Gospel Story Finder

Here is another experience—an experience of President Joseph F. Smith reported by the late President Charles W. Nibley, which you young elders might ponder to your profit:
“Another incident which I have heard him relate,” says Brother Nibley, speaking about President Joseph F. Smith, who was the president of the Church and father of our late president, Joseph Fielding Smith, “which shows his courage and integrity, occurred when he was returning from his mission to the Sandwich Islands, in the fall of 1857. He came home by way of Los Angeles, by what was called the Southern Route. In that year Johnston’s Army was on the move for Utah, and naturally enough there was much excitement and bitterness of feeling concerning the ‘Mormons.’ In southern California, just after the little train of wagons had traveled only a short distance and made their camp, several anti-‘Mormon’ toughs rode into the camp on horseback, cursing and swearing and threatening what they would do to the ‘Mormons.’ Joseph F. was a little distance from the camp gathering wood for the fire, but he saw that the few members of his own party had cautiously gone into the brush down the creek, out of sight. When he saw that, he told me,” says Brother Nibley, “the thought came into his mind, ‘Shall I run from these fellows? Why should I fear them?’ With that he marched up with his arm full of wood to the campfire where one of the ruffians, still with his pistol in his hand, shouting and cursing about the ‘Mormons,’ in a loud voice said to Joseph F.:
“‘Are you a ‘Mormon?’
“And the answer came straight, ‘Yes, siree; dyed in the wool; true blue, through and through.’
“At that the ruffian grasped him by the hand and said:
“‘Well, you are the ---- ---- pleasantest man I ever met! Shake, young fellow, I am glad to see a man that stands up for his convictions.’” (Joseph F. Smith, Gospel Doctrine, Deseret Book Co., 1939 ed., p. 518.)

A couple of weeks ago, I was riding in the car with one of my sons and he turned and asked me, "Dad, what do you think I need to do to be a better man?" I was humbled and was grateful that my son was asking for my advice and counsel. I was honored that he was following the pattern of Nephi in asking me, his Father, what I thought he should do. As I gave him advice and counsel, as a Father, I felt an overwhelming responsibility to follow the promptings of the spirit as we counseled together about his life.

I have a daughter who is serving a mission. The day after we talked to my daughter on Mother's Day, she was hiking with other missionaries and hurt her leg. During our initial conversations with the mission president's wife, we were told that she would be sent home to recuperate. In a journal entry, my daughter wrote:

"The very first thing I remember saying after the accident and blessing was, "I just want to stay on my mission. ...I have not yet finished the work God has given me to do here in Arizona as a missionary. There are people to meet, souls to save, others to serve, and many to learn from." Later, when I got the ok to stay on my mission, I was filled with such joy; even greater than when I received my call. At this point for me, there is no greater call than to serve as a full-time missionary. MY HEART IS FULL."[22]

She also used the experience to get additional teaching opportunities. Of her rescue, she said:
"They hooked me up in a harness and sent me up 60 feet. I had had only one dose of ibuprofen right after the blessing, but I was so alert and pain free that the paramedics decided not to drug me up for the ride as they ordinarily would have done, so I got to enjoy it! From there they rearranged the system to make it a zipline down off the mountain to the cars. News travels fast in such a small town and by this time, I had quite the audience. The most exhilarating part was the initial push they gave me from a sit down position off the edge of the cliff. In that moment, I felt the seat of my shorts catch on something and could have sworn I heard a rip. So, it was rather embarrassing to think that my shorts were ripped open as I was flying over half of Safford, all of whom were taking lots of pictures. However, as I had seen countless times that day, God takes care of His missionaries and when I got to where I could look at them [the shorts], I couldn't even find a snag. As I watched them all take pictures, I called down to them that pictures of me came with a fee of inviting a friend to listen to the missionary lessons. My story of an LDS missionary [having to get rescued] had made it to the local newspaper, radio, and news channels. I hope at least one companionship finds someone new to teach because of it."[23]

I come from a small village in Sicily, Italy, where the lemons bloom and the boundaries between the fields are marked by green rows of prickly pears bristling with thorns bearing the sweetest of fruits. I remember with pleasure the years I spent there preparing to become a Catholic priest. After entering seminary at age ten, I completed my high school and advanced theological studies in various cities in Sicily. I was a good student and seminarian.
But my story, now told in old age, is one of sorrow as well as joy. After having spent a lifetime in anguished searching, I dedicate this brief account of my conversion to all believers of good faith, Christian or non-Christian, and especially to those who are searching for the restored Christian church.
After I was ordained a priest in 1950, my faith in the Catholic Church started to waiver. At a certain point, I thought I had lost my faith altogether. This was the first of many crises of belief to follow. However, I spoke of this to no one; I don’t know whether any of my colleagues or superiors were ever aware of my internal anguish. Externally, I continued to carry on as before: I said mass, prayed in public, and administered the sacrament regularly. My superiors conferred positions of trust upon me. Among other things, I was appointed Dean of the Seminary and became a preacher much in demand.
But I was deeply unhappy, because my old faith had collapsed inside me. I requested the opportunity to pursue further theological studies at the Pontifical University in Rome, hoping to dispel my doubts. My request was granted, and I spent four years obtaining my doctorate in the Department of Dogmatic Theology.
But instead of dispelling my doubts and strengthening my faith, the experience had the opposite effect. Thus, I returned to Sicily with another doctorate—but with a faith that was literally in pieces.
I no long viewed my situation as a passing crisis, but as a permanent reality. Deeply unhappy, I envied those uneducated believers who maintained their simple faith. Not only was I enduring the internal anguish of religious doubt, but I was also facing a moral and professional quandary: How could I remain in the service of a church whose teachings I did not believe?
When someone advised me to use caution and to prayerfully continue my studies, I enrolled in the Department of Letters and Philosophy at the state university. For four more years I analyzed my questions. But my faith only continued to deteriorate.
I could find no answers to my major problem: As a result of my historical research on my church, I was certain that an apostasy had occurred as early as the end of the first century after Christ. But how could I reconcile that fact with the never-changing nature of God? Surely, I reasoned, when God established his church, he wouldn’t have let it vanish forever after lasting only one century; it must endure eternally. But where was the solution to the apostasy? Surely there must be another Christian church that had inherited the doctrine of the true church of Christ.
After achieving yet another degree, I arrived at a crossroads. Only two possibilities existed: continue on as a priest of a church that clashed with my conscience, or leave my church and my profession in order to remain consistent with my religious convictions.
I knew very well that the first option was ethically immoral, but it certainly would be the most convenient. And I knew that the second option would create enormous difficulties. But at that point, I did not hesitate. On 25 September 1965, I gave my official and final adieu to my church and my profession.
As I expected, my decision created an enormous void around me; even close relatives ostracized me. Alone and without money, I left for northern Italy, where I began a new life. There, I quickly found a job as a teacher of letters in a technical institute in Bologna.
In my free time, I continued my research, first embarking on a study of Protestantism that left me even more disillusioned and bitter than before. Not one church seemed to possess the requirements of the true church of Jesus Christ. If the Book of Mormon had come into my hands at that time, or if someone had told me about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, perhaps my journey would have ended there.
Unfortunately, that didn’t happen. I went on to study other religions besides Christianity—Islam, Buddhism, and Hinduism—eventually neglecting my search for the true church of Jesus Christ. Instead, I became an expert in Oriental philosophy and came to believe that perhaps one religion was as good as another. As a result of all my study, I seemed to have fallen into religious indifference.
But, thanks to the grace of the Lord, I still believed in God and in his divinity. And I never completely lost my faith in the divinity of Jesus Christ. For this reason, I continued to search for Him.
In the meantime, I had married. My wife, Ines, had been reared in a Catholic home but was not a practicing church member. We decided not to instruct our two children in any religion, leaving the choice to them.
With the passing of years, I had grown closer to Christ. I had started praying regularly and reading the Bible again. I was a Christian without a church—but still engaged in the search for the true church of Jesus Christ.
By this time I was old, past sixty. It was at this time that the good Lord took pity on me, sending me premonitions, in the form of dreams, that my chance would soon arrive.
On a clear September morning, I had just left my car when I saw two boys at a distance. They watched me as though they recognized me and were waiting for me. Strangely enough, I didn’t assume the defensive stance that I normally used in order to shun the annoying approaches of sellers or missionaries. Much to my surprise, I felt drawn to them, as though I, too, had been waiting to meet them for a long time. Although they were strangers, I was open and friendly to these clean, sincere young men.
They were two Mormon missionaries. When I found this out, it hit me like a thunderbolt, and I listened to them with great joy in my heart. I felt that God had finally answered my questions. I willingly took a Book of Mormon from them and started reading it with anticipation later that evening.
Sitting alone at my desk with that book, I felt overcome with joy and tenderness. Sweet feelings that I had never known before made me feel almost lightheaded in a semi-conscious state that lasted for perhaps an hour.
God gave me the inner assurance that I would find in that book the truth I had been seeking for so many years. The reading of the Book of Mormon bound me immediately. The Book of Mormon and the Bible both pointed me toward a single divine revelation: the Christian church, which had fallen into apostasy, had been restored! Christ had not abandoned his church after all—it was man who had been the author of the Apostasy, and now the Lord had again placed his church upon the earth! Even I, in my small way, felt that I had been restored. My long night, which had lasted for many years, was finally at an end!
Thanks to God, I was finally happy. My testimony grew every day as I continued to study the scriptures and to discuss the doctrine with the missionaries and the branch president, Ezio Caramia. A few months after meeting the missionaries, I was baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Adding to my happiness, my wife also decided to be baptized a few months later.
I later received the Aaronic Priesthood and then the Melchizedek Priesthood. And I testify today, with absolute certainty, that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is the true and only church of Jesus Christ. I am also grateful for my testimony of a living prophet and of the modern-day Twelve Apostles.
This is my joyful testimony, molded from much suffering, which I offer humbly to all those whom it may help. The Church is eternal, as are all the works of God. It is his masterpiece.

Dinah sat on the rug, excited for story time. It was her favorite part of the day.
She looked across the rug and saw a classmate named Felicity waving to her.
“Come here!” Felicity said.
Dinah scooted across the rug. “What’s up?”
“Your hair is different than mine,” said Felicity. “Why does your hair look like that?” She touched Dinah’s braids and giggled.
“My mom helped me do it,” Dinah said. She loved the color of her hair and how it felt under her fingers. She loved the neat rows of cute little plastic hair clips.
“Also, I want to see something,” Felicity said. “Show me your arm.”
Dinah held out her arm. “Well, what?” she asked as Felicity moved her own arm next to Dinah’s.
“Your arms are so brown!” said Felicity.
“Oh,” said Dinah, scooting back to the other side of the rug. Suddenly she couldn’t wait for the day to end.
At home, Dinah didn’t say much at dinner. When it was cleanup time, her sister, Aly, grabbed a towel to dry dishes and Dinah picked up the broom.
Mom started singing. Mom loved to sing while they cleaned.
“This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine …”
Dinah smiled a little. She hummed and sang along as she swept: “Let it shine, let it shine …”
The song ended. “My turn!” Aly said. She started a new song. Dinah tried to harmonize like Aly and Mom did, but it sounded flat. Like a boring gray color. Everyone burst out laughing.
“That was funny!” said Dinah. “Let me try again.”
Aly started the song again, and Dinah closed her eyes and joined in. This time, the different notes started to blend, like yellow and blue mixing into a bright green.
They sang almost the whole time they cleaned. When they were finishing, Dinah remembered what happened at school. She still felt uncomfortable about it.
“Mom, do you ever think about how people look different?” Dinah asked. “How everyone has different hair and skin and eyes?”
“Hmm, yes, I know what you mean,” said Mom. “Did something happen that made you think about that?”
Dinah told Mom about what Felicity said. “I felt weird. I didn’t like it. Why did she say that?”
“It sounds like Felicity was curious about you,” Mom said. “Everyone has their own unique skin color. And hair and eyes too. We’re all Heavenly Father’s children, and there’s no right or wrong way to look. But sometimes people need to get used to the beauty of different colors.”
“All peoples’ colors are beautiful?” Dinah asked.
“Definitely. Everyone’s color shows something special about their family and their history. The way you act represents our family to others. And who do we always say we follow in our family? Jesus Christ, right? So you also represent the Savior.”
Dinah nodded as Mom pulled her into a hug. Then she pulled Aly into the hug too.
“We can always feel good about who we are—especially when we’re following Jesus Christ,” she said quietly.
Dinah’s upset feelings began to settle down.
“Now,” Mom said with a smile, “time to get ready for bed. And then—dessert!”
“Yay!” Aly shrieked. “It’s gonna be pie, I just know it!” She zoomed upstairs.
Dinah followed Aly. She felt much better after talking with Mom. Her skin color was another part of who she was, like her family and her testimony were. She would keep being kind and set a good example at school. With God on her side, it would be a piece of cake.
Or even better, a piece of pie!

In 1988 I left my home in the southeastern African nation of Mozambique to seek education and work opportunities in what was then the German Democratic Republic. While in a store I met two missionaries who asked me if I had ever heard of Jesus Christ. I said that I had heard of Him but that I didn’t really know who He was. In fact, I had never before had a belief in God. The missionaries gave me a German Book of Mormon and asked me to read from it and to pray about it. Then, because I had never before seen anyone pray, they explained how.
After their visit I read and prayed as they had suggested. A marvelous feeling of peace entered into my heart. “What is this?” I wondered.
When the missionaries visited me again, they explained that the peace in my heart was the answer to my prayer. I knew then that the book was from God. Still, I was fearful about being baptized because I thought my father might no longer accept me as his son.
In 1991, when my work contract in Germany expired, I returned home to Mozambique. My country was at war, and the Church was not yet established there. Still, I was happy in the hope that one day the Church would come to my homeland and I could be baptized. Whenever anyone would invite me to attend a church, I would tell them I already had one.
“Which one?” they would ask.
“It doesn’t exist here,” I would answer. “But it will come.” Of that I was certain.
It was eight years before I found the Church again, but during all those years, I had a guide. When I left Germany, the branch president there subscribed to A Liahona (Portuguese) for me. Each month for eight years, A Liahona came to me. And each month for eight years, it encouraged me and gave me hope. Whenever I read it, I felt as if I were with other Latter-day Saints. The magazine oriented me, filled me with great emotion, brought humble words to me, and fed my spirit. Often in the Questions and Answers section, I found answers to my own questions. For eight years, A Liahona guided me.
Then one day in 1999, full-time missionaries walked into the post office where my brother works—the same post office where my copy of A Liahona always arrives. When my brother saw Elder Patrick Tedjamulia’s name tag, he recognized the name of the Church from my magazines and asked the elder who he was. My brother explained that he had a family member in the same church, and Elder Tedjamulia asked to meet me.
When my brother told me about meeting the missionaries, I was amazed. Could it really be that the Church was here in Mozambique?
I soon learned that it was true. Our government had recognized the Church in 1996.
It was marvelous to meet with the elders again. I remembered the things the missionaries had taught me in Germany, and I felt that same peace come into my heart.
In January 2000 I was finally baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. It has been a great blessing to me. I feel the Lord’s Spirit in all the work of the Church.
How grateful I am for A Liahona. I am thankful that Heavenly Father provided a guide for me, so I could continue to believe and to have hope until I could find His Church again.

“I am going to shovel Sister Gourdin’s sidewalk,” Phoebe said to her mother. Sister Gourdin was an elderly neighbor.
“Can you do it by yourself?” Mom asked Phoebe. When Phoebe said she could, her mother helped her put on her boots and zip her coat.
Mom watched out the window as Phoebe began to lift the deep snow with a large shovel. Soon Phoebe had finished the sidewalk. She found Sister Gourdin’s newspaper in the snow and was excited to leave it on the doorstep.
Phoebe’s mother told her that shoveling the snow was a wonderful way to show love to Sister Gourdin.
When Phoebe’s older brothers and sister got home from school, her mother told them what Phoebe had done. “Where do you think she came up with the idea to do that?” Phoebe’s mother asked them. And then she said, “It came from watching all of you who are such good examples of helping our neighbors.”
Phoebe’s act of service shows that no one is too young to serve others.

The music screamed from the radio, jerking me from my peaceful sleep. “Turn the radio down, Eric!” I bellowed.
I cracked open my eyes and watched my brother dance insanely in front of his dresser. His good left hand was clenched around an imaginary microphone, and his partially crippled right hand flapped as he twisted to the music.
“Eric!” I yelled again, and he turned toward me, gave me his sheepish grin—and turned up the radio. I lunged after him, and he bolted out the bedroom door, laughing as he ran. His straw-colored blond hair flapped as he ran, exhibiting more energy than I could ever match. I shut the door and climbed back in bed.
My brother Eric is a unique individual. He was born seven weeks prematurely and has had health problems his entire life. Two strokes, as a baby and at the age of two, left his right side partially paralyzed and destroyed a third of his brain.
When he was ten, he began having seizures, so we took him to a neurologist. After reviewing his CAT scans, the doctor came into the room expecting to see a drooling, severely retarded child. Instead, he met my brother, the electronics wizard and family clown. The doctor thought someone had accidentally switched scans. That’s because he didn’t know the miracle, my brother.
Eric’s brain damage left him with problems. He had a limited attention span and lacked many of the “normal” behavioral inhibitions. It was not uncommon to see him walk along and suddenly burst into an absurd song and dance. Those who didn’t know him thought, “Who is that?” But those who did know him thought, “That’s Eric.”
Eric was born a year and a half after I was. Our older brother, a headstrong toddler, demanded a lot of attention. Eric’s health problems also required a lot of my parents’ attention. As a result, my parents couldn’t give me as much attention as they, or I, would have liked. For years I resented Eric. “He’s a mistake,” I thought. “I’m really the youngest.” I tormented him and punched him and tried to make him miserable. But Eric always smiled at me and never hit me back.
One night I did something that made Eric cry, and when I did I felt like the lowest and the worst. Eric was watching TV. We had been fighting over something, so I started making fun of his disability. I never had before. I must have felt malicious. I made my hand look like his right hand, curled up and spastic, and I limped around and talked gibberish while I drooled.
The thing I remember most, as Eric started crying, was that he looked down at his crippled hand and hugged it to his chest. At that moment I wished the floor would swallow me, and I think I tasted what hell might be like.
Our relationship changed after that incident. As we grew older I tormented him less, and when I did, he fought back. We basically ignored each other until our family moved to California one summer.
When school started, Eric and I were the only people we knew at school, and we had to rely on each other. Instead of eating lunch by myself, I met Eric and we sat on the stone steps together. As we dug through our brown bags and munched ham sandwiches, I was surprised at the growing number of people who waved at, talked to, and sat down beside Eric. His cheery grin, relaxed attitude, and silly jokes soon had us in the middle of a noisy group of friends. Others saw in Eric what I had kept myself from seeing, and they showed me his strength, his dedication, his strange but hilarious sense of humor, and his amazing ability to shrug off pain.
One lunchtime Eric was a couple of minutes late. He spotted our group and sprinted across the sloping lawn, gripping his brown sack in his good left hand. His backpack bumped against him, his shirttail billowed, and his shoelaces straggled behind him. His weak right ankle tangled with his charging left foot, and he went down in a heap. He tried to catch himself, but his right arm crumpled and he plowed the grass with his face.
A couple of guys and I jumped up and ran to him. By the time we reached him, he was sitting up in the middle of his spilled backpack and smashed lunch. Dirt and grass smeared his nose and forehead, and he had a bloody scrape on his chin. He grinned up at us and said, “I hate it when that happens!”
One of the guys asked him incredulously, “Did you do that on purpose?”
Another example of his determination was when he joined the swim team. I had swum the year before and lettered in water polo. Eric decided he’d like to take a crack at competitive sports. He never missed a practice, even though he never placed higher than last in any meet. Sometimes he ended up in the wrong lane because his left side was so much stronger than his right, and he often worked up such momentum that he crashed into the concrete pool sides. But by the end of the season, he had halved his personal best time for the 50-meter freestyle.
Eric has been an example to me, even when I wouldn’t admit it. He taught me how to be tolerant of other people’s differences, how to overcome and overlook weakness, and how to find strength. He taught me to use what I have and to never give up. He showed me the value of being myself and how to love without condition.

That year we also learned that Brother Reynolds needed a new set of scriptures. His were old, dog-eared, and tearing at the seams. We pooled our money and bought him a beautiful leather quad with his name engraved on it. We gave it to him at our ward Christmas party. I’ll never forget the way his face glowed and his eyes twinkled with tears and excitement from seeing us boys do something that meant so much to him.

Her brother Carlton Collins, from the Junction Branch, one of the few youth who went on the trip, explained that a week before he knew that he was attending, he faced a lot of discouragement from friends. Carlton explained that he realized that the devil wanted to rob him of the experience he would have at the temple. He said that at the end of the trip, his testimony and resolve to serve the Lord had been strengthened.

How many of you returned missionaries noticed the visible decline in morals on TV, movies and videos when you returned home? When our son returned from his mission some 25 years ago he was appalled. He put a sign on our TV screen, "That which doth not edify is not of God!" It was his brief message to us. But let's read the rest of it.
...that which doth not edify is not of God, and is darkness. That which is of God is light; and he that receiveth light, and continueth in God, receiveth more light; and that light groweth brighter and brighter until the perfect day.[2] It is that Light we are commanded to seek and thus chase darkness from our minds and hearts.

“When is your uncle Tanolo going to take you into the kiva?” Little Brown Bear asked. “I am four moons younger than you, yet I was taken into our kiva this day.”
Acuma pulled his rabbit robe closer around his shoulders and sat huddled by the fire, watching the smoke curl upward to add more blackness to the sooty ceiling of the big cave.
“I don’t know,” he said sadly. “I have done everything I am supposed to do.”
“A boy must prove he is now a man before he can enter a kiva,” Little Brown Bear continued. “Have you gone on a hunt?”
“Oh, yes. We stalked the deer through snow and drove him to the edge of our flat mountain. It was my arrow that brought meat to our fire.”
Little Brown Bear shook his head. “I cannot understand. Surely Tanolo is not so cruel that he would tease you.”
Acuma shrugged but did not answer. He had done everything that was required. He knew the legends, his arrow points were well made, he could make fiber from the yucca plant and weave it into heavy sandals, and he could shoot a straight arrow. All these things his cousin from the big cave village had done too, and this day he had been taken into the kiva.
This was an honor for which every Indian boy lived. Yet Acuma could not go. His father said he was well prepared, but Tanolo would not take him. An Indian boy could not be taken to the kiva by his father. At birth an uncle is chosen to be his teacher, and it is this uncle who must take him to the kiva, where he will go through the rituals to become a man.
Acuma glanced at his cousin, wishing Little Brown Bear could tell him what had happened down in the kiva in his own village. But of course, it was a secret.
When Little Brown Bear left for his own cave village, Acuma jumped up and called his brown dog. He threw off the rabbit blanket. He would be running and his body would warm on this winter day.
“I will not shed tears like that foolish Popeta,” he exclaimed, and he dashed off to chase rabbits. Maybe he would kill one with his throwing stick and show his uncle how skilled he was. Acuma’s dog romped along beside him as they scrambled down the side of the canyon to the creek below.
Then he stopped in surprise. Popeta was filling a water jug to carry back up the steep canyon wall to the cave. She seemed small although she was his own age. Her father could not till his cornfield properly because of a lame leg, so the family did not have enough to eat. And because the father could not run fast, he could not kill enough rabbits to make new blankets. The one over Popeta’s shivering shoulders was badly worn.
“You wear no blanket,” Popeta said in surprise, her teeth chattering. “It is cold.”
Acuma squared his brown shoulders. “I am a man, and I do not feel the cold,” he boasted. “I shall run and catch a rabbit for our dinner.” He started off.
Popeta lifted the heavy water jug. As she did so, the blanket fell from her shoulders. Immediately the brown dog grabbed it in his teeth and raced off, dragging it through the thorny bushes.
“Come back, come back!” Popeta cried out. “It is my only blanket.” She spun angrily on Acuma. “Your horrible dog has stolen my blanket. Go get it.”
Then her shivering grew worse and she began to cry as she climbed the canyon wall with the water jug on her head.
Acuma tried to find the dog, but it had raced down the canyon, dragging the blanket. He could see torn scraps hanging on bushes.
“It is no good now anyhow,” he said as he raced along, feeling warm. Soon he threw his curved stick at a rabbit and proudly carried the dead animal home.
“We already have meat for stew, my son,” his mother said while she stirred something in a clay pot over the fire. “You are a great hunter, and my heart is proud. But why not give it to one who has none?”
Acuma strolled over to Popeta’s fire. “Here you will have meat.”
She thanked him, then asked, “Did you find my blanket? Without it I will have nothing to warm me tonight.”
Acuma shrugged. “No I could not find it.”
He forgot about Popeta as he ate his hearty stew that night and sat huddled by the fire, his own warm blanket over his shoulders.
During the night he awoke feeling cold and pulled the rabbit fur blanket up closer. Somewhere he could hear crying.
It is probably that foolish Popeta, he thought. She always cries.
The next day he could not see her by her fire.
“She is not well,” his mother said. “She needs food and warm blankets. But I have none to spare.”
Too bad, Acuma though carelessly and ran off. But every now and then he remembered her crying.
“It is the fault of my dog,” he grumbled to himself. And the more he thought about it, the less he enjoyed the games he played with his friends.
That night he could not sleep. Finally he got up and went to the small dark room behind the cave where Popeta slept.
“Here is my blanket,” he said. “Use it.”
“But it is not yours to give,” she said in surprise.
“I will lend it,” Acuma said, and he hurried back to his room. He was shivering. How cold it was! He found an old feather blanket that was so worn it could not cover him well. But if he curled up in a tight ball in the very corner of his room the blanket kept out a little of the cold. Popeta had been right—he could not give away his blanket, since all things in the family belonged to the mother. Though he used it, the blanket was his mother’s property.
Then I must make Popeta one, he decided.
For many days his friends called him to play games, but he could not because he was hunting rabbits. He had no idea it took so many to make a blanket. He gave the meat either to his mother or to Popeta, and he sat late into the night cleaning and tanning the skins. He sighed wearily. There was so much work and no fun. At times he was tempted to stop, but remembering Popeta’s tears during that cold night kept him going.
And the few hours he slept, he was always cold. He longed for his own rabbit fur blanket again.
After he had collected enough skins, he had to make many, many arrow points—the very best he could. Then he hurried to his cousin’s village, to the Blanket Maker.
“I will give you these fine arrow points if you will make me a blanket,” he said. “But I must have it quickly. The nights get colder and snow is now on the ground.”
Soon the blanket was finished and Acuma took it to Popeta. “This is yours. It should keep you warm.”
Popeta handed him back his own. “You are kind and it is a beautiful blanket. You have brought us so much meat that I am well. My mother and father do not feel hunger either.”
“I shall see that you have meat in your pot,” Acuma said in embarrassment, then hurried to his own campfire.
That night his uncle came to him.
“When the morning sun rises, you will come with me. It is time for you to enter the kiva to learn the things that will make you a man.”
Acuma’s heart leaped with joy. “I am pleased, my uncle. But tell me, why have you chosen the time as now? For these many moons I have been ready—knowing the making of arrow points, yucca fiber, and the hunt.”
“But the one thing you did not know, my son, you have learned,” Tanolo replied. “A boy plays and gives no thought to others. A man gives up his playing when there is work to be done. Because your dog caused misery to another, you did what was you duty to do, and you did it without complaint. I have watched you and my heart is proud. You shall be known as Acuma, the one who has the heart of a man, though his body is still that of a boy.”

When I was about 12, I was asked to sing a solo in my home ward. My parents encouraged me to memorize the hymn so that I could look out into the audience. I worked on the song for many weeks until I could sing it without looking at the words. When the Sunday arrived, I sat on the stand and felt my heart pounding. I had sung in other wards before, but I felt nervous singing in front of people I knew. My greatest fear was that I would make a mistake.
When it was time, I stood up and walked up to the microphone. I felt my stomach flip. I was too afraid to make eye contact with anyone, so I looked at the clock at the back instead. My accompanist began to play the introduction, and I started to sing. I made it halfway through the hymn without any difficulties when I looked down from the clock to the congregation. Suddenly, I forgot the words to the hymn. My accompanist continued playing for a few more measures until she figured out I had stopped singing. She went back to where I had left off and encouragingly played the melody, hoping to remind me of the words.
The words did not come. Fear began to rise within me. My face flushed with heat, and I could feel my ears turning red. My mind raced through the words of the hymn trying to remember what came next, but the words did not come. I looked out into the audience feeling humiliated and embarrassed. My heart crumpled with disappointment and embarrassment. I began to cry. Tears rolled down my cheeks, and I hung my head, burying my face in my hands. I felt everyone staring at me. I wasn’t sure whether I should sit down or stand there until I could remember the words.
Suddenly, I felt a firm hand on my shoulder. I looked up through teary eyes to see my bishop, Bishop Smith, smiling at me. He leaned down and told me that he would sing with me. He then nodded to the sister to begin playing. Bishop Smith’s beautiful baritone voice filled the chapel as he began to sing. He knew the words! As soon as he sang them, I remembered them as well. With his arm around my shoulder, I felt the courage to begin again, and together we finished the song.

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.

A true story from the USA.
Emma gripped her pencil tightly as her teacher handed out the papers.
“It’s time for our Cheetah Chase,” said Ms. Malcolm. “You have five minutes to do 93 math problems. Everyone who finishes on time can add a cheetah sticker to their chart.”
Emma really wanted a cheetah sticker. If you got five stickers, you won a prize! But the Cheetah Chase math problems were so hard.
“Everyone ready?” Ms. Malcolm said. “Go!”
Emma flipped over her paper and started answering the questions. She had to think carefully about each one. It was hard!
BZZZZZZZ! The timer went off, making Emma jump.
“Pencils down!” Ms. Malcolm called.
Emma hid her paper with her hand and kept writing answers. It wasn’t a big deal if she kept going, right? She’d done it before, and nobody noticed.
“Pass your paper to the person next to you for grading,” Ms. Malcolm said.
Emma finished the last answer before passing her paper.
When Emma got her paper back, she saw the red 100% at the top. But she didn’t feel very good inside.
“Everyone come show me your papers to get your stickers,” Ms. Malcolm said.
Emma walked to Ms. Malcolm’s desk with her paper.
“Emma, can you stay up here for a minute, please?” Ms. Malcolm asked.
While everyone else was talking, Ms. Malcolm turned to Emma. “Did you keep answering questions even after the timer went off?”
Emma’s face got really hot. She nodded and looked down. “Yes.”
“Have you done that before?”
Emma shook her head. “No.” But she felt her face get even hotter. She had cheated before. And now she had lied.
“I can’t give you a cheetah sticker unless you follow the rules. Do you understand?”
Emma nodded. Then she walked to her seat with her eyes down.
For the rest of the school day, Emma felt an awful knot twisting and turning in her stomach. She felt bad for cheating. She felt bad for lying. She didn’t like this feeling!
After school, Emma talked to Mom. “I don’t feel very good,” she said.
“What’s wrong?” Mom asked.
Emma suddenly got nervous. Should she tell Mom what she had done?
She took a deep breath. “I cheated today at school.” It was the first time she said it out loud. It felt like the knot in her stomach was untwisting. “And I’ve done it before. I feel bad.”
Mom gave Emma a hug. “Thanks for telling me. You know cheating is wrong. Why did you do it?”
“Because I really wanted a cheetah sticker, but I didn’t finish the math problems in time.”
Mom nodded. “What do you think you should do now?”
Emma thought about it. “I should say a prayer to Heavenly Father to say sorry for not being honest. Then tell my teacher.”
“That sounds great.” Mom smiled. “And I can help you practice math more so you’re ready for the next Cheetah Chase.”
“Thanks, Mom,” Emma said. Then she and Mom knelt down to say a prayer. Emma felt warm. She was glad she had decided to repent.
After she prayed, Emma wrote an email to her teacher. She told the truth and said sorry for cheating. She promised she wouldn’t do it again.
After clicking send, Emma felt so much better. She knew Ms. Malcolm would probably cross her cheetah stickers off her chart. But that was OK. From now on she would earn them the honest way.
“Because of Jesus Christ, we can repent and be forgiven of our sins.”
President Russell M. Nelson, “The Answer Is Always Jesus Christ,” Liahona, May 2023, 127.
Illustrations by Anny Chen

My family and I live in Annaberg-Buchholz, which, before 1990, was in the Communist-controlled German Democratic Republic (GDR).
In those days, government authorities would not allow LDS magazines into the country, so we could not obtain copies of the German-language Der Stern.
However, Church members living in West Germany were allowed to send books to GDR Latter-day Saints through a Church book club. It was a personal sacrifice for the West German Saints, who had to pay all the costs involved. Each month, my family received a wonderful Church-related book that helped bring us closer to the gospel.
Eventually, thanks to the cooperation developed between the First Presidency and officials of the GDR government, restrictions were lifted, and we could subscribe to Der Stern. That was a time of great joy! My family and I were so grateful to receive this wonderful treasure.
In every issue there is something of value for each family member. The addresses and articles by the Brethren provide us with much spiritual strength and help us in our daily tasks.
I am especially interested in reports of Saints living in other parts of the world. Knowing that Saints everywhere try to walk in the way of the gospel helps me hold to the iron rod.
Monika MiecznikowskiAnnaberg-Buchholz Ward, Dresden Germany Stake

Two little children were put early to bed on a winter’s night, for the fire had gone out, and the cold was pouring in at the many cracks of their frail shanty.
The mother strove to eke out the scantiness of the bed-covering by placing clean boards over the children. A pair of bright eyes shone out from under a board, and just before it was hushed in slumber, a sweet voice said, “Mother, how nice this is! How I pity the poor people who don’t have any boards to cover their children with this cold night.”

Although these two girls speak different languages and live more than 6,000 miles (9,600 km) apart, they have something special in common: they both found ways to keep a positive attitude when natural disasters struck their hometowns. Take a look at the true stories of Honoka O. from Japan and Maggie W. from Missouri, USA. During sad and scary times, what helped them stay faithful and optimistic?

My name is Honoka, and I live in Chiba Prefecture, Japan. I like to play, jump rope, and draw. My dream is to be an illustrator someday.

My favorite scripture story is about Lehi’s dream (see 1 Nephi 8). I think Primary is very important because I can learn a lot about God and Jesus. I love sacrament meeting because I can feel myself becoming clean when I take the sacrament, and that makes me so happy.

I was at school when a big earthquake happened. My first thoughts were, “This is scary!” and “I wonder if my family is OK.” I prayed in my heart that they would be safe and that peoples’ lives would be spared. Later I found out that none of my friends had been hurt. At that time, I felt that God had protected us. I know that God and Jesus live.

Hello! I’m Maggie from Joplin, Missouri. One night my mom saw storm warnings on the news, and we all went to the basement. The loud, whistling wind scared me. I was worried about my friends and our animals. After the storm, I was grateful my family was safe and our house didn’t have much damage.

Lots of other homes and businesses were destroyed by the tornado that came through town. I felt sad for people who lost loved ones. My parents and older brother and sister decided to help clean up our town. It made me think of the scripture, “When ye are in the service of your fellow beings ye are only in the service of your God” (Mosiah 2:17).

I wanted to help clean too, but my mom said it wasn’t safe for a child. Then I felt the Holy Ghost share a great idea to make people feel happy. I made 20 thank-you notes to give to volunteers. I spent lots of time making each card special so that people could feel the Spirit and know they were very important to our town.

I learned that even if you can’t do certain things to serve, you can always think of other ways to serve. Heavenly Father will bless you for serving Him and your fellowman.

He could remember the day well. It was May 1975. He was 18 years old, and it was just a few days before graduation. His friends and he had planned a party to celebrate. As his car was in the shop, he’d asked his dad if he could borrow his car.
“What kind of party is it going to be, Kevin?” his dad had asked.
“Oh, you know, a party,” he’d stalled.
“There’s going to be beer there, isn’t there?”
“Ah, yeah, I guess so.”
“You can’t go,” his dad said firmly.
“If I can’t use your car, I’ll go with Doug. He can squeeze two more into his.”
“You didn’t hear me,” his dad said softly, but firmly. “I said you can’t go.” Kevin couldn’t believe his ears. He decided to try another approach. “Gee, dad, you never let me do anything I want.”
“I don’t?” his dad said with mock surprise. “I asked you not to grow your hair long. Right away you grew it long. But I didn’t stop you. I asked you not to hang around with those long-haired hoods. Right away you made friends with them. But again, I didn’t stop you. I have always let you make the decision, hoping you would make the right one.”
“Then why can’t I decide this time?” Kevin asked angrily.
“Okay, you can,” his dad said, struggling to keep his cool. “The choice is yours. The party or your home.”
“What?”
“If you go to that party, then don’t bother to come home. If you won’t respect me as your father, then I won’t treat you as my son. So go out that door now or go to your room. The choice is all yours!”
Kevin stared at him in disbelief. He wanted to walk out the door in defiance. But he knew his father never lied. If he left, he couldn’t come back. He had no money; his car was going to cost him more than he already had. He really had no choice but to stay. “Okay,” he said at last. “You win; I’m staying. But just wait until I get enough money. Then I’ll leave for good.”
“Kevin,” his dad said, “I love you. I’m doing this for your own good. You don’t know what kind of party you’re going to.”
“I hate you.”
Kevin’s dad finally lost his cool. “Then go to your room.”
The next day it had been all over the school. Kevin’s friend Doug had been fooling around and had slipped some drugs into the beer. He had hoped to liven things up. Kevin had never drunk beer before, but he had planned to that night. Still, he’d never wanted to mess around with drugs. Even users knew better than to mix drugs and beer. Doug had tried to fly his Mustang through a telephone pole. Three kids were dead, and another girl was in the hospital with brain damage.
“Dad saved your stupid life,” he said to himself. “If he’d let you go to that party, you’d be checking in upstairs. Or maybe you’d be lucky and be bouncing off the rubber walls at the funny farm. How did dad get those feelings?” Kevin was sure his dad had had a premonition of what was going to happen. But how had he gotten those feelings? Then one night, while trying to get up the courage to ask how, Kevin stumbled onto his parents praying. Then he knew.
It had taken him a week to get up the courage to say he was sorry. But three despair-filled funerals smashed at the wall he’d built up between him and his father. He had done it. The next day they went to the barber shop together. His hair came off easily.
It was harder to change his life. But his father was always there to help him. Three months later, when his father asked him to set a mission as a goal, he couldn’t refuse. But it took him two years to get ready. He worked a year to get the money. Then he spent a year at Ricks College. The small school gave him a needed change in atmosphere. He was pleasantly surprised when he received straight A’s for the first time in years. And the two Spanish classes were more useful than he had ever imagined.
Two weeks after he got home, he was in the Missionary Training Center. Two months after that he was on his way to a country he had hardly even heard of before—El Salvador.

My message centers on the importance in each of our lives of righteous friendships. In my youth, an inspired patriarch laid his hands on my head and by revelation opened to me an understanding of my potential—for who I really am—and gave a direction for my life, just like a patriarch has done for many of you. I was told that I would not lack for friends and associates, that their friendship would be a special blessing to me both temporally as well as spiritually. I was counseled to select for my closest friends those who were righteous and had a desire to keep the commandments of God.

That passage from my patriarchal blessing has been like a comfort blanket to me throughout my life. At times, especially while living away from home, those words have given me a peace and strength—my friends were standing by, although separated by many miles. And at such times I learned one of life’s most important lessons, that no matter how long I was away, no matter how great the distance, whenever my friends and I met again, it was as if nothing had changed. We picked up our lives where we left off, and it was as if time had stood still.