay away from those things?”
“Yes, but last year I was talking to a friend of mine, a psychologist. He told me I had all the personality characteristics of someone who could become an alcoholic. He told me it was a good thing I’d never started drinking. So don’t you start either or else I might not be around at 30.”
“Did we go on a mission?”
“Let me just say, I’d strongly recommend it.”
“What kind of a job do you have?”
The visitor paused. “Actually it wouldn’t do any good to tell you.”
“Why not?”
“Because the work you’ll end up doing when you’re my age hasn’t even been invented yet.”
“So what do I do to prepare for it?”
“Get as good an education as you can.”
Suddenly there was a knock on the door.
“Hide,” Shane said.
The visitor got under the bed.
Shane opened the door. His mother was standing there holding a candle in her hand.
“I heard talking coming from your room.”
“I was just talking to myself,” Shane said with a strange grin, and then he burst out laughing uncontrollably.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing, Mom, really,” he said, still laughing.
“Well, get to bed and get some sleep.”
“I will, Mom. Good night.”
“Good night, dear.”
He shut the door.
Suddenly the lights in the house went on.
“You can come out of there now,” Shane said. “I’ve got a lot more questions. When I go before the Eagle Scout review board next week, can you remember any of the questions they’ll ask me?”
No answer.
Shane looked under the bed. The visitor was gone.
“Where are you? Look, don’t go away. There are so many things I want to know about my life. When will my parents let me get a driver’s license?”
Another knock on the door. “Come in,” Shane said.
His mother opened the door.
Shane was on his knees looking under the bed. All he saw was an old banana peel and some dust.
“What are you doing?” his mother asked.
“I’m looking for something.”
“Shane, quit this foolishness and get to bed.”
“All right.” He paused. “Mom?”
“What?”
“It doesn’t matter about Melissa Stewart.”
She smiled. “Well, I’m glad you finally came to your senses. Good night.”
His mother left.
The visitor never returned.
Actually that isn’t quite true, because in time Shane became the visitor.
As we all do.