Gospel Story Finder

Records show that she preached on priesthood authority, the Book of Mormon, and other gospel topics. After hearing Emma preach on the life and mission of Joseph Smith, one missionary wrote, “I enjoyed her remarks very much; and was sorry when she stopped speaking.”

Sadly, Emma contracted elephantiasis late in her mission and received an early release. When the women and girls at the school learned that she was returning to Utah, they wept. The Malaela branch held a farewell meeting for her, giving her one last chance to preach. She “spoke quite forcibly,” the minutes of the meeting indicate, “and exhorted all to be true to the gospel.”

Emma herself remained true to the gospel—and her covenants—for the rest of her life. In Utah, she continued her education, participated in the state’s Polynesian community, and consulted on the first Latter-day Saint hymnal in Samoan. At some point, she also met a Hawaiian Saint named Henry Kahalemanu. They were married in the Salt Lake Temple on January 31, 1907.

Three years later, Emma passed away at age 26 and was buried at Iosepa, a settlement of Polynesian Saints 60 miles (97 km) west of Salt Lake City. Although her life was brief, her devotion to the restored gospel of Jesus Christ remains a powerful example for Saints around the world, especially young women who answer the call to serve today.

In 1976, as president of the Papeete Tahiti Stake, I regularly inspected the stake’s meetinghouses. One day at noon I stopped at the chapel in Tipaerui. At the time, we had paid custodians, and there I found Mama Taamino, now in her late 60s, working as a custodian to help support her large family. She greeted me with her usual “Come and eat,” but I replied, “Mama Taamino, you are not young anymore, and for lunch all you are having is a small piece of bread, a tiny can of sardines, and a little bottle of juice? Aren’t you earning enough to have more food than this?”
She replied, “I’m saving to travel to the temple again.” My heart melted with admiration for her example of love and sacrifice. Mama Taamino traveled to the temple in New Zealand nearly 15 times—every year until the Papeete Tahiti Temple was dedicated in October 1983. At the dedication she radiated joy.

I was recently assigned to preside over a stake conference at the Salt Lake Granger West Stake in Utah. During this event, I met a stake president who has diligently developed his ability to discern the promptings of the Holy Ghost through righteous living and daily repentance. As part of our ministering efforts, we coordinated visits to three households. Upon completing our final visit, we found ourselves with approximately 30 minutes remaining before our next engagement. As we traveled back to the stake center, President Chesnut received an impression to visit one additional family. We both agreed to follow this prompting.
We proceeded to visit the Jones family, where we discovered Sister Jones confined to bed due to illness. It was apparent that she needed a priesthood blessing. With her permission, we administered to her. As we prepared to depart, Sister Jones asked how we knew of her urgent need for a blessing. The truth is, we didn’t know. However, our Heavenly Father, who was aware of her needs, did know and inspired President Chesnut to visit her home. When we are receptive to the guidance of the still, small voice, we are better equipped to more effectively minister to those in need.

It seemed like a great way to earn a backpacking merit badge. A five-day trip, 14 miles in, 14 miles out, and a few side trips up canyons to achieve 32 total miles, just what the members of Varsity Scout Team 6475 needed to finish their qualifications. And along the way through the red rock country of the Colorado Plateau, from Hurricane Wash through Coyote Gulch to the Escalante River, there would be some remarkable scenery: Jacob Hamblin Natural Arch, hand-hewn by nature, time, wind, and water; and Lake Powell, Hole-in-the-Rock, and Dance Hall Rock, to be visited by car on the way home.
But as hikes often do, this one turned out to be harder on the trail than it appeared on the map. “It started out dry,” said Rob Perkins, 14, a member of the Orem 75th Ward, Orem Utah Windsor Stake, which sponsors the team. “Then it got drier and drier. Then finally, just when you were wondering if your canteen water would be enough to last, you noticed a trickle of water in the rocks at your feet. Pretty soon we were following a creek and catching tadpoles. Then we were following a river.”
The wash joined the gulch, which dropped deeper and deeper, crossing the path of water which would normally be far beneath the earth. At that point, the water simply flowed out of the ground.
But walking in the sneaker-deep stream presented some problems of its own. First of all, the water was full of silt.
“It would fill your shoes so full you couldn’t walk in them anymore,” said Willie Holdman, 15. “So you’d take your shoes off and walk barefoot. But then you’d come to a place on an S-curve where you could cut across open, sun-baked sand. Was it ever hot! I’ve never run so fast in my life. And at the end of the day, the tops of your feet would be sunburned. That makes it hard to want to put your shoes on anyway.”
Simple walking also created friction, which inflicted additional foot damage. “I felt like the soles of my feet had been rubbed with sandpaper,” Shriedhar Dusara, 15, said. “Sometimes they would get really tender.”
Of course, after a while packs got heavy and it seemed hot all the time. “It wasn’t a killer heat,” Brad Nelson said. “In fact, the farther down the gulch we got, the cooler it got. But anytime you’re carrying a lot of weight, you’re going to get tired.”
And, once again, thirsty. “We had to treat all of the water to make sure it was safe to drink,” Shriedhar said. “But even though it tasted funny, we were sure glad to have it.”
The gulch grew narrower and deeper. The sides became walls, some 50 feet tall and only four feet apart. Then the crevasse opened into a true canyon, with the river running broadly down the middle. Huge cliffs towered high on either side. Holes weathered in some rocks made them look like Swiss cheese. Elsewhere, rocks bore a remarkable resemblance to human faces or animals. In one side canyon, the weather had shaped rocks into small, round, ping-pong sized balls which literally covered the ground.
Brad explained that the Scouts would get their hats wet and let the water drip down and evaporate to cool their skin. He said he remembered being exhausted, then looking up and seeing a tree, the first greenery he’d seen for miles.
“All right,” he said. “Vegetation!”
And the river banks got greener from then on, even though rust red remained the predominant hue.
During the days, the Scouts discovered that there were plenty of grottos along the trail where they could rest in the shade. They learned that water collects at the base of cliffs and in sink holes, that plants often grow in such places, and that frogs congregate in the water. They also found some shallow quicksand and discovered that after they walked on it enough, the water was forced out and it became more solid. Evenings were spent in fireside discussions, lizard chases, games, hiking, showering under a waterfall, looking at cougar tracks, and cooking dehydrated meals over portable burners. One night the Scouts awakened to the sight of hundreds of daddy longlegs mounded together in vibrating heaps.
“We still don’t know where they came from or what they were all doing in one place like that,” Floyd Holdman, the team coach (equivalent to a Scoutmaster) said.
But of all the sights along the way, the Scouts were most impressed by Hamblin Arch.
“How can you not be impressed by something that big?” Shriedhar asked, and the others wondered with him about what hand could have sculpted scenery so monumental.
“You get an almost reverent feeling down there, wondering where it all came from,” Brad said. “It makes you feel so small.”
Brother Holdman reminded his boys of the scripture in Alma 39:44, “All things denote there is a God; yea, even the earth, and all things that are upon the face of it.”
“Yeah.” Willie nodded his head. Floyd is his father, so Willie is used to hearing him quote scriptures. But this passage seemed to mean more out where nature is so prominent. “I guess that’s right,” Willie added. “You sure feel that way when you see all these rocks. And think how long it took for the wind and rain to make an arch. It’s kind of like God is making sculptures, beautiful things for us to enjoy. This is like part of his art gallery.”
Finally the team arrived at the Escalante River.
“On the way, we had to tie ropes to our packs and lower them over cliffs by the waterfalls. Then we had to find our own way down,” Rob explained. “Sometimes on a short cliff we’d just jump down. On one of the highest cliffs, somebody had built a ladder and left it.”
“We’d been wandering around because we couldn’t find a way down,” Willie said. “Then we saw a sign scratched in the rock, ‘Ladder this way,’ with an arrow.”
“If I could meet the guy who built that ladder,” Brad said, “I’d sure tell him thanks!”
That night, the group camped away from river banks where water might rise, unrolling their sleeping bags on higher ground. The precaution paid off.
“We got up the next morning and looked at where we had planned to camp,” Brother Holdman said. “The water had risen a foot. If we had stayed there we would have been wet.”
It was a long, hard hike to make it all the way out the next day, but after coming in, going out would seem anticlimactic. And everyone was eager to make the additional stops at Lake Powell, Hole-in-the-Rock, and Dance Hall Rock. “It’s only 50 miles to Hole-in-the-Rock, once you hike out from Coyote Gulch,” Brother Holdman explained.
“Thinking about the additional things we would see kept us going,” Brad said, “but after five days of dehydrated food, so did the idea of eating the treats we’d left in the car.”
By 1:00 P.M., four hot, tired young men and one exhausted adult leader were snacking on candy bars, then relaxing in a car rolling down the highway.
“If you think you had it bad hiking out of Coyote Gulch, imagine what the pioneers went through,” Brother Holdman said. “The group that went through Hole-in-the-Rock took six months to go 300 miles, through all kinds of country even rougher than this. And they had to build trails and move wagons and cattle over mountains and through canyons.”
The words took on a deeper meaning when the young men actually stood at Hole-in-the-Rock, where in 1879 colonizers dropped down into Glen Canyon through a narrow gorge to cross the Colorado River.
“If you ever come this way it will scare you to death to look down it,” wrote one settler, Elizabeth Morris Decker. “It is about a mile from the top down to the river and it is almost strait down, the cliffs on each side are five hundred ft. high and there is just room enough for a wagon to go down … They put the brake on and rough locked the hind wheels and had a big rope fastened to the wagon and about ten men holding back on it and then they went down like they would smash everything. I’ll never forget that day. … [My son] looked back and cried and asked me how we would get back home” (Miller, David E., Hole-in-the-Rock, University of Utah Press, Salt Lake City, 1966, p. 116).
Shriedhar, Rob, Willie, and Brad had probably never thought so much about the sacrifices others made for the Church as they did looking out at the waters of Lake Powell that day. Although the lake water now covers much of the area the pioneers traversed, the courage of the moment was evident.
“I don’t even know how they did it,” Rob said. “I’d rather go 500 miles the other way.”
“You can still see the stairs they carved in the solid rock,” Willie said. “You can see blasting holes they drilled when they tried to make the opening wider.”
Shriedhar said, “It’s not something I’d want to do. All those rocks and steps to try to take wagons and cattle down. It’s so steep. And that’s just to get you to the bottom where there’s more work to do.”
Later however, as the group visited Dance Hall Rock, they glimpsed another side of pioneer life—recreation. Dance Hall Rock is a huge sandstone formation shaped like a natural amphitheater with a smooth floor. With three fiddlers in the company to supply music, pioneers spent several pleasant evenings dancing. Even today, some expeditions to the area will provide music so their participants can enjoy the acoustics.
“You think of pioneers just being in wagons all the time,” Rob said. “It’s nice to know they danced and had fun too.”
After the stop at Dance Hall Rock, it was time to head home.
During their five-day journey through Coyote Gulch, the members of Varsity Scout Team 6475 hiked enough to qualify for a merit badge, and they were proud of what they’d accomplished. But they also had learned a little bit about history and gained some empathy for colonizing pioneers.
“The next time I hear the names of those places I’ll pay more attention,” Willie said, “because now I’ve been there.”

Chris is keenly aware that, as the oldest, he is setting an example for his six young brothers. He has been offered scholarships to play football at several big-name universities. But they want him to commit to at least one year of college before leaving on his mission. Since Chris turns 19 soon after he would start college, he refuses to postpone his mission and has turned down the scholarships. He has faith that he’ll be able to regain a scholarship when he gets back. His parents were introduced to the gospel by missionaries when he was a baby, and his entire life he has anxiously looked forward to serving.
Editor’s Note: Since this article was written, Chris received his mission call and is serving in the Lithuania Vilnius Mission.

Rhoeta M., age 15, from Idaho, USA, discovered that she needed good friends as she was investigating the Church. “When I began attending sacrament meeting, classes, and Young Women, I was instantly greeted by many friendly faces and a caring community. I was included in all the activities, and the new friends I made encouraged me to follow God’s plan. They helped me set and accomplish my spiritual goals.” After learning more from the missionaries and connecting with her friends at church, Rhoeta made the decision to be baptized. “I am so grateful to have found such good people,” she says, “and I’m blessed to have had such an excellent transition into the Church!”

Events of the next few days and nights, however, seemed to negate that prophecy. Storms struck again: “strong gale; great swell on the water; ship rolling very much; many of the passengers sick. … Things rolling about.” Outside the elements were at war, but within the Spirit was at work. After one preaching meeting where “Brother Finch gave a brief and lucid explanation of the first principles,” five converts were baptized. On April 1, the unfavorable winds continued, but at a testimony meeting, which many sailors attended, three more baptisms occurred, including the ship’s carpenter, the first crew member to convert. The next day found food rations reduced. But that evening three more sailors and one passenger were baptized at the testimony meeting.

How is someone baptized aboard a sailing vessel? Sometimes large barrels filled with salt water or a platform improvised by the side of the ship were used. On the International, according to one who was baptized there, the ordinance was performed on deck “in a large round vat holding probably 2,000 gallons of water.” Why the vat was on board we can only surmise. But filled with sea water it served well as a convenient font.

While the International sped west toward port, the Mormon ranks continued to grow as predicted in Captain Brown’s dream. Just before the April 6 festival, the captain’s cook was baptized. On April 8 President Arthur’s sixteen-year-old daughter, Mary Ann, and a Negro crewman were baptized. The second mate, three sailors, and Christopher Arthur, Jr., were baptized the next day. As the International slipped between Cuba and Florida a week later the first mate joined the Church, as did three sailors and one emigrant the next day. Even 110° heat on April 17 did not squelch the Spirit, for the Saints held “first-rate meetings during the whole day; in the evening the ship’s carpenter, captain’s cook, and two sailors bore testimony to the truth of the work.”

Captain Brown’s spirit was troubled as the conversions continued. Some of his feelings were revealed when he gave landing instructions on April 18 and confessed his attraction to Mormonism: “He had crossed the seas many times,” one diarist reported in quoting him, “but never felt so happy with any people as he had with the Latter-day Saints.” He added that “his pride prevented him from immediately becoming a saint but he felt he soon should join us and come to Great Salt Lake City.” Following his remarks two more passengers were baptized. At testimony meeting the next evening six sailors bore testimony and afterwards one sailor was baptized.

The report credited the workings of the Spirit coupled with the Saints exemplary conduct for the remarkable number of conversions made on the high seas. He proudly wrote:

“I am glad to inform you, that we have baptized all on board except three persons [the steward and his wife, both staunch Catholics, and the third mate, ‘a very wicked fellow’—. We can number the captain, first and second mates, with eighteen of the crew, most of whom intend going right through to the valley. … The carpenter and eight of the seamen are Swedish, German, and Dutch. There are two negroes. … The others baptized were friends of the brethren. The number baptized in all is forty-eight, since we left our native shores.”

Illustration by Dave Bardin
The link jumped out at me from the computer screen. My little brother Ethan’s favorite author was coming to our local library in just a few weeks. Ethan would love this! Imagining his excitement, I clicked the link but then sighed. The event was on a school night—and would be in the way of homework and sleep.
My first impulse was to keep the news to myself. I had early-morning seminary the day after the event and would really need the sleep I’d lose if we went. After arguing with myself for several minutes, a prompting to tell Ethan about it won over.
I called out to Ethan, who ran quickly over to me. “Look who’s coming to the library,” I said while pointing at the computer screen.
Ethan let out a gasp and began dancing wildly around the room. “He’s coming to our library?” he asked. Without waiting for my answer, he hurried to ask Mom’s permission to go. Returning only a few moments later with a yes, he asked, “Are you coming too?”
I still hesitated at the thought of a late night and a tough morning. But the eagerness on Ethan’s face made it impossible for me to disappoint him. “OK,” I said and smiled in spite of myself.
He shouted excitedly as he pumped his fist in the air.
Over the next several weeks, Ethan constantly talked about the author event. He kept trying to think of new ways he could talk about it with his friends, and he asked over and over again how many days were left until it happened.
When the day finally came, I followed Ethan into the library. I couldn’t help but smile as he clutched one of the author’s books in his arms. There was a long line of people, and I worried we’d come too late to get a good seat. Luckily, after some shuffling we found a spot where we could watch the author speak from a video projection.
When the author finished, people flooded out of the room to get in line for the book signing. We had to wait another hour to get to the front of the line, but Ethan finally got his book signed.
Once outside, I glanced at my watch and gulped. It was late.
Ethan turned. “He’s the coolest person in the world,” he said, giving me a toothy grin, “but he’s not as awesome as you are.”
His words hit me so unexpectedly that I almost stopped walking out of pure shock. What I received in return for the sleep I gave up was far greater than any sacrifice I’d made. I’d strengthened my relationship with my brother and also gained a new perspective of myself. I walked away from that library glad to have gone and feeling like I was on top of the world.

Robert M. Veylupek II, a Latter-day Saint from San Gabriel, California, has earned the distinction of being one of the youngest Eagle Scouts in the United States. When he became a Boy Scout at age 11, Robert set the goal of obtaining the award by his 13th birthday, the youngest age at which the Eagle Scout award may be given. Robert, the senior patrol leader of San Gabriel Troop 268, completed the Eagle Scout requirements by earning his 24th merit badge more than 6 months before he turned 13.

A young woman named Thricia felt feelings of guilt, shame, and unworthiness after doing something wrong. She began to listen to Church music, watch Church videos, and study gospel talks more intently, but the feelings didn’t go away. Eventually she decided to talk to her branch president. As she met with him, she felt the love of Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ for her. Now she feels grateful that through the Savior’s Atonement, she can be forgiven of her sins and receive help to rise above her weaknesses. “What I hold on to right now is that He is always with me in this journey,” she says.

In high school I ran cross-country and distance track. I was never very good, but I enjoyed running and worked hard. One day my team was scheduled for a cross-country meet that took place on a particularly hilly course. I’d been practicing hard, so as we lined up in our starting positions, I said a silent prayer to Heavenly Father to ask if He would bless me with success in accordance to my hard work.
The gunshot sounded, and we were off. The first mile was flat and I was feeling pretty well, so I began to run even faster. Surely this was going to be my finest race! Then came the first hill. I ran up as fast as I could and came tearing down the other side. But then there was another hill. This one was even steeper, and I quickly lost my momentum. I started feeling like I might fall down the other side. I held it together, but when I came around the next corner, I saw multiple hills to come. Before long I became very tired. By mile two, other runners continually passed me. I became frustrated with myself for taking the first part of the race so fast, using all the energy that I needed now. I wanted to give up and walk off the course.
I decided to say another silent prayer. I asked my Father in Heaven to bless me with the ability to finish the race. Then the thought came, “Sometimes life gets hard, and it’s all you can do to keep running, but in the end you’ll be glad you didn’t give up and walk.” I was able to finish the race, and while I didn’t run the amazing race I’d wanted to, I gained something that has helped me ever since—a sense for how it may feel to endure to the end.

When I went to Russia as a volunteer English teacher, I knew very little Russian. But as I lived among the Russian people, I began to have the desire to serve them and share the gospel with them. So I started working harder to learn the language.
I started by reading a children’s version of the Book of Mormon in Russian. Armed with a Russian/English dictionary, I struggled through a chapter a day, looking up nearly every word. Then I taught myself to pray in Russian, feeling foolish as the foreign words stumbled off my tongue. Finally, I started learning to bear my testimony. To practice, I would write it in Russian in my journal. It didn’t take long for me to decide that it was hard to learn Russian.
Nearly three months into my stay in Ufa, Russia, another English teacher and I planned a trip to a faraway city called Saratov. We were met at the train station by a wonderful Latter-day Saint family who opened their hearts and their home to us. Our time there was soon over, and we were once again on the train, ready for the 20-hour train ride back to Ufa.
We shared our small compartment with two businessmen who made us a little nervous. They were extremely polite though, so we soon felt safe.
When we were leaving Saratov, the family we had stayed with explained the importance of being an example. They said, “Don’t forget that everyone is watching you. Everyone.” They gave us a few missionary pamphlets and challenged us to give them away before we got home. Dubiously, I eyed the two men across from us. I sighed and decided they probably wouldn’t be interested.
But when I got out my scriptures to read, the men were curious and started asking questions. We gave them the pamphlets, which they read.
Later on the trip I started writing in my journal. The men asked why I wasn’t writing in Russian, so I showed them that I often did. The pages I happened to show them contained my testimony. They asked to read it, and I willingly obliged. They also eagerly started reading the Russian copy of the Book of Mormon I gave to them. As they asked questions, I felt as if the room would burst from the Spirit that filled it. One of the men asked if I could feel in my heart “the fire” that was in his and asked if I knew what it was. In my broken Russian I explained it was the Holy Ghost.
I had him read 3 Nephi 11. As we read of the Savior’s ministry among the people on the American continent, tears came to his eyes. He stopped reading and quietly asked, “Does Jesus Christ love me like He loved those people?”
With tears in my eyes I answered, “Yes, He knows you, and He loves you. That is why He wants you to know the truth about His gospel.” He looked at me for another moment and then dropped his eyes to read further. When we arrived in Ufa, we gave him the missionaries’ phone number.
It took a special 20-hour train ride to teach me that I don’t need to be on a full-time mission to serve the Lord and share the gospel. I don’t know if the little seeds that were planted that night have grown. But I do know that miracles occurred. I was converted, even if those men were not.

I am confident you have heard this story of President Spencer W. Kimball, but I take the liberty of repeating it. He had undergone surgery in the hospital. A young male nurse had placed him on a gurney and was transporting him. When getting on the elevator, the nurse bumped the gurney and let out an oath using the name of the Lord.

President Kimball, only half-conscious, said, “Please! Please! That is my Lord whose name you revile.”

There was a deathly silence; then the young man whispered with a subdued voice, “I am sorry.” (See The Teachings of Spencer W. Kimball, ed. Edward L. Kimball [1982], 198.)

The look on my mother’s face broke my heart. Shock. Dismay. Disappointment. All filled her eyes one after the other and then merged into one emotion—betrayal.
Despite her teaching me all my 15 years to honor Heavenly Father in word and deed, there I stood, guilty of letting a particularly offensive word slip past my lips.
I hadn’t meant to swear. Before that year, I had never used foul language. But that summer I had worked for Utah’s Fish and Game Department and picked up the habit from other boys working alongside me.
Our main job was cutting burdock off the side of state roads. We quickly decided that Arctium minus is a particularly evil weed. It grows in volumes just about anywhere, and it crowds out most other plants. Its burs stick to anything that comes near.
Shovels in hand, we battled that nemesis all summer to the point of exhaustion—and dirty language. At first I found my comrades’ language offensive. Then I tolerated it. Finally, I adopted it. By the end of the summer, swearing was sticking to my words as securely as burdock burs to dog hair.
My mother’s reaction to my slip of tongue, however, convinced me that I needed to change.
It wasn’t easy. Swearing is not just a choice of words. It is also a pattern of thinking. The conversations we allow into our lives, the words we read, and the images we view shape our thoughts. I soon learned that I needed to change what I invited into my mind if I wanted to change the words I used.
Thankfully, I was active in attending church and seminary. Swearing had crowded out higher thoughts, but being in an environment where I was exposed to those higher thoughts allowed them to take root again. I concentrated on reading the scriptures every day and praying. I stayed away from movies and television programs that reintroduced dark thoughts.
Gradually, I found my language improving. By the end of the year, I was free of my swearing habit.

The spirit of the day was not diminished when the lights in the gym went down low and the music was turned up for the dance that finished off the conference. A stake music committee, made up mostly of youth, had previously selected all the music that would be played, making sure it was fun to dance to, yet didn’t contain inappropriate lyrics.
While the music played inside, the youth on the organizing committee wandered outside for a breather. They inevitably began discussing the big subject of the day. “Being a part of all this really makes me want to work harder to be better—to be more like Jesus,” said Mark Davies, 17. “That would be so great.”
“We heard a lot about Christ today, and his spirit was here,” added Anna. “That’s exactly what we wanted.”
“Oh yes,” Thomasyn agreed. “Even though it didn’t turn out exactly like we’d planned at first, it was a big success.”

Warmed by the medicine man’s healing fire inside the earthen lodge, Little Wind’s all-day vigil is over. For the valiant heart of the old buffalo—injured in a senseless and shameful slaughter two days before—is still beating.
Curled against the shaggy warmth of the great beast, the exhausted boy dreams of the sky people, then sleeps …
The first long, frosted slivers of light pierced the night sky over the tablelands. Ten Days Walking stepped out of his tepee, pulled a buffalo robe around him, and headed toward the earthen lodge. He entered quietly and stood for a long moment in the little bit of night still hiding inside, his eyes upon Little Wind, his son, who lay asleep with his head pillowed against the old buffalo. The ancient beast’s sides no longer rose and fell with a steady cadence.
Ten Days Walking stepped closer and put his ear to the animal’s side, but there was no heartbeat.
Little Wind stirred, then awoke. The look on his father’s face told him all he feared to know. His dark eyes widened and studied the creature beside him, then his vision was blurred by a thin veil of tears. “He only sleeps, Father.” Little Wind whispered with wishful uncertainty.
“It is the long sleep, my son,” Ten Days Walking uttered with reverent matter-of-factness. “The Great Spirit has called it home.”
“But I prayed so hard. It cannot be!” Little Wind buried his face in the old creature’s soft fur and wept.
Ten Days Walking sat down beside the boy and leaned back against the still warm bison. Gently and slowly he ran his large hand through Little Wind’s long hair, then he spoke. “Was it not this great one’s time, small warrior?” he asked. “No man or beast can remain on this earth place beyond his given time. This old four-legged had fathered countless of its kind and given much majesty and dignity to Mother Earth. Would it not perhaps be wrong now, maybe even selfish, to deny it its blessed rest?”
Little Wind could not—even in his pain—deny the simple wisdom of his father’s words. He nodded through his tears and snuggled himself against the big warrior who enclosed him in his great robe.
For a long while Little Wind watched the new light grow brighter in the lodge, spilling down through the hole in the center of the thatched roof and shedding its glow on the old buffalo. Then he muttered softly, “Grandfather says that life is like a blossom and that death is like the flower unfolding. What does he mean, Father?”
Ten Days Walking smiled knowingly. “Red Owl Watching means that to become like the Great Spirit, we must first become like a little child, like a … blossom … that opens into its greater self in the brighter light of heaven.”
Little Wind looked confused. Ten Days Walking’s smile broadened and he went on. “What your grandfather means is that he is anxious to leave his earth lodge and enter the great lodge of your Father and mine and to share in the wondrous things that await every valiant warrior who has served his Creator well.”
Little Wind didn’t know if he felt better because of his father’s strong arms around him or because of his wise counsel. Maybe it was both. Whatever it was, it was something to cling to every time his eyes returned to the old buffalo or to the lodge where his Grandfather, Red Owl Watching, lay in a long illness. “Will Grandfather die soon also?” he wondered out loud.
Ten Days Walking held his smile. There was a sadness in his voice at the thought of the old man’s leaving, but also the sound of hope. “Yes, it will very soon be his time. But as time rushes by like wind over a bird’s wing, my son, we will soon be together again. It is all part of a very wise plan.”
It was Little Wind’s unusual compassion and regard for the buffalo that caused his father to give the old four-legged special consideration. A great scaffold was prepared and its body carried on a litter to the sacred burial grounds that stood on the high jagged cliffs above the village. It was the first time such a thing had been done for any but a Sioux in the history of their people.
Little Wind climbed the steep trail in the icy November wind to the top of the butte to pay final tribute to the old buffalo. He watched as the mighty beast was hoisted up onto the scaffold, covered with furs, and secured with rope. Little Wind’s mother and little sister, Night Fawn, along with a few other village women, heaped brambles at the base of the scaffold to keep away wild animals. Then Ten Days Walking and the others left Little Wind alone to express his mourning.
When the sun had made its journey across the heavens, Little Wind turned from the wind-lashed scaffold and descended the darkened mesa to the village below.
In the days and weeks that followed, driving prairie rains beat unmercifully upon the little Sioux lodges. Winds howled and thunder boomed like the white soldiers’ cannons. Little Wind sat huddled in his family’s tepee, listening to the strange, wonderful stories spun by his grandfather from within the immense warm hides of his sickbed. The stories were of great battles fought and fine prizes won long, long ago.
Then one day came the great white silence. Little Wind pushed back the door flap and gazed upon it, wide-eyed. Winter had come in all its chilly white grandness.
The boy pulled his fur wrappings tightly about himself and stepped out, marveling at this shivering white Eden. Nothing stirred, and there was not a single footprint or track in sight. Mine will be the very first! he thought as he moved forward across the crusted snow.
The sun had just begun to rise above the huge white cliffs and had sprayed a silvery glow of near-blinding brightness over the valley mist. Suddenly his breathless wonderment was broken by the frightened whinnying of the village horses. He looked through the misty light toward the corral at the far end of the lodges. Vague, ghostly shapes moved stealthily among the ponies. They were the shapes of warriors warmly dressed against the weather … but not of his tribe!
Little Wind dashed quickly and silently into the tepee and shook his father from his sleep. “Father!” he cried in a loud whisper. “There are strangers in our village!”
Ten Days Walking sprang to his feet, grabbed a buffalo horn club and shield hanging next to his war medicine bundle, and bolted outside. He shouted an alarm to the other sleeping villagers.
Red Owl Watching strained up onto an elbow. “Young Shoshones,” he uttered in a raspy, unworried voice. “They come to take our horses, not to take scalps.” He arched his neck and gazed up at Little Wind, who stood tensely by the door. “It is the way of things. It is honorable to take ponies from an enemy tribe and return triumphant to your village. It shows much courage and brings dignity to any young warrior.”
Little Wind’s mother looked harshly at the old warrior in the ermine blanket. “We cannot let our horses be taken just so some young Shoshone brave can paint victory marks on his leggings, old man! Without our ponies we will—”
Red Owl Watching chuckled and placed a quivery, reassuring hand on Laughing Water’s arm, then beamed at Little Wind. “It is also honorable for a young Sioux brave to disgrace a Shoshone brave.”
“How is this done, Grandfather?” Little Wind questioned.
The ancient Indian broke into a toothless grin. “Simply by keeping him from stealing a Sioux pony.”
“And how is that best done?” Little Wind pressed eagerly.
“It is best done quickly!” was the reply.
Little Wind was gone in the shake of a pony’s tail. Laughing Water argued with motherly concern, “He’s still a boy, old man!”
Again Red Owl Watching softly patted the woman’s arm. “Yes. But do boys learn to become men just by listening to tales of valor, or must they at some point take part in those deeds that lift them beyond themselves to that high, noble place of manhood?”
Laughing Water twisted her face. Can I never win an argument with this old one? she wondered. “Must you always be so wise?” she asked aloud.
The toothless grin once again returned to the old face. “Old age does have its rewards, good mother.” Then the two peered outside through the hide flap where the village was alive with warmly outfitted combatants. The warriors were dashing in and out in a ragged pattern, waving stone clubs and feathered lances. But as Red Owl Watching had testified, there was no noticeable desire to inflict grave injury upon each other. They were just taking coup—the touching or striking of an armed enemy with a lance or any other object and getting away unscratched. It was a deed far more noble than taking a scalp or inflicting a fatal injury.
Ten Days Walking had jumped atop the corral fence and had leaped onto a mounted Shoshone, wrestling man and animal to the ground. The enemy’s horse whirled about wild-eyed, then crashed into and broke a section of fence. Eighteen of the tribe’s twenty-two fine ponies, spooked by all the excited hoots and frenzied activity, plunged through the opening in the crude fence and disappeared into the mist. And with the fading sound of exiting, pounding hooves filling his concerned ears, Ten Days Walking quickly whacked his foe with his shield and sent him sprawling among the four remaining ponies. One of them, the warrior chief’s great buffalo runner, whirled by instinct toward the grounded Shoshone and nickered defiantly. The frightened Shoshone scrambled to his feet and ran off. Ten Days Walking hooted victoriously and gestured tribute to his war-horse. Then he plunged back into the fray.
At the same time, Little Wind darted in a low run through the tinseled fog, scooped up a broken lance, and leaped onto the back of an enemy brave who had pinned down a Sioux tribesman. Holding both ends of the lance in his hands, Little Wind quickly looped it over the Shoshone’s head and pressed it tightly against his throat. The Indian abandoned his grip, yelled angrily, and toppled over backward onto Little Wind, his wolf headdress falling off in the process. Before the startled would-be horse thief could get a fair look at his boy attacker, Little Wind had vanished with his prize, the wolf headdress, into the frozen brushwood.
By now the whole village was swarming with armed Sioux men, and even some of the women were wielding bone clubs and whatever else they could come up with. And the small band of hapless Shoshones, seeing themselves hopelessly outnumbered, reluctantly mounted their ponies and fled in shame, rubbing their wounds and suffering the sting of injured pride.
Joyous shouts burst forth in splendid unison from every lodge in the little community. But there was still an important matter to be attended to—recovering the tribe’s eighteen ponies. They would have to be found quickly before they were adopted by another tribe or before gathering clouds ushered in another storm.
Ten Days Walking sprang onto his buffalo runner and hastily instructed three braves nearby to get the three remaining horses and assist him in the hunt. Then he glanced at Little Wind with a flash of pride that seemed to lift the boy ten feet off the ground. After all, was it not he who first warned the village of the presence of an enemy tribe? And was not that a Shoshone headdress hanging from his belt?
The boy watched his father’s horse plunge away into the frigid whiteness. Then he started back toward his tepee, anxious to share the story of his first coup with his mother, grandfather, and little sister. But he had only gone a few steps when someone pulled at his arm. It was Yellow Fox, a village boy. “Your pony is gone too,” he said excitedly. “I saw it run away when the Shoshones first came!”
“My father will find it, with the others,” Little Wind responded confidently.
“He’ll not find your pony!” Yellow Fox insisted. “I saw your horse go toward the high rock county. Your father and the others rode off in another direction. They’ll not find your pony. But maybe a Shoshone will.”
Little Wind gazed anxiously toward the great mountains veiled in glacial mist. His pony had been given to him as a gift by his father before the big hunt. It was priceless to him. He had to find it before the next storm or he might never see it again. If he hurried, he could be back before his mother even knew he was gone. If he waited for his father to return with the horses, it might be too late. I’m well dressed against the weather in this big otter coat Mother made me, he assured himself. Besides, my pony probably hasn’t gone very far.
Little Wind pulled his wrappings snugly around him, gave a quick glance toward his tepee, and hurried off in the direction of the hoofprints in the snow.
What Little Wind did not know was that a new storm was gathering just beyond the mesas. Hidden behind the fog, it crouched like some huge, nameless beast ready to lunge across the sky and engulf anyone or anything careless enough to leave the fires of home.

Thus, whenever we are tempted to make eternal life our hope instead of our determination, we might think of a building I saw recently.

I was in Boston, Massachusetts. For a little nostalgia, I walked up to the front of the boardinghouse I was living in when I met Kathleen, who is now my wife. That was a long time ago, so I expected to find the house in a dilapidated condition. But to my surprise, it was freshly painted and much renovated. I recalled the wonderful deal the owners gave their student renters. I had my own large room and bath, furniture and sheets provided, maid service, six big breakfasts and five wonderful dinners a week, all for a very minimal cost per week. More than that, the meals were ample and prepared with such skill that, with some affection, we called our landlady “Ma Soper.” I now realize that I didn’t thank Mrs. Soper often enough, nor Mr. Soper and their daughter, since it must have been some burden to have 12 single men to dinner every weeknight.

Now, this old boardinghouse could have the most spacious rooms, the best service, and the finest boarders, but we wouldn’t want to live there for more than a short while. It could be beautiful beyond our power to imagine, but still we wouldn’t want to live there forever, single, if we have even the dimmest memory or the faintest vision of a family with beloved parents and children like the one from which we came to this earth and the one which is our destiny to form and to live in forever. There is only one place in heaven where there will be families—the highest degree of the celestial kingdom. That is where we will want to be.

Elder Marcus B. Nash of the Seventy, the President of the Africa West Area of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, along with his wife, Sister Shelley Nash, and other leaders made a courtesy visit to His Royal Majesty Otumfuo Osei Tutu II, Asantehene of the Empire of Asante. The Asantehene is highly revered in the Asante territories (Ashanti region and other parts of Ghana) and is regarded as the first among equals of traditional rulers in Ghana.
The meeting was held on 4 March 2020, at the Manhyia Palace in Kumasi, Ghana, in connection with Awukudae Festival meaning: “Wednesday ceremony”, a traditional Ashanti festival in Ashanti. Accompanying Elder and Sister Nash to the meeting were Honorable Francis Addai-Nimoh, a friend of the Church and former Member of Parliament of Asante Mampong; Emelia Ahadjie, Area Director of Communication; Edmund Adusei, Asokwa, Kumasi Stake president; Edmund Osei, Coordinating Council Director of Communication in Kumasi; Brent Belnap, Area Legal Counsel; Richard Dadzie, Area Family History Manager; along with Elder Lyle and Sister Cricket Parry, Area Communication Specialist Missionaries. There were also other dignitaries from organizations across Ghana in attendance, including the Bawku Naba Asigri Abugrago Azoka II, and the inspector general of police, and the chief defence commanders of the military, air force and navy.
Elder Nash said, “we believe all people are children of God, you are my brother and I am yours”. He also spoke of families, stating, “We believe a family is a husband who loves his wife, a wife who loves her husband, and together they love their children”. He explained the Church is here to lift and serve all people. Elder Nash thanked the Asantehene for allowing the freedom of religion in his region because we know how important that is.
Elder Nash also presented the Asantehene with a statue of a family from the Church. His Royal Majesty told Elder Nash and other church leaders he is looking forward to a future meeting.

My mind tuned in and out as the teacher explained the finer points of perspective drawing. I tried to concentrate, but to no avail. My mind kept wandering.
My thoughts were interrupted by the girl sitting next to me. She was tapping my shoulder, wanting to borrow an eraser. I complied and watched my eraser terminate an entire line of notes from her drawing pad.
As she handed it back, I noticed the eraser. It was gray, made of kneaded rubber, malleable and stretchy. These erasers seem to be a bit of magic. They never wear out; they just keep cleaning up your mistakes, no matter how dark. They’re better than any kind of eraser I’ve ever used.
Then a forceful thought came to me: how this small, gray eraser paralleled repentance. I recalled the words to a scripture in Isaiah: “Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool” (Isa. 1:18). Perhaps Isaiah’s plea for repentance would have been more easily understood if it went, “Though your sins be as graphite …”
Well, maybe not, yet I imagined the pre-earth life; all of us going to earth at our appointed times, to the college of life to become artists. All of us needed to create some wonderful work of art. But upon arriving at the college of life, none of us knew the first thing about art. We had to learn to draw, and while learning we would all inevitably make mistakes. This is where the Savior came in; he made it possible for each of us to have our own eraser to correct our mistakes.
Suddenly I heard people moving around me. I came out of my meditation. Class was finally over. As I gathered my materials, I heard the teacher say: “The best artist is the one who can see his mistakes and correct them.”
The day’s lesson was well learned.

The pressure. That’s something else these boys are forced to deal with, and at a very young age they’re learning some amazing things. Steven was ecstatic about landing the lead role in a professional production of Amahl and the Night Visitors, until he heard his understudy sing. His voice was like silver. “Oh Mom!” Steven said, with tears in his eyes, “He’s so much better than I am! He should have my part.” It was then explained to Steven that the boy who was singing had grown too big for the lead, and Steven’s part was secure.

Steven decided right then and there that he would be very nice to his understudy and treat him without jealousy or malice. Steven knew how that felt, because he’d been treated poorly as an understudy before. This decision turned out to be better than Steven ever expected. His understudy in Amahl was Andrew, and now they’re the closest of friends.