Gospel Story Finder

When you receive a check, it’s always nice to write a second note after you’ve spent it. You might say something like
Dear Gram,
It was lots of fun deciding what to do with the money you sent for Christmas. Sandy (my best friend) and I had a great day at the mall looking at sweaters. I finally picked out a fuzzy red one to go with my new plaid skirt. Thank you again for the check and the nice day spending it. You gave me two gifts in one.
Love,Judy

I have invited a special young man to assist me with my presentation tonight. I would like to introduce Terry Haws, my oldest grandson.
Terry, how old are you?
Terry: Twelve.
What special event has happened in your life this year?
Terry: I received the Aaronic Priesthood and was ordained a deacon.
Terry, again I would like to congratulate you on the preparation you have made in your life to be worthy of receiving this great gift. As I stood in the circle on that special occasion and listened to the blessing you received from your father as he conferred the Aaronic Priesthood upon you and ordained you a deacon, I was impressed with the special privilege this is in your young life.
I wanted to have a little grandfather-to-grandson chat right afterward, but unfortunately I had an appointment with an airplane. So I’m taking advantage of this assignment to have our little visit. Let’s make it public just in case what we talk about might be of benefit to other young bearers of the Aaronic Priesthood listening to us tonight. All right?
Terry: Okay.

One man liked to hang down close to the water to tease the sharks. His actions made his wife so nervous that she hated to watch. But she always stood by, to try to pull him to safety if she had to. He seemed to enjoy worrying her as much as he delighted in teasing the fish. The sailors scolded him for his foolishness, but he ignored them. Somehow he managed to avoid disaster.

Like a gardener
with a green thumb,
You made me grow;
You planted me in good soil;
You watered me when I was thirsty
and fed me with Thy love.
Even though I made
mistakes,
and grew
lopsidedly,
You gave me support.
And when it was
harvest time,
You rejoiced,
even though all I had to offer was
humble fruit.
Thank you, Father.

Several days before our ward was scheduled to travel to the Aba Nigeria Temple, the bishop called and asked me to lead our group. I agreed, and on the morning of our trip, we offered a prayer and boarded a bus to begin our journey.
On our way, we sang hymns. Joy beyond measure filled the air. We were making good time on our 10-hour journey, but just before noon, our bus developed a problem none of us could fix.
I ran to a nearby petrol station and found an attendant. I asked if she could direct me to a mechanic.
Without delay, she called two mechanics. They soon arrived and got to work. They discovered that the fan belt was defective. They worked for hours until they had exhausted all their knowledge. Then they called another mechanic.
He appeared confident when he arrived and said sarcastically, “What’s wrong with the fan belt that you could not fix?”
He worked for a while and then said, “What has happened here is beyond ordinary.” He picked up his tools and left. The other mechanics continued to search for a solution, but our situation seemed hopeless.
I turned to my fellow Saints and saw sadness on almost every face. As I thought about what to do next, a thought came to me: “Have you prayed over the problem?”
Immediately, I called the group together. We stood in a circle and prayed to our Heavenly Father to give the mechanics the knowledge they lacked. In less than five minutes, one of the mechanics came to see me.
“We have done it!” he said, beaming.
We rejoiced and thanked the Lord. I soon noticed that the other mechanic looked discouraged. I tried to congratulate him, but he said, “Are you congratulating me for taking six hours to fix one fan belt? I fixed two fan belts before I came here. What happened here is beyond explanation.”
I told him God had intervened following our prayer.
“You prayed over it?” he asked.
“Yes, about five minutes ago.”
“Oh, that is wonderful of you!” he said.
I paid the mechanics and they left. We all entered the bus and continued our journey. We finally reached the temple several hours later, grateful that Heavenly Father hears and answers our prayers.

We live in an environment where there is much of litigation and conflict, of suing and countersuing. Even here the powers of healing may be invoked. As a young man I worked with Elder Stephen L. Richards, then of the Council of the Twelve. When he came into the First Presidency of the Church, he asked me to assist him with a very delicate and sensitive matter. It was fraught with most grave and serious consequences. After listening to him discuss it, I said, “President Richards, you don’t want me; you want a lawyer.” He said, “I am a lawyer. I don’t want to litigate this. I want to compose it.”
We directed our efforts to that end, and wonderful results followed. Money was saved, much of it. Embarrassment was avoided. The work was moved forward without fanfare or headlines. Wounds were closed. The healing powers of the Master, the principles of the gospel of Jesus Christ, were invoked in a delicate and difficult situation to compose what otherwise could have become a catastrophe.

In these canyons, Mosiah, Lao Moy, and many other faithful Saints worked tirelessly to divide the boulders with hand drills, wedges, and low-power explosives. The rough blocks were then transported by oxteam—four yoke required for each block—and every trip was a difficult three- or four-day journey to the temple site some twenty miles away.
Mosiah touched Lao Moy’s shoulder and brought him out of his reverie. “I’m going to set off the blast, Lao Moy,” he cautioned, and then shouted a warning to the nearby workers. Mosiah lit the fuse and sprinted with Lao Moy for cover.
Two other workmen held a team of oxen. One of them was fourteen-year-old Corey Atwood. Corey, a tough, stout boy, had long taken pleasure in cruelly funning Lao Moy because of his broken English, his long queue (braid), and his quiet and obedient ways. It was often Corey who kept Lao Moy’s bitterness alive, but the Chinese boy had held it all inside, even when the troublesome Corey had once grabbed Lao Moy’s queue and threatened to cut it off with a knife.
The blast erupted like the sound of cannon fire over a Virginia cottonfield, and the big piece of granite split in two. Cheers went up, and Mosiah scrambled up the rocks to view his accomplishment. Lao Moy started up, too, but was soon held fast by Corey, who held onto his queue.
“What’s the matter, Lao Moy,” he chuckled, “somebody got your tail?”
Suddenly something exploded inside Lao Moy with no less force than Mosiah’s dynamite blast. He turned and struck Corey in the face so hard that the big boy was lifted off his feet and thrown backward in front of the team of oxen. The wide-eyed Atwood looked as surprised as Lao Moy. He wiped at the blood on his mouth and started to lift himself up when a clap of thunder suddenly boomed. As the already spooked oxen lurched forward, Lao Moy sprang for Corey and rolled him out of the path of pounding hooves and grinding wheels.
For a long moment the two boys just lay there, staring at each other. Finally, a smile broke across Corey’s dusty, blood-smeared face. Lao Moy smiled back, and all the old bitterness in his heart seemed to melt away like ice in a summer sun. A new peaceful feeling assured him it would not return.
Lao Moy was forty-five years old when the Salt Lake Temple was finally dedicated on April 6, 1893; Mosiah, seventy-six; and Corey Atwood, forty-seven. Corey sat close beside Lao Moy as President Wilford Woodruff offered the dedicatory prayer. A friendship had grown between them, a friendship as strong as the temple granite they had helped to cut. And like that granite, it would last forever.

Martin’s Cove holds special meaning for Jashley Simpson of Afton, Wyoming. To her, this spot is marked by sorrow for the trials of the people who died here. But it is also a place of joy, for it was here in the Sweetwater River that Jashley was baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Not very many people are baptized in rivers anymore, and Jashley probably wouldn’t have been, either, if the baptismal font in her stake center had not been under repair. As her eighth birthday neared, she and her parents, Evan and Beverly Simpson, realized that they had to find an alternative place for her baptism.
About a month before Jashley’s birthday, on May 12, 1997, her mother was reading an article in the Church News about the new visitors’ center at Martin’s Cove. Suddenly, the idea came to her that Jashley should be baptized there. At first, it seemed like an impossible thought, but as her mother lay awake at night, pondering the idea, it felt more and more like it was what Heavenly Father wanted them to do. She shared the idea with Jashley’s father, bishop of the Afton Third Ward, Afton Wyoming Stake, and he thought it was a great idea.
They made many phone calls but were unable to reach Brother Carvel Jackson, director of the center, to make arrangements in time for Jashley’s birthday. So the Simpsons just decided to take the eight-hour drive and visit the center on that day, hoping that things would work out when they got there. If nothing else, they would go on the short handcart trek organized by the visitors’ center.
Jashley’s five sisters—Bethany (16), Amory (14), Emily (11), Kelsey (5), and Courtney (3)—as well as both sets of grandparents came to spend this special day with the birthday girl. Jashley was particularly excited that her mother’s parents, Grandma and Grandpa Gibson, were able to come. They were not members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and Jashley looked forward to sharing part of its history with them.
Upon the family’s arrival at the center, they were finally able to speak with Brother Jackson, who gladly helped them find an ideal spot for the baptism. But first they took the handcart trek! Grandma Simpson and Grandma Gibson waited at the visitors’ center as the rest of the family loaded up handcarts and set out on the two-mile hike to the actual Cove.
As they climbed the trail, the wind blew fiercely around them. It was a hard trek but fun, even when Jashley fell on a cactus! Everyone enjoyed reading the plaques that described the journey of the handcart companies. They pushed the handcarts up one mile to the opening of the cove area. There they had to abandon their carts and hike up one more mile to the cove itself. Then they hiked the mile back to their handcarts, and completed the remaining two and a half miles of the loop trail back to the visitors’ center.
After the trek, the family prepared for the baptism. The place Brother Jackson had suggested was a beautiful spot on the Sweetwater River with Devil’s Gate in the background. However, everyone worried that the strong wind would affect the baptismal service. When no one was watching, Jashley bowed her head and closed her eyes and whispered a prayer to Heavenly Father that the wind would stop blowing just long enough for her to be baptized. Heavenly Father answered her prayer. The wind was completely still.
Jashley and her father were also surprised at how warm the water was. She had been concerned that the water would be icy cold from the melting snow in the mountains. In every prayer she had made for the last month, she had asked Heavenly Father to make the water “sort of warm.” Her prayers were answered once again, and the water temperature was just right.
The baptismal service was beautiful. Jashley’s father baptized her while her Grandpa Simpson and Elder Erickson, a missionary from Star Valley, acted as the witnesses. Afterward she saved some of the water from the river in a special old-fashioned glass jar with a clamp and rubber seal. She said that being baptized was wonderful; it made her feel “really clean.” She wrote in her journal all the way home about the exciting events of the day.
This day was definitely one to remember for Jashley and her family. Martin’s Cove had a special spirit that touched them all. Even Grandma and Grandpa Gibson were very impressed.
Whenever Jashley thinks of her baptism day, she remembers the faith and courage of those men and women. She will honor them and try to be like them, for she has truly experienced their story “in her bones.”

While serving on the planning committee for my stake’s Young Women camp, we decided to make stuffed bears to donate for our camp service project. After getting approval from our camp director, I contacted the local hospital about our idea, gathered all the supplies we needed to make the bears, and cut out 517 11x13 squares from donated material. We ended up making 289 bears for the hospital.
This service project gave the girls at our Young Women camp a chance to serve, and I saw how thrilled and excited they were to be able to do some good for the community. It is so amazing to see the good that service can do. This project showed me that service benefits those who do it as much as those who receive it and helped my testimony to grow. I will never forget this experience.
Cassie T., Texas, USA

Toklat, the grizzly bear cub, stared at the yellow sun until his eyes watered. It was a very hot day. In all of his five months of life on earth, he had never been so warm.
His mother and sister were lying near the creek where his sister had been playing in the water, splashing fans of white spray into the air. It was a game that Toklat liked, too—but not today. His energy was gone. Not the slightest breeze stirred the leaves of the birch and poplar trees in the forest. Not a cloud drifted in the blue sky to keep the sun company. The air around Toklat shimmered with heat waves.
Toklat ambled away from his mother and sister into the forest, looking for—he didn’t know what. Maybe a cooler place in which to lie down. Maybe a new game to divert his attention from the heat.
He moved slowly to the top of a low hill. From there he could see in every direction over the tops of the trees. Everything was motionless and quiet, except for one thing: Not far away a column of black smoke was rising, as straight as a cottonwood tree, several hundred feet into the air. Then it fanned out. The smoke spread across the sky like a cloud, drifting toward Toklat’s hill.
Even as he watched, Toklat’s sensitive nose caught a whiff of the acrid smoke. His eyesight wasn’t good, as is the case with most bears. His nose, however, made up for his poor vision. It told him of dinner, when his mother caught salmon in the creek. It told him that other bears or strange animals were in the area. It warned him of danger, and as Toklat sniffed now, he felt uneasy. Does this smell mean trouble? he wondered.
As Toklat watched the smoke, a breeze began to blow it toward him. And for the first time, the young bear saw fire beneath the smoke. The breeze became a wind, causing great spires of orange flame to leap through the forest, converting trees and brush to charcoal in minutes.
If he had had any experience with fire and smoke, Toklat would have fled right then. He’d have run back to his mother and sister, and they would have headed for the bare, high hills to the south. But Toklat had never seen a forest fire, and though his instincts told him to flee, he didn’t. He stayed where he was, fascinated by the roaring flames. And that fascination almost cost the grizzly bear cub his life.
Leaping toward Toklat, the fire sent advance balls of flame ahead of its main body. They ignited trees over a wide, blazing path. Some of the fireballs were lifted by powerful thermal currents—currents caused by the fire’s great heat—and dropped beyond Toklat, starting new fires between him and his mother.
All at once Toklat was aware that he stood in the middle of a ring of fire that hissed, roared, and lashed about like a monster with a life of its own. He bawled loudly.
As the fire snarled and whipped closer to him, Toklat bawled more frantically. He coughed and darted this way and that, trying to find a way through the fire.
In just moments his mother appeared on the outer edge of the flames. She stood on her hind legs, sniffing the air in search of her son. When she finally located him, she dropped to all fours and bawled for Toklat to come to her. He answered and started toward the sound of her voice. The two cried back and forth until Toklat could finally see his mother.
How reassuring she looked—so big and powerful and safe! Toklat wanted to be with her, but the fire had almost closed its ring. There was only a small place left that he could get through. Toklat knew that he’d have to dash through it, yet he hesitated because the stifling and rambling flames were so fierce! As Toklat cowered in fear, his mother bawled for him again, and the urging in her voice stirred the cub into action. Lowering his head, he ran. Flaming limbs dropped in his path, and Toklat stepped on one. His paw felt as though a hundred porcupine quills had all penetrated at once. He yelped in pain, but he plunged on. He made it through the narrow place even as sparks were singeing his fur.
Without nosing her cub for his hurts, the mother fled, with Toklat and his sister right behind her. They ran through the forest and climbed a high hill to its summit. There were no trees at the top, nothing but shale, so the fire would have nothing to feed on. The bears were safe.
Toklat sat on his rump and licked his sore paw. His mother looked him over, grumped in her chest a few times, then wandered off in search of shade. His sister followed her, but Toklat remained where he was for a while, licking his paw and watching the fire far below. Smoke filled the valley, and the forest had turned black where thousands of trees had burned. Despite the heat of the day and from the fire, as Toklat ran his moist tongue over his burned paw, he shivered. Fire would frighten him for as long as he lived. Never again would he just sit and watch it leap toward him. At the first sign of smoke or fire, he would race for the high hills and safety.

Later in the week my school held a dance. Even though they used the clean versions of popular dance songs, many people in my grade began screaming out the removed word in one particular song.
Once again I felt uncomfortable. The teachers were sitting nearby and didn’t seem to notice. I looked down at my wrist. I saw my bracelet from youth conference that said, “Stand ye in holy places, and be not moved.”
I knew that where I was standing wasn’t a holy place, so I left until a new song came on.
I know that music can have a profound influence in our lives. I know that listening to the inspirational music on my iPod a couple of days before had helped give me the courage I needed to leave the dance. These experiences helped me get much closer to my Heavenly Father.

Then he and his little family turned the corner of the last block. They could see the ice-covered water clearly. Anthon felt the whitened wool next to his skin. He had been ordered to wear it constantly since his illness. His illness! Yes, he remembered the birth of his testimony. He had been healed after 12 months of life and death struggle with pneumonia. The elders had said that with faith and a special blessing called administration he could be healed. He had submitted to their counsel and believed. Shortly after, Anthon had resolutely cleared away the dark clouds that had been gathering around his search for truth. He told the ministers of the other churches that he could not serve two masters. (See Matt. 6:24.) They had been good neighborhood friends, but with his decision to join the Mormons, that friendship ended—the ministers gave him up as a lost soul.

Easter was going to be different this year. There would be no Easter dinner at Grandma’s, no Easter baskets, and no dyed eggs. My parents were going on a cruise to the Caribbean. My brother was staying in Arizona, and my sister was at BYU. I was going to visit friends in Minnesota. I hadn’t seen them since we moved to Illinois six months before.
“This spring break is going to be great,” I thought. I hadn’t made many friends at my new home, so I was ready for some fun, even though I was still disappointed that I wouldn’t have a traditional Easter with my family.
On Easter Sunday I lazily flopped out of bed to get ready for church. It didn’t seem much different from every other Sunday until sacrament meeting. As I sat listening to the testimonies, I noticed the family sitting in front of me was one I used to babysit for. The kids were always fun to watch, and it was good to see them again.
Simeon, their young son, got up to bear his testimony. When he spoke, I could hear his voice shaking from fear, but he still went on. He bore testimony that Easter was not about eggs and candy, but it was about how Jesus Christ gave His life for us. He expressed his love and gratitude for the Savior and His sacrifice for us.
As the tears welled up in my eyes, pangs of guilt tore at my heart. I had forgotten what Easter is all about!
I didn’t get a chance to thank Simeon for his testimony, but as I drove back to my friend’s house, I continued to think about his words. “How many others learned this lesson today?” I thought.
I pulled off to the side of the road and prayed in gratitude for the Savior. I asked forgiveness for my shortsightedness. As I started driving again, I knew I would never forget what a little child taught me about Easter.

When I was twelve years old, my family moved to American Fork, Utah. Danny and Kelly Brewer and their widowed mother, who had remarried, lived across the street from us. I have never known such wholesome boys. They never swore and they always went to church because they wanted to.
They played tennis, so I learned to play tennis, too. Kelly became my tennis partner and best friend. It’s one thing to be a good person on your own, but it’s much easier when you have a friend who also wants to be good. I’m very thankful for the good influence of those boys.

On March 22, 2016, just before eight o’clock in the morning, two terrorist bombs exploded in the Brussels Airport. Elder Richard Norby, Elder Mason Wells, and Elder Joseph Empey had taken Sister Fanny Clain to the airport for a flight to her mission in Cleveland, Ohio. Thirty-two people lost their lives, and all of the missionaries were wounded.
The most seriously wounded was Elder Richard Norby, age 66, serving with his wife, Sister Pam Norby.
Elder Norby reflected on that moment:
“Instantly, I knew what had happened.
“I tried to run for safety, but I immediately fell down. … I could see that my left leg was badly injured. I [noticed] black, almost spiderweb-type, soot drooping from both hands. I gently pulled at it, but realized it was not soot but my skin that had been burned. My white shirt was turning red from an injury on my back.
“As the consciousness of what had just happened filled my mind, I [had] this very strong thought: … the Savior knew where I was, what had just transpired, and [what] I was experiencing at that moment.”
There were difficult days ahead for Richard Norby and for his wife, Pam. He was placed in an induced coma, followed by surgeries, infections, and great uncertainty.
Richard Norby lived, but his life would never be the same. Two and a half years later, his wounds are still healing; a brace replaces the missing part of his leg; each step is different than before that moment at the Brussels Airport.
Why would this happen to Richard and Pam Norby? They had been true to their covenants, served a previous mission in the Ivory Coast, and raised a wonderful family. Someone could understandably say, “It isn’t fair! It just isn’t right! They were giving their lives for the gospel of Jesus Christ; how could this happen?”
The Norbys told me, “Disappointment comes to visit on occasion but is never allowed to stay.” The Apostle Paul said, “We are troubled … yet not distressed; we are perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; cast down, but not destroyed.” You may be exhausted, but don’t ever give up.

It was during one of your performances that I found the real spirit of the Bicentennial. On the evening of July third, with the Tabernacle Choir centerstage, surrounded by noted personalities from sports, politics, stage, screen, radio, and television, and in the presence of our prophet and the president of our country, seated side by side (which seemed so significant and appropriate on the eve of our 200th birthday celebration), I witnessed a performance I will never forget. Down the right aisle came a patriot soldier to tell us of the faith and courage required of him to give birth to the land of the free. Down the left aisle came a Mormon pioneer woman announcing herself to be Eliza R. Snow. She told of the industry and sacrifice required of her in building a nation.

The theme had been forged to guide us through the next hundred years of glorious history. First, to exercise faith in God our Eternal Father and to place our trust in Him as a foundation for all things; second, to have courage to uphold righteousness and be a part of preserving it; third, to be industrious and build for the future; fourth, to learn to sacrifice willingly for a brother or sister in need.

Martin woke up slowly. His mom was shaking his shoulder.
“Martin,” she said, “it’s time to wake up.”
Martin rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. The sky was still dark, but he knew what time it was. His family woke up at 5:30 every morning to read the Book of Mormon together. It wasn’t always easy to get up so early.
Martin rolled out of bed and walked slowly to the front room. He stretched and yawned really wide. His brothers and sisters looked sleepy too, but they were all there.
Each person read for five minutes. At first Martin wanted to go back to bed. But he kept listening. Each verse seemed to make him feel better and better. By the time they were done reading, Martin felt spiritually strong.
And spiritual strength was something Martin needed every day. In Kenya, there were only a few Church members Martin’s age, and they all lived far away. After school Martin went to a boys’ club run by a Catholic church. One week the club went on a camping trip together.
Martin had a lot of fun. He sang camping songs. He chopped logs. He even helped build a campfire.
But on the second day, one of the leaders brought out a teapot. “We’re going to have tea now,” he said.
The other boys were excited. They drank tea at home for special occasions. They all grabbed their cups and waited for the leader to fill them.
Martin felt a little nervous. He knew that he shouldn’t drink tea. But he didn’t want to offend his friends.
Then he remembered how he felt when he kept the commandments. When his family followed the prophet and read the Book of Mormon together, he felt happy. When they didn’t, he didn’t feel as happy.
Martin knew what he had to do.
“No, thank you,” he told the leader when he came to fill Martin’s cup. “I don’t want to drink tea.”
The leader looked surprised, but he let Martin drink water while the rest of the boys drank tea. Some of the boys wanted to know why Martin didn’t drink tea, but none of them made fun of him. Martin felt happy. He knew the Word of Wisdom would make his body strong. And he was glad that he had been strong enough to do the right thing.

In 1915 President Joseph F. Smith asked Church members to have family home evening. My father said we would do what the President asked, and we held home evenings in our parlor.
We were miserable performers as children. We could do all kinds of things together while playing, but for one of us to try to sing a solo before the others was like asking ice cream to stay hard on the kitchen stove. In the beginning, we would laugh and make cute remarks about one another’s performance. But our parents persisted. We sang together. We prayed together. We listened quietly while Mother read Bible and Book of Mormon stories. Father told us stories out of his memory.
Out of those simple meetings in our home came something indescribable. Our love for our parents, brothers, and sisters was enhanced. Our love for the Lord increased. An appreciation for goodness grew in our hearts. I learned that wonderful things came about because our parents followed the counsel of the President of the Church.

The exhibit, which featured paintings and sculpture depicting the Willie and Martin handcart companies that were caught in snowstorms on the plains of Wyoming while traveling to Utah in 1856, may still be viewed online by visiting the museum’s Web site (www.lds.org/churchhistory/museum).
The exhibit followed the pioneers’ difficult journey to Utah, from boarding ships in England to crossing the snowy plains of Iowa and Nebraska. The end of the exhibit depicted a renewed sense of hope as valiant rescuers brought the beleaguered handcart pioneers to safety in Salt Lake City.

You will very likely hear these words in your lifetime: “Are you a Mormon?” Perhaps it will be when your friends see that your drink of choice is root beer. Or maybe it will be when you decide to turn down a date to the school dance because you’re not yet 16 years old. Whatever the situation, you most likely won’t be asked at gunpoint. And your answer won’t determine whether you live or die. But that was the way it was for 19-year-old Joseph F. Smith.
After serving a four-year mission in the Hawaiian Islands, from 1854 to 1857, young Joseph F. Smith began his long journey home to Utah. He boated across the Pacific Ocean to San Francisco, then slowly began his journey by foot with a small company of Latter-day Saints.
One day when the company had stopped to camp and rest, a group of troublemakers came storming through. Most of the men ran and hid, but Joseph decided he had nothing to be afraid of, so he continued the task of piling firewood in the camp. As he did so, one of the men approached him with a pistol, declaring that it was his duty to exterminate every Mormon he came in contact with. As he pointed his pistol at Joseph, he demanded, “Are you a Mormon?”
Without fear or hesitation, Joseph answered, “Yes siree; dyed in the wool; true blue, through and through.”
The man was so startled by the courage of young Joseph F. Smith that he dropped his pistol and said, “Well, you are the [expletive deleted] pleasantest man I ever met! Shake, young fellow, I am glad to see a man that stands up for his convictions.” The man rode off, with the others following behind (Joseph Fielding Smith, Life of Joseph F. Smith, Salt Lake City: Deseret Book, 1938, 189).