Gospel Story Finder

Janetta Ann McBride and her family were early members of the Church. They have traveled from England on their way to the Salt Lake Valley. Their journey was delayed in Iowa because their handcarts were not ready. But finally, as part of the Martin Handcart Company, they are on their way across the plains. In Florence, Nebraska, some members think it is too late to continue the journey. However, it is finally decided that they will all continue on to the Salt Lake Valley.
It was the 25th of August, almost the end of summer, when we left Florence, Nebraska, and headed for Salt Lake City. Everything went fine until Mother became really sick. It was hard to see her ill. She had to ride in one of the handcarts, and I took her place pulling. Heber also was pulling a cart.
Traveling by handcart isn’t bad if you have enough food and the weather stays nice. Many Saints traveled that way and found it a healthy and quick way to get to the Salt Lake Valley. On September 7, a group of missionaries returning to Salt Lake passed us. When they saw how late in the season we were traveling and that the weather was unseasonably cold, they said that they would hurry on to Salt Lake and report to Brigham Young that we would be needing help to get to the valley. We later learned that they had arrived in Salt Lake on October 4. The next day, the 5th, Brigham Young called upon the bishops to immediately organize supplies, wagons, and men to go out and help us reach the valley. The first group left Salt Lake City on October 7th. But, of course, we didn’t know that.
When we arrived at Fort Laramie, we were starting to run low on food. Members of the company purchased what additional food they could. Our rations were also cut from 1 pound of flour a day per person to 3/4 pound. Later it was cut to 1/2 pound, and finally to 1/4 pound per person.
On October 17, just before crossing the North Platte River for the last time, we were told to lighten our loads so that we could travel more quickly. Blankets, extra clothing, and utensils were left behind. How I missed the clothing and bedding a few days later!
The North Platte River was freezing cold, deep, and swift. On October 19th, Father helped us across, then helped others. We were all wet and cold and hungry. No sooner were we across, than the first snowstorm hit us. Father worked hard helping set up camp, and he gave away much—too much—of his food to those in greater need. Most of the men worked too hard and ate too little. They couldn’t bear to see the suffering of the women and children.
The night of October 21st was especially bitter cold and stormy. Nobody had enough clothing or blankets to stay warm. Sometime during the night, Father died of exhaustion, starvation, and the cold. Twelve others also died that night. They were all buried in the same grave. The ground was so frozen that digging in it was almost impossible. How hard it was to leave him out there on the frozen prairie. I felt sad and lonely.
Mother was still ill, Father was dead, and I was now in charge of getting our family to Salt Lake. There was no time to sit down and cry or wait for help. None of us had any choice but to keep moving toward Zion and safety. I used our family’s flour to make a kind of biscuit. I kept pieces from my share of the bread in my pockets. When I couldn’t get the boys or Margaret to keep going, I’d offer them a crumb of bread. Even though they were cold and exhausted, they were so hungry that it worked.
At the end of October, Brother Joseph A. Young and Brother Stephen Taylor arrived in our camp from Salt Lake City. They had wagons of food and clothing! We greeted them as angels of mercy. For the first time in many days, there was joy in our camp. They told us more food, clothing, and bedding were waiting for us at Devil’s Gate.
We kept traveling through the snow to Devil’s Gate and ran into the other wagons with provisions for us. How I wished for a pair of shoes, as my feet froze in the icy slush. But even shoes were less important than food. We left Devil’s Gate with a single handcart for our family. Many of the handcarts were left behind. Those that had brought the provisions from Salt Lake City traveled with us.
At the Sweetwater River, I pulled our handcart through the slushy ice water, then went back for my brothers and sister. I carried them across one at a time. The river wasn’t too deep, but it was many yards wide. It was so cold that my skirts froze around my legs. I wondered if I’d ever be warm again.
The snowstorms continued, and it was bitter cold at night. Sometimes we’d wake up in the morning with our hair frozen to the ground. One night, we thought my little brother Peter was dead, because he was frozen to his quilt. But he finally woke up and, after thawing out his hair, continued the journey.
Although we were much better off now, there still wasn’t enough food or clothing to go around. It was still cold, it was still stormy, and I still had no shoes. Our company found a ravine that we later named Martin’s Ravine, and we set up camp there. For three days there was a terrible blizzard. It was so cold! Even after the storm ended, we had to wait several days before we could travel over the fresh snow. Although there were now wagons and horses, I walked every step of the way. Only those who had frozen feet got to ride.
We camped at Fort Bridger for a few days of rest. More help came at that time. We kept right on traveling. We reached Salt Lake City on November 30, 1856, eleven months after we had left our home in England. Of the 576 people who had started with our company, about 150 of them had died and were buried along the trail, including my father.
We found a place to stay in Ogden with a family named Ferrin. Mother got better and cooked for this household of grown men in return for our board and room. I fell in love with one of the Ferrin brothers, Jacob Samuel. We were married in the Endowment House, and we moved to Provo with my brother Heber.
Later my husband and I moved to Arizona, where we were once again pioneers in an unknown territory.
Do I regret any moment of following the call of the prophet? No! Despite all the hard times, we made it to Zion. We had the gospel, and we were with the Saints. Jacob and I were married for eternity. It was what we had left England for, to obtain the blessings of the gospel. No matter what it cost, it was worth it! All my life I bore testimony of my thankfulness that I made that journey, no matter how hard it was.

Three years later I joined the Church, and two years after that I went on a mission to the Central States Mission. Halfway through my mission, Elder Spencer W. Kimball came to visit and it was our privilege to hear from him at a missionary conference in St. Louis, Missouri. Toward the end of his talk he spoke to us upon the subject of love—love between parents and children—and exhorted us young missionaries to be sure to write our parents and tell them how much we loved and appreciated them.
The guilt of my last hours with my father swept over me, and as the closing song was sung and the benediction offered, I began to cry. As the people began to leave the room, my crying grew into bitter tears and uncontrollable sobbings. My hands and feet grew numb and I became oblivious to everything around me. My companion, my district leader, the mission president—each came back into the room and tried to comfort me, but to no avail.
Then I became aware of someone’s arms around me, of a gentle cheek pressed against my own, of kind words softly spoken. Elder Kimball was embracing me with the same love and affection with which I now embrace my own small children. As I began to regain control of myself, he spoke words of comfort and reassurance. Later, upon his return to Salt Lake City, he would send me a copy of a talk he had given that would give me further comfort. I do not remember what was said that afternoon as I sat alone with Elder Kimball. His words have long since escaped my memory. But I will always remember his sincere show of love and deep concern for a young missionary whom he had never before seen, his cheek against my own, and his warm, loving embrace.

I knew a young woman who was taught the gospel and who wanted to join the Church but who was having trouble with the Word of Wisdom. She used cigarettes and coffee, and the thought of never having another cigarette or cup of coffee in her whole life overwhelmed her. One of the missionaries told her to try it for just one day and then just one more day. She found that by living it a day at a time she could make it, and she was soon baptized. The same would be true in changing any bad habit for a good one.

Another young woman, Katie, was at camp. She felt angry and abandoned because of overwhelming family problems. Her testimony teetered, in serious jeopardy. But a concerned leader, in an effort to live up to his holy calling, wrote Katie a note saying, “I love you. I believe in you. You have a testimony, because I have heard you bear it in these ways.” Then he listed those ways. The note arrived at the right time; Katie was strengthened to live her covenants because someone else strived to live his.

An accounting clerk at a large university became a respected member of his profession — even holding a high office in his professional association. He was active in his church and community and had a good family. One day he discovered how he could take small amounts from the university without anyone noticing. He told himself that he was underpaid anyway — and besides, he would only use the money a short while and then return it. But the next month, more money was needed. Just a little more would not matter — he'd pay that back, too. The months stretched into years. The total amount taken swelled to several hundred thousand dollars. Then came the day when an audit uncovered his fraud. His reputation was shattered. His career came to an end. His family disintegrated. Ties with his church were broken. Where once he was a respected member of the community, now he was a common criminal unworthy of the trust and confidence of any employer.

It pained both my parents that they struggled financially and we often needed a food order from the bishop’s storehouse. When we did, Mom insisted we clear our calendars on Saturdays so we could all go work at the bishop’s storehouse. But that created a problem with my high school football coaches’ because we played our games Friday night and they expected us back in the facilities Saturday morning for a light workout and to watch the previous night’s game films. It was mandatory. I was the best player on the team, a team captain and leader so the coaches depended on me to be there. Yet, I was embarrassed having to explain to the coaches that my family accepted church assistance and my mother insisted I spend my Saturday's sweeping floors and stocking shelves at the bishop’s storehouse. Then one day, my mother showed up at school and asked to see Coach Peterson, my head coach. I was mortified. Slowly and with firm determination, mom said, “Coach, you have Vai Monday through Friday. God gets him Sunday. He's mine on Saturday. Is that clear to you?” From that day forward, the coaches showed me the game film on Monday during my lunch hour.
My mother’s prayers were being answered in miraculous ways.

Derek saw paw prints in the snow. What animal made them? Derek followed the paw prints down the sidewalk. He looked around and saw Mrs. Lawson walking slowly across the ice. Derek held her hand and helped her into her house. The paw prints kept going, and Derek followed them. He spotted Mr. Russell shoveling snow. Derek stopped to help him shovel. Then Derek saw more paw prints! He followed them and peeked into Mr. Russell’s backyard. There was Cloudy, Mr. Russell’s cat! Derek likes following things. Most of all, he likes following the example of Jesus by helping others.

My friend of many years spent his life as a rancher, doing the hard work of raising cattle and sheep in the rugged Rocky Mountains. He once shared with me the challenges and hazards associated with raising sheep. He described that in early spring, when snow on the expansive mountain range had mostly melted, he placed the family herd of approximately 2,000 sheep in the mountains for the summer. There, he watched over the sheep until late fall, when they were moved from the summer range to a winter range in the desert. He described how tending a large flock of sheep was difficult, requiring early days and late nights—waking well before sunrise and finishing long after dark. He could not possibly do it alone.

Others helped tend the flock, including a mix of experienced ranch hands assisted by younger hands who were benefiting from the wisdom of their companions. He also relied on two old horses, two colts in training, two old sheepdogs, and two or three sheepdog pups. Over the course of the summer, my friend and his sheep faced wind and rainstorms, sickness, injuries, drought, and just about every other hardship one can imagine. Some years they had to haul water all summer just to keep the sheep alive. Then, every year in late fall, when winter weather threatened and the sheep were taken off the mountain and counted, there were usually more than 200 that were lost.

The flock of 2,000 sheep placed in the mountains in early spring was reduced to less than 1,800. Most of the missing sheep were not lost to sickness or natural death but to predators such as mountain lions or coyotes. These predators usually found the lambs that had strayed from the safety of the flock, withdrawing themselves from the protection of their shepherd. Would you consider for a moment what I have just described in a spiritual context? Who is the shepherd? Who is the flock? Who are those who assist the shepherd?

The Lord Jesus Christ Himself said, “I am the good shepherd, and know my sheep, … and I lay down my life for the sheep.”7
The prophet Nephi likewise taught that Jesus “shall feed his sheep, and in him they shall find pasture.”8 I find abiding peace in knowing that “the Lord is my shepherd”9 and that each of us is known by Him and under His care. When we confront life’s wind and rainstorms, sickness, injuries, and drought, the Lord—our Shepherd—will minister to us. He will restore our souls.

In the same way that my friend tended his sheep with the assistance of young and old ranch hands, horses, and sheepdogs, the Lord also requires assistance in the challenging labor of caring for the sheep in His flock.

As children of a loving Heavenly Father and as sheep in His flock, we enjoy the blessing of being individually ministered to by Jesus Christ. Simultaneously, we have a responsibility to provide ministering assistance to others around us as shepherds ourselves. We heed the words of the Lord to “serve me and go forth in my name, and … gather together my sheep.”10
Who is a shepherd? Every man, woman, and child in the kingdom of God is a shepherd. No calling is required. From the moment we emerge from the waters of baptism, we are commissioned to this work. We reach out in love to others because it is what our Savior commanded us to do. Alma emphasized: “For what shepherd … having many sheep doth not watch over them, that the wolves enter not and devour his flock? … Doth he not drive him out?”11 Whenever our neighbors are in distress temporally or spiritually, we run to their aid. We bear one another’s burdens that they may be light. We mourn with those who mourn. We comfort those who stand in need of comfort.12 The Lord lovingly expects this of us. And the day will come when we will be held accountable for the care we take in ministering to His flock.13

My shepherd friend shared another important element in the watchcare of sheep on the range. He described that lost sheep were particularly vulnerable to the dangers of predators. In fact, up to 15 percent of his and his team’s total time was devoted to finding lost sheep. The sooner they found lost sheep, before the sheep drifted too far from the flock, the less likely the sheep were to be harmed. Recovering lost sheep required much patience and discipline.

Some years ago, I found an article in a local newspaper so intriguing that I saved it. The front-page headline read, “Determined Dog Won’t Abandon Lost Sheep.”14 This article describes a small number of sheep belonging to an operation not far from my friend’s property that were somehow left behind in their summer range. Two or three months later, they became stranded and snowbound in the mountains. When the sheep were left behind, the sheepdog stayed with them, for it was his duty to look after and protect the sheep. He would not go off watch! There he remained—circling about the lost sheep for months in the cold and snowy weather, serving as a protection against coyotes, mountain lions, or any other predator that would harm the sheep. He stayed there until he was able to lead or herd the sheep back to the safety of the shepherd and the flock. The image captured on the front page of this article allows one to see character in the eyes and demeanor of this sheepdog.

In the New Testament, we find a parable and instruction from the Savior that provide further insight pertaining to our responsibility as shepherds, ministering sisters and brothers, of lost sheep:
“What man of you, having an hundred sheep, if he lose one of them, doth not leave the ninety and nine in the wilderness, and go after that which is lost, until he find it?
“And when he hath found it, he layeth it on his shoulders, rejoicing.
“And when he cometh home, he calleth together his friends and neighbours, saying unto them, Rejoice with me; for I have found my sheep which was lost.”15
As we summarize the lesson taught in the parable, we find this valuable counsel:
We are to identify the lost sheep.
We search after them until they are found.
When they are found, we may have to lay them on our shoulders to bring them home.
We surround them with friends upon their return.
Brothers and sisters, our greatest challenges and our greatest rewards may come as we minister to lost sheep. The members of the Church in the Book of Mormon “watch[ed] over their people, and did nourish them with things pertaining to righteousness.”16 We can follow their examples and remember that ministering is to be “led by the Spirit, … flexible, and … customized to the needs of each member.” It is also critical that we “seek to help individuals and families prepare for their next ordinance, keep [their] covenants … , and become self-reliant.”17
Every soul is precious to our Heavenly Father. His personal invitation to minister is of greatest value and importance to Him, for it is His work and glory. It is quite literally the work of eternity. Each one of His children has immeasurable potential in His sight. He loves you with a love you cannot even begin to comprehend. Like the devoted sheepdog, the Lord will stay on the mountain to protect you through the wind, rainstorms, snow, and more.
President Russell M. Nelson taught us last conference: “Our message to the world [and, may I add, “to our ministering flock”] is simple and sincere: we invite all of God’s children on both sides of the veil to come unto their Savior, receive the blessings of the holy temple, have enduring joy, and qualify for eternal life.”18
May we raise our sights to this prophetic vision so we can shepherd souls to the temple and ultimately to our Savior, Jesus Christ. He does not expect us to perform miracles. He asks only that we bring our brothers and sisters unto Him, for He has the power to redeem souls. As we do so, we can and will secure this promise: “And when the chief Shepherd shall appear, ye shall receive a crown of glory that fadeth not away.”19 Of this I testify—and of Jesus Christ as our Savior and our Redeemer—in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

When my father passed away suddenly, I had a very difficult time dealing with my grief. I had been a member of the Church for 16 years and thought I was prepared for this experience, but I struggled greatly.
One evening about a month after my father’s death, I picked up the September 2004 Liahona and began to read. The article in Latter-day Saint Voices entitled “Death Is a New Beginning,” by Claudia Yolanda Ortíz Herrera, caught my attention immediately. The author’s experience was very much like my own, and after reading the article three times, I began to have a better understanding about many things and I felt greater peace. My testimony that Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ live was strengthened, and I realized that, indeed, death is just a beginning. I am so grateful for the Liahona and for that wonderful article.Zullymar Rodríguez Castro, Costa Hermosa Ward, Barranquilla Colombia Hipodromo Stake

The bishop and his two counselors stood in the hallway, posed to shake hands with those few college students who had braved the rainy evening. As I stepped inside, one of the counselors walked over to me and said, “Hi there. I’m Brother Johnson. I don’t believe I’ve met you. Are you a freshman?”
“No, I’m a senior. I came to this cookie dunking last year, and you asked me the same thing then.”
“I did?”
“Yes, you did. But I didn’t have the beard last year.”
“Oh sure! I remember you now.” But his face still wore a question mark. “Well, hang up your coat and meet some people. I guess you’ve met the bishop.” He pointed to a large man now standing just inside the recreation hall.
“Was he bishop last year at this time?”
“No.”
“Then I haven’t met him.”
Brother Johnson walked over to the bishop. “Bishop, this is … what did you say your name is?”
“Greg Jeffreys.” He grabbed my hand and shook it eagerly.
“Where you from, Greg?”
“Glendive.”
The bishop placed a hand on my shoulder. “Are you related to President Jeffreys?”
“He’s my father.”
“Well, how about that! I attended a regional meeting once and met him. How’s he doing?”
“He’s always doing good,” I said with just a touch of sarcasm.
“You say you’re a senior here. Do you go home a lot?”
“Hardly ever.” There was a long pause. It is sometimes assumed that the offspring of stake presidents’ counselors will, by osmosis, turn out okay. For some time I had been living proof that the assumption was not entirely valid.
“Look, Bishop, let’s not beat around the bush. I’m inactive. I have no interest in the Church. I come here every year at this time to see what kind of girls you’ve got, and also to have my annual glass of Kool-Aid and a chocolate-chip cookie. So, if you’ll excuse me.”
I walked away leaving him hunting for the phrase that would make everything all right. I grabbed a couple of cookies and a glass of punch and sat down.
The cultural hall had been disguised as much as a five-dollar decoration budget would allow. Along the perimeter of the gym floor was a single line of folding chairs. Underneath one basket two long folding tables had been set up and covered with white paper. In the center of one of the tables was a punch bowl. A stack of paper cups lay waiting for the rush that never quite materialized. On each side of the punch bowl lay a plate of cookies and a pile of napkins. Hanging from the other basket was a sign reading, WELCOME NEW STUDENTS TO THE STUDENT ASSOCIATION OF THE CHURCH OF JESUS CHRIST OF LATTER-DAY SAINTS. Someone turned on a record player and the sound echoed in the big recreation hall, distorting the music.
There was a group of about twelve guys and seven girls standing around talking and eating cookies. Every few minutes one of them would come over and introduce himself. I was enjoying being unfriendly.
My eyes then focused on the latest visitor. She entered my life wet. The letters on her freshman beanie had started to run. Her long dark hair was also wet and was beginning to make her look like a cocker spaniel. She shook hands with the bishop and his counselors, walked with the bishop over to the punch table, and filled up. She was introduced to the group and finally sat down with one of the clean-cut types.
When he ran out of punch and had gone to get refills for both of them, I walked over and sat down.
“I guess you know why I called this meeting,” I said.
She smiled back. “Are you president of the Student Association?”
I evaded her query—but built upon it: “In the interest of the organization, we’d like to get some information about you.”
Her friend came back with two glasses of punch. I stood up and said authoritatively, “Thank you. Jim. I’ll take care of this.” I reached over and took the cups from his hands, gave one to her, and kept the other for myself. He stood looking at me for a moment, and then turned around and walked away, shrugging his shoulders as he went.
“He told me his name was Bob,” she said.
“Oh, was that Bob? Now you see why I need things written down. I was about to fill out your personal information card. I must have loaned out my clipboard to someone. Let me use this napkin.” I reached in my shirt pocket for a pen. “Now then, for our records. Name?”
“Debbie Forsburg.”
“Where from, Debbie?”
“Columbus.”
“I see you’re a freshman. Where do you live?”
“Ellsburg Hall, room 212.”
“Phone?”
“Yes. Extension 2364.”
“Now, Sister Forsburg, I hope you don’t think I’m prying, but we need to know this in planning activities. Are you engaged?”
“No.”
“Currently going steady with anyone?”
“No. I was, but we broke up at the first of the summer.”
Forgetting the role I was playing, I asked, “Debbie, for our records, what color eyes are those?” I once stood on a high cliff and looked down into a pool of clear water. And that’s the way her eyes affected me.
She was beginning to suspect the line of questioning. “Aren’t you going to ask me if I’m a member of the Church?”
“My very next question.”
“I am. I was baptized two years ago.”
“Debbie, I want to welcome you here. I see that our program is about ready to start. But I’ll be seeing you again soon.”
I walked out into the foyer and grabbed my coat. As much as I wanted to get to know Debbie, I knew it was time to go. As I walked out the door, I heard the bishop announce, “We’d like to have you meet the officers of the Student Association.”
The next day I walked over to her dorm and phoned her from the lobby. “Debbie, this is Greg Jeffreys. I’ve got a confession to make. I’m not really with the Student Association.”
She laughed. “They spent the entire evening reassuring me of that.”
“Could you come down and walk with me over to the SUB for a fresh lime? We need to get acquainted.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m going to ask you to the festival dance and I wouldn’t want you to go out with a stranger.”
That was the beginning. We spent a lot of time together after that. And that meant that sometimes she went with me to a Student Coalition for Peace meeting. But it also meant that I went with her to Sunday School and Sacrament meeting.

When I looked at my brother’s Christmas tree, there, hanging as a decoration, was a tiny molded figure of a swimmer with a snorkel and diving mask. “What’s this on your tree?” I asked. “We’ve started a new tradition,” he said. “Each year we are going to make decorations that represent something that happened to us that year. This year I learned to snorkel. Here’s one of the Washington Monument because we moved from Washington, D.C., and here’s one of the sun because we had a fun summer.”
Every year when my brother unpacks the Christmas decorations, his family will remember some of the special things that have happened to them during past years.

Last year the Williamsport Pennsylvania Stake Laurels hiked through the little village of Nauvoo—but not in Illinois. They hiked through Nauvoo, Pennsylvania, and learned about its history. The Williamsport stake covers a large area encompassing 11 counties, and some of the girls are the only members in their entire high school. So learning about once-thriving congregations of early Latter-day Saints within their present-day stake boundaries is inspiring to them.
The young women stopped to talk to an elderly man at the edge of the road on the outskirts of Nauvoo. Earl, age 70, a lifelong resident confirmed that his Nauvoo community was a Mormon settlement during the 1840s and named after the Mormon city in Illinois. “Our borough was named Nauvoo by a prominent Mormon leader,” he said. When asked what he thought the word Nauvoo meant, he was unsure and thought it might be a Native American word. Earl seemed pleased to learn that Nauvoo is Hebrew and means beautiful, a place of rest and beauty.

The Reverend George Lane may have been the man who first recommended in Joseph Smith’s hearing, “Let him ask of God.” That specific passage in James 1:5 was mentioned in some of the minister’s sermons. A Methodist, he was associated with revivals in western New York.8 Joseph later talks of a Methodist preacher he was with soon after the vision, a person who was, he says, “active in the before mentioned religious excitement.” Imagine (and this to me is poignant) Joseph at age fourteen—full as he was of the glory, the remarkable experience, and the excitement of it—­recounting his experience to this man. And the man’s response was, “Oh no, that could not be of God. Those things don’t happen anymore.”
So one lacking wisdom ought to go and pray about it. By all means let him ask of God. But to this man the answer seemed . . . well, too much. Heaven had come too close. We can almost visualize the boy—pure-minded, spontaneous, even a little unrestrained, as teenagers are—being struck by the wonder of this marvelous answer to prayer. “Wow! It worked! You told me to do it. I did it.” And the response was, “Shucks, boy, it’s all of the devil.”9 The boy’s smile slowly disappeared. And he learned early that to testify of divine manifestations was to stir up darkness and to call down wrath. That wrath finally evolved into bullets.

Hans let his light shine brightly, even through hard times.
When he was six years old, he fell and broke his arm. That accident became a great blessing. His mom was planning to move to the United States and leave Hans in Ecuador with her sister for a time. “But when he broke his arm,” she says, “I realized Heavenly Father was telling me not to leave my son. If I did, he wouldn’t be able to go to church.”
That’s when Hans’s mother, Antonia Yolanda Nieto, was baptized. Since that time, her testimony has continued to grow and she has received her endowment in the Guayaquil Ecuador Temple. Hans was the missionary who brought his mother to the light of the gospel.

The temptation your children will face will not come at home nor in the seminary class. It will come later, when they are away from both teacher and parent. One day you must set them free. When that day comes, how free will they be, and how safe? It will depend on how much truth they have received. I know of a young missionary who, half a world away from his parents and teachers, faced the testing that comes to young manhood. There, beyond the control of either of them, he made a decision. Later he wrote: “I’m so glad I stayed, because during this last month I found something—I found myself.”

Let me take you back 10 years ago. My oldest daughter had just turned 16, and it was prom day. The girls decided to prepare for prom at our house, and I began to witness something I had never even imagined before. There was makeup, curling irons, giggling, and practicing for hours! The girls actually practiced walking out to meet their dates! I was so out of my element I decided to just find a back corner in the house and try to stay out of the way. But I couldn’t help thinking about how the boys were preparing, because I was reminded how I prepared for my first prom date. We had lowered the basketball hoops to eight feet and were having a slam dunk contest in our tuxedos about 20 minutes before we had to pick up the girls. We got so sweaty that one of us had the brilliant idea that if we coated our armpits with laundry detergent it would cover up the smell. It seemed to work! At any rate, back to my daughter. I remember my daughter feeling so pretty, so valued! Then I had this horrible thought! What if the boys don’t say anything nice! What if they don’t recognize the effort these girls have put into this! The thought came because I again remembered my 16-year-old male brain! I did the only thing I could do; I looked heavenward and said a quick plea: “Heavenly Father, please help these boys say something nice!”
The time arrived and the girls came out as rehearsed! Fortunately, my plea must have worked, because the boys were very gracious. My daughter’s date gave her a great compliment, and she was glowing. And then the last girl came out. She had selected a more revealing dress, and in response to her entrance, all the boys looked away from their dates to give her a scan. I watched my daughter’s confidence get crushed and felt a little piece of my heart break off and drop. This was an unexpected emotion, and only you fathers with daughters will understand this, but my testosterone started to boil and it took all my will power to stay seated! But this emotion was also followed with a sinking feeling of despair, would I have done the same thing? I’m afraid, if I’m being completely honest, I probably would had done the same, at least then, when I was struggling through my stupid years. But I don’t want to talk about then; I want to talk about now!

My maternal grandmother’s favorite hymn is titled, “Pe a faigata le ala, taumafai”. Its English version from which it is translated was written by William Flavell over 130 years ago, “If the way be full of trial, weary not.1” Appropriately so, my grandmother Mele, whom I am named after, has had a blessed life but not without hardships and trials that she so endured well throughout her life. Her father, my great-grandfather Aupiu Savea Moe along with my great grandmother Talalupele Tuitogama’atoe, shortly after marrying in their very young lives, were called to serve as one of the many couple missionaries who traveled the Samoan islands to help establish the church. Their mission lasted for over 50 years. An appreciation for them grew deeper when a recent trip to Samoa to visit the church schools there reminded me of their service to the church. They started their family while on this mission. Many times, at a moment’s notice in one assigned area, they would be called to another assignment in another area or island, often times with my pregnant great-grandmother and very young toddlers in tow. Mind you, travel during those days was either by walking, by horse or by canoe.

The first initial rejections I received in my courtship with Christiane made me a little discouraged. I had just about decided to begin a fruitful career as a young single adult in the Church. One day I had a special spiritual impression. I was participating in an ordinance in the Swiss Temple when I heard a voice in my heart saying something to this effect: “Erich, if you do not seriously strive to marry and enter into the new and everlasting covenant, all these teachings and promised blessings really make no difference for you.” It was a wake-up call that I received at the very young age of twenty-one, and from that moment I tried even harder to be worthy of that blessing.

“I had a chance for a job at the beginning of the summer,” said one of the girls sitting on the grass at the main camp. She paused as the squeals from the canoe races drifted up from the waterfront. “I told them that if I couldn’t come to camp, I didn’t want the job. That’s what it means to me.”
Had it been worth it, you might be tempted to ask, and the answer, not from one voice but from 620, is a resounding yes!

José Gonçalves da Silva suddenly awoke to people calling his name. It was dark, and he had no idea where he was.
“I was asleep when the bus rolled,” José recalls of the early-morning accident in January 2008. “Nobody could find me because I was in the back of the bus covered with luggage. Some of the brethren finally located me as they began to gather up the suitcases.”
When the bus driver lost control on a narrow stretch of winding road in southern Venezuela’s dense rain forest, José and other Latter-day Saints from Manaus, Brazil, were approximately halfway through their three-day trip to the Caracas Venezuela Temple. José suffered only minor injuries, but several brothers and sisters had to be hospitalized.
“It’s time you quit going to the temple,” concerned family members told José, who was 80 when the accident occurred. Undeterred, however, he declared: “I need to go to the temple. If the Lord allows it, I will return.”
He immediately began saving money for his fourth trip to Caracas, which he made in early 2009. For Brother Gonçalves da Silva, the 40-hour bus ride is easy compared to the three trips he previously made to the São Paulo Brazil Temple. For many years, the São Paulo Temple, located thousands of miles southeast of Manaus, was the closest temple to this city of two million people in the northern state of Amazonas. Then, in 2005, Manaus became part of the Caracas Venezuela Temple District.
During those years of traveling to São Paulo, “we would take a boat here in Manaus and spend four days getting to Pôrto Velho,” the capital of Rondônia State, José says. “Then we would take a four-day bus ride to São Paulo. My wife is not a member of the Church, and when I went to the temple for the first time in 1985, I went alone. I spent the night at the bus terminal in Pôrto Velho because I arrived late and there was no bus. The next morning I headed for São Paulo. It was a nice experience, but I arrived a little tired.”
He then spent three full days serving in the temple before making the eight-day return trip home. It takes him a year to save enough from his pension to cover the costs of traveling to the temple.
“It is a sacrifice to go, but it is worth it,” says Brother Gonçalves da Silva, who has done much vicarious work for his family. “I felt a special joy the day I was baptized for my father, when someone was baptized for my mother, and when I represented my father as my parents were sealed. It was a wonderful opportunity. All my brothers and sisters are gone now, but I have done the work for them during my temple trips.”
José believes that the sacrifice inherent in traveling so far to the temple will help Latter-day Saints in Manaus be grateful for the day a temple is dedicated there. “I am excited for that day,” he says.
Manaus had one small branch with 20 members when José joined the Church in 1980. Since then he has seen the Church blossom there to nearly 50,000 members living in eight stakes.
“When the announcement came in 2007 that a temple would be built in Manaus,” José says, “I wept for the great joy I felt, and I prayed that the Lord would allow me to live long enough to see the groundbreaking,” which occurred a year later. Now he prays that he will live to see the temple completed and his wife baptized so that they can be sealed.
“We don’t know when we will die, but we should be prepared and happy when that time comes,” Brother Gonçalves da Silva says. “I’m looking forward to returning to the presence of my Father in Heaven and my Savior, Jesus Christ. Being in the temple helps me prepare for that day.”