Gospel Story Finder

“This really happened here?” Sharon murmured. The bronze statue showed Joseph Smith and Oliver Cowdery kneeling before John the Baptist to receive the Aaronic Priesthood.
“We don’t know exactly where the event happened,” Dad said, “but we know that Joseph and Oliver were praying somewhere near the river when John the Baptist appeared. The Melchizedek Priesthood was restored later by Peter, James, and John.”
Sharon listened to the Susquehanna River gurgling behind the trees and felt warm sunlight shining on her face. A peaceful, happy feeling swelled inside her. She felt that way a lot lately.
She and her family were traveling with a group visiting some Church history sites. She had felt the Spirit in the Sacred Grove, at the Hill Cumorah, and now here in what was once called Harmony, Pennsylvania.
“I believe what happened here,” she thought, “but I have a hard time imagining it.” The word priesthood reminded her of her brother passing the sacrament or Dad giving her a blessing, not angels appearing.
As she climbed back into the car, she took one last glance toward the peaceful river and tried to picture the glorious event that had occurred. But it seemed like too much for her mind to grasp.
A week later, the tour group stayed at a campground with a fun playground. Sharon enjoyed running around after a long day in the car, and she hardly noticed when fireflies started coming out.
“It’s getting dark. We should probably go in soon,” her friend Emily said. “Come push me on the swing one more time.”
Sharon agreed. As Emily gained momentum, Sharon pushed harder. “Faster!” Emily giggled.
Suddenly, Emily’s little sister Darcy darted through the darkness—right into Emily’s path. Emily’s feet rammed into Darcy, and she crumpled to the ground.
Emily leaped from the swing and fell beside her motionless sister. “Darcy! Darcy! Are you OK?”
Darcy didn’t respond. She looked like a limp potato sack lying on the ground.
Sharon’s heart pumped wildly as she tried not to panic. “Stay here!” she told Emily. “I’ll go get help.”
Sharon found Emily’s dad, and they ran back to the swings. Sharon breathed with relief as Darcy opened her eyes and whimpered. Then Darcy clutched her arm and screamed in pain.
“Emily, please go tell Uncle Steve that we need to give Darcy a blessing,” Emily’s dad said. He scooped Darcy into his arms and hurried toward their campsite.
Emily grabbed Sharon’s arm. “Come with me!”
Sharon swallowed the lump in her throat as they explained to Emily’s uncle what had happened. It scared her to see adults acting so worried. The three hurried back to Emily’s campsite, Sharon silently praying that Darcy would be OK.
When they stepped inside the dimly lit trailer, Sharon saw Darcy lying calmly on the bed. A familiar, peaceful feeling came over her as Emily’s dad whispered in Darcy’s ear, “Uncle Steve and I are going to give you a blessing.”
Sharon folded her arms and closed her eyes while the men placed their hands on Darcy’s head. As she listened to the reverent words, a warm feeling grew stronger and stronger until she was tempted to open her eyes and peek. It felt as though warm sunlight were filling the room.
She remembered standing on the banks of the Susquehanna River the week before, sunlight shining through the trees. She remembered the bronze statue of John the Baptist, Joseph, and Oliver, and suddenly she understood what had happened there. Though she couldn’t see angels, she felt heaven’s power streaming into the room.
Her heart burst with joy as tears trickled down her cheeks. The priesthood wasn’t just something her brother used in church to pass the sacrament. It wasn’t just something that helped her dad say comforting words whenever he gave her a blessing. It was Heavenly Father’s glorious power to lead, bless, serve, and perform miracles—all restored through a humble latter-day prophet.
The sacred places Sharon had visited flashed through her mind, including Carthage Jail, where the Prophet Joseph had been martyred. She cried harder as she realized that Joseph Smith had sacrificed everything so that heaven’s power could be on earth today.
Emily’s dad said, “Amen,” and Sharon opened her eyes. She smiled to see she wasn’t the only one wiping away tears. Everyone else had felt the power, too.
The next day as Sharon and her family ate breakfast at the picnic table, Emily walked over to their campsite.
“Good morning, Emily,” Sharon’s mom greeted her.
“How’s Darcy?” Sharon’s dad asked. Sharon had told her parents all about what had happened.
Emily’s eyes danced. “My parents took her to the hospital to make sure she was OK, and do you know what the doctor said?”
Sharon shook her head.
“He looked at her arm and said that it was broken, but the X-rays proved him wrong. He said he’d never seen bruising like that without a broken bone, and he couldn’t understand why hers wasn’t broken.” Emily smiled knowingly.
Sharon grinned back, grateful that she understood why. It all went back to a miraculous event that had happened on the banks of the Susquehanna River—the day the priesthood was restored.

I move from these three doctrinal ideas to a personal story that illustrates a time in my life when I learned of the inadequacy of my spiritual mindedness.

I was a freshman at Brigham Young University. My friend Ken and I had built a simple two-man kayak out of plywood ribs and covered it with canvas that we then waterproofed. It was a crude affair, but it worked, and it matched our level of knowledge concerning river running. We didn't know much.

We decided that spring to run the Provo River from the mouth of the canyon to Utah Lake. As we put in, there seemed to be plenty of water, maybe too much, I thought , but, of course, didn't want to say so. A ways down the river, we hit a shallow spot. Our kayak hung up on the bottom. We turned sideways and started to roll. We did manage to get out, but in the process I dropped my paddle. It floated away, and we never found it.

We were stuck. I held the boat against the powerful cold current about knee deep while Ken, using his paddle to steady himself explored all around us to see if we could get to shore.

As he explored down stream, I though it would be great fun and a way to relive tension to pick a rock from the bottom on the river with the hand that wasn't holding the kayak, throw it at Ken and splash him. After the first splash he tried to swing and hit the water back at me with the paddle. I pick up another rock and since he was in a baseball like swinging stance, I threw him a strike. He swung and hit it. The rock didn't go anywhere, but half the paddle did. We had broken the other paddle. We were, literally, up the creek without a paddle.

To our credit perhaps, we bowed in prayer and offered a petition for help. We were stuck, and we knew it.

I pause in this narrative to tell you a little about my mental state. I had been in some tight places rock climbing, but not what I would call real trouble. It seemed that every year people drowned in Provo River. The spring run off was very cold and the pressure of its flow against us very strong. We couldn't stand against it long and we were in an out-of-the-way part of the river. Not many people came there. One or both of us could easily fall prey to the power of the river.

I consciously remember saying in my mind, "I know that I should have faith in Jesus Christ. He could help me. Help us get out of here, help us to transform our fear into action. And I don't have that kind of relationship with him. I lack faith. I have never needed him like I need him now, and I am afraid." It was clear that we were in trouble with the river, but I realized as I never had before that I was in trouble with my spiritual preparedness. I was weighed in the balance of the swift current, and I was found wanting. And I sensed keenly my spiritual inadequacy. I wanted to be able to call upon the powers of heaven and receive comfort and deliverance.

It seemed that we were left alone long enough to get really scared and sense our dependence on Heavenly Father.

A young man came along the road skirting the river, fishing pole in hand. He was puzzled to see us standing in the middle of the river with a kayak but with no paddles. On each end of the kayak we had a rope for tying up; we took the one off and tied it to the other rope. The fisherman cast us his line; we hooked the line to the end of the rope. By moving the craft as close as we could toward the shore into the deep, fast water, he could grab the end of the rope. Hanging precariously close to the river, he held on. We held on to the side of the boat, and the current swung us against the shore where we scrambled up and drew the kayak after us.

I doubt that when that young man, who I think I recall said he was a BYU student, set out fishing that day, he thought about being spiritually minded, but I am glad he came along that road at that time. I believe he was led.

This was especially true for Tevita Lei, a student at Saineha High School in Vava’u, Tonga.
When his family’s home was completely destroyed by fire, they lost everything. The next day, his fellow classmates got together and discussed what the family needed to start putting their world back together.
Mele’ana Mafi teaches computer science at the school, which is operated by The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. She remembers the day she looked around her classroom and noticed someone missing. Students confirmed that Tevita Lei was not there.
The teacher asked, “Why is he not here?”
A soft voice in the back said, “His house burned down last week.”
“Our simple discussions led everyone to think outside the box,” Mele’ana recalls.
“Students started volunteering to donate things for the most urgent needs, such as uniforms, school materials, a new school bag. The rest of the students volunteered to donate other things such as food, clothes and blankets.”
Mele’ana then went to the school principal, Motuliki Fakatava, to tell him about the situation and to see if he could provide transportation for the class members to deliver the items they had collected. He readily agreed.
The next day, all the members of Tevita’s computer class got on a school bus during home room time and went to see what was left of his home. In addition to Motuliki’s items, the students brought along all that they had managed to collect including some essentials such as rice, flour, sugar, beans and crackers.
They found Tevita and his father there by themselves amongst the charred remains of their home.
“I told his father the purpose of our visit and asked permission to do a short devotional service with them,” Mele’ana says.
“When we started to sing ‘We thank thee, O God, for a Prophet,’ we truly felt the spirit present and confirmed God’s love for His children. The sincerity of the prayer offered truly touched our hearts and put everyone in tears.”
She continued: “I was so broken hearted when we arrived to see Tevita and his father outside trying to clean up the ashes and burned remains of their home. I knew in my heart that this was the right thing for us to do.”
Some of the students shared their feelings about their visit to Tevita and his dad:
“Last night I was confused about what I should take to give the family. It came to my mind that it doesn’t matter if it is something small, big, cheap or expensive, but that you tried your best to help. It shows Tevita’s family that this is not the end and that the good Lord loves them. I saw the smiles on their faces, and it reminded me of my family.”
“I hope that what we gave them was a big help to their family. By helping others, we learn to love them as ourselves. I am grateful, and may God bless their family.”
“As we arrived, I just imagined myself in the position that he is in, with such difficulty and struggling to survive. It touched me most when his father said that he is grateful that Tevita has family out of his actual family, meaning us, his computer classmates.”
“Seeing my classmates’ willingness to help him really touched my heart. It showed the love of a family we had in our class. No matter how big our help was to Tevita Lei, that didn’t matter, but what mattered was that our classmates were willing to give a helping hand to our dearest brother. We will never leave anyone behind.”
“I know that Tevita’s dad was so excited and grateful for what we have been able to do. He said that now he can feel that ‘there is a family for his son that still cares about him.’ Everyone in this life is my family.”
“The moment I saw this brother, my heart and soul filled with the spirit of love. I appreciated my teacher for the great spirit that inspired us as a computer class to visit our beloved classmate Ti Lei. I felt the love that Jesus had for His children.”
Mele’ana summarized her thoughts about this experience: “I am grateful for the opportunity to reach out with our class to Tevita. What has happened this morning was a great start of our day. The acts of kindness, working together, love, empathy, and service, does reflect who they really are. They are sons and daughters of Heavenly Father.”
“As I came back to my classroom and reflected on my students and the goodness and mercy of God for His children, the scripture in Alma 26:37 (The Book of Mormon: Another Testament of Jesus Christ) came to mind:
“Now my brethren, we see that God is mindful of every people, whatsoever land they may be in; yea, he numbereth his people, and his bowels of mercy are over all the earth. Now this is my joy, and my great thanksgiving; yea, and I will give thanks unto my God forever.”

When Uncle Palacios announced he had chosen Simon to live in Caracas with him, the Bolivar children looked hopelessly at each other. They knew now that other relatives would take Simon’s older brother and his two sisters. It was bad enough to be separated from each other, but they did not want to leave the white-pillared mansion in the beautiful Aragua Valley, Venezuela, that had always been their home.
Father had died when Simon was only six, but his mother had insisted that the children stay together on the large estate, where its cocoa trees, herds of cattle, and copper mines were taken care of by the thousands of slaves owned by the family. Now, three years later, their mother was dead too, and so the relatives had met to decide who should be responsible for each child.
The house of Uncle Palacios was stiff and formal, and the strictness of the cowled monks who came to teach Simon there was frightening.
Simon missed the river, filled with fish, that flowed through the green valley of his home. He missed the sloping hills and the cool little summer-houses hidden among the trees where he had played. But sometimes it seemed to him that more than anything else he missed having a horse and the freedom to ride it that he had enjoyed all his life.
Uncle Palacios was good to Simon and grieved over the unhappiness of his rich and lonely little nephew. So after a year or two he dismissed the stern monks and hired an exciting young man, Rodriguez Carreno, to live at the house and be a companion and a teacher to Simon.
Rodriguez threw away the dull books Simon had been studying and announced that together they would learn about life and living. He was quick to see the sparkle of interest on the boy’s face, and he caught the longing in Simon’s voice when he talked of the home and horses he had had to leave. The next day the new teacher said, “Among other subjects, I intend to teach you something about the anatomy of animals. We will include the horse. Therefore, we must have a horse stabled in the garden to study and to ride.”
Simon learned much from Rodriguez. He was shocked and hurt when he was told that, in spite of the Bolivar family’s wealth and their high place in Venezuelan society, they were looked down on by their Spanish rulers because they were people of native birth, even though they were of European descent.
He found this to be true when at sixteen he went to live with some of his wealthy and titled relatives in Madrid, Spain. One morning very early, as he was riding his horse on the hills outside of Madrid, he was surrounded by mounted police who told him that because he was a Creole, he would not be allowed to wear his costly jewels and fine clothing.
Simon left Madrid a few days later and went to France. There he was called Prince Bolivar by his friends, who with him enjoyed parties and pleasure. His old companion-teacher Rodriguez expressed disapproval of the way his former student was living and insisted that he and Simon go on a walking tour through Italy. They talked of many things as they walked—of governments, the French revolution, the needs of people, and the ideals of freedom.
One day they stopped to rest on the green hillside overlooking the ancient city of Rome. Simon Bolivar suddenly stood up, stretched out his arms, and said in a solemn voice, “On my life and honor I promise most faithfully not to rest until I have freed America of her tyrants.”
Simon gave up his carefree ways and returned to Venezuela.
The beautiful Bolivar estate outside of Caracas had been taken over by the government, and Simon was left without money or friends. But he had a magnetic personality and soon was able to persuade others to join him in the cause of freedom.
He gathered around him men of various nationalities, soldiers who had only ragged uniforms and odd bits and pieces of civilian clothing to wear. Their powder and bullet pouches were roughly made out of cattle hide, and their muskets and bayonets were almost worn out. Most of the men were bareheaded; on their feet they wore clumsy leather sandals. The discomfort of the humid heat of the jungles through which they traveled was equaled only by the shivering cold of the high Andes Mountains, where the half-frozen and hungry men gasped with exhaustion as they labored across the volcanic peaks and the mighty glaciers.
They met defeats that would have seemed complete disaster to most armies, but Simon Bolivar would somehow manage to hold his men together, to attract others to join them, and to almost miraculously secure funds. Because of his brilliance and his dedication, he was able to lead the army to startling and unbelievable victories. These men knew that they had to defeat the Spanish forces or die, and they did not want to die—nor to let their country remain in bondage.
Because of personal sacrifices and in spite of unbelievable odds, Bolivar’s army won independence for Venezuela and Colombia. On October 3, 1821, Simon became president of Colombia.
By the time he was forty-three many of his dreams had become glorious realities when he was also named president of Venezuela, Ecuador, and Peru. Soon afterward he learned that certain provinces in Peru wanted to break away from the rest of the country, so arrangements were made for them to do so, and Simon Bolivar became president of these united provinces too. They were named Bolivia in his honor.
Although there were many problems, heavy responsibilities, and much heartache, Simon never deviated from the vow he made to his old teacher on the hills above Rome. Twenty years later Rodriguez received a letter of appreciation:
“You may have followed with curiosity my steps in the path you traced out for me. You opened my heart to freedom and justice. You would hardly believe how deeply your teachings are graven on my heart.”

Later, as I sat in sacrament meeting thinking about the dreams, I silently prayed for guidance that I might be able to find the information necessary to do my Choctaw ancestors’ temple work. I felt impressed to acquire a copy of a record I had seen some twenty years earlier at the National Archives in Washington, D.C. It was the Choctaw-Armstrong Roll of 1831, and it contained records of the Choctaw before their trek over the “Trail of Tears” to Oklahoma. This census had on record some 3,000 heads of families and represented about 17,000 people. I had photocopied the pages from it that dealt with my ancestor named Betsy.
I wrote to the National Archives, requesting a microfilm copy of the entire record. I also contacted the Church Family History Library in Salt Lake City, Utah, and asked whether temple work could be done for people listed on the record. I then asked for and obtained permission to help do name extraction work on the Choctaw-Armstrong Roll.
I also went to Philadelphia, Mississippi, as I had been prompted. There, on the Choctaw reservation, I learned the story of the Nanah-weya. Archaeologists think that the Choctaw are probably of Mayan descent—from Central America—because their language, customs, and culture are similar to those of the Mayans. Choctaw legends tell of their migration from their old lands, where they had been persecuted. A prophet had told them of a land waiting for them, where they would be safe. Two brothers, Chataw and Chickasaw, led the people out of the old land.
The people followed the “leaning pole,” a sacred pole placed in front of the leaders’ camp each night. Some legends say that a sacred medicine bag was tied to the pole. Each morning, the people traveled in the direction the pole leaned. They carried their ancestors’ bones with them.
When they reached the area that is now Northern Mississippi, there was a tremendous rainstorm. The people thought that in the morning they would find the sacred pole flat on the ground because of the rain. Instead, the pole stood straight, its shaft buried deep in the mud.
That is where the people stayed. In the new land they held a great council to decide what to do with their ancestors’ bones. The decision they made was to build a large mound and bury them there. This mound, called the Nanah-weya, means “leaning mountain,” or “mother mound.”
I asked a Choctaw from Oklahoma if he knew the meaning of the word Nanah-ku-chi. He told me that it means “to bring out of the mountain.”
“You have said it just the way the Choctaw would say it,” he told me. “Nanah means mountain; Ku-chi means to bring forth.” I concluded that the words I had heard must have meant that the names of the Choctaw dead should be brought out of obscurity so that the Choctaws’ temple work should be completed.
My trip to Mississippi bore great fruit. There, in a courthouse, a woman gave my aunt and me a copy of some family records. Later, when I read through it, I was amazed. Before, I had had only three names on that particular family. Now I had more than sixty pages of information! There, at the beginning of the line, was the name of Ikenaby, an Indian chief who had lived during the early 1800s and who had married a white woman by the name of Kearney.
I continued to help with the work on the Choctaw-Armstrong Roll. Lorraine Nievar of Ardmore, Oklahoma, whose ancestors are Choctaw and French, also helped with name extraction work on the record. When the work was complete, 1,500 names from the record were sent to the temple in Dallas, Texas, so that Sister Nievar and her family could help perform their ancestors’ temple work. Another 1,500 names were sent to the Logan Utah Temple, where many of my friends and neighbors have helped with the work.
I believe that many members of the Choctaw Nation who lived during the early 1800s have accepted the temple work completed in their behalf. As I participated in baptisms for the dead one Saturday morning, I felt their gratitude. During one particular temple session, I was asked to speak to the members of a Logan ward. While we sat together in the temple’s chapel, I told them the story behind the names they carried that night. I remember that temple session as one of the most sacred I ever attended.
I recall feeling a vivid sense of light and joy at one particular point in the session. I thought of my son’s dream. My friends and neighbors were now giving the “bread of life” to those who had asked for it. I again felt that those whose work we were performing, though unseen, were grateful for the opportunity to accept the gospel. Though they had once walked the “Trail of Tears,” now they could walk the straight and narrow path of joy that leads to eternal life.
Many native American records have been compiled by various organizations. It is now possible to do more temple work for native American ancestors than ever before; many of them are eager to receive the saving ordinances of the gospel.
I learned just how eager they were one spring day while driving to Salt Lake City to talk with a woman there. Suddenly, I felt that I could hear the sound of drums beating. I seemed to see an Indian woman, dressed in an oversize plaid shirt, a Navajo skirt, and a silver medallion belt. The seat beside me was empty, but I could sense her presence.
When I arrived in Salt Lake City, I felt prompted to ask the woman with whom I had the appointment whether she had any Indian ancestors. But Carolyn doesn’t look Indian; she’s blonde and blue-eyed, I thought to myself. She’ll think I’m crazy.
When I met Carolyn in her office, the prompting for me to ask was just as strong as it had been in the car. So I asked if she had Indian ancestors.
“Yes,” she said. “My grandmother was Cherokee and was adopted by the Navajo.” She told me about how her “Granny” had worked as a nurse for many years with the Navajo in Arizona, Oklahoma, New Mexico, and Texas. Later, I asked Carolyn about the clothing her grandmother had worn, and she described to me the clothing I had seen the woman wearing.
I told Carolyn about the temple work we had done for the Choctaw. She was thrilled about the possibility of doing the same work for the Cherokee. The Cherokee were the second nation to walk the “Trail of Tears”; there is a record of the tribe in its entirety from 1835—before they had settled in Oklahoma. Carolyn is now doing extraction work on that record, preparing names for the temple.
I know that my Choctaw ancestors desired the blessings of the gospel. My love for my ancestors has grown as I have learned about them. Though they suffered great hardship in mortality, they are now receiving the great blessings of the temple.

Hans Eduardo Nieto, a nine-year-old boy living in Guayaquil, Ecuador, has been a missionary since he was born.
Hans’s family is made up of Hans and his mother. When he was born, his mother was not a member of the Church. But the family she worked for as a housemaid were Latter-day Saints. They asked if they could take the baby to church to receive a blessing.
Although Hans’s mother didn’t want to go, she allowed them to take her baby for the blessing. Hans has attended church ever since. Wherever he and his mother lived, she found members to take him to church.

Kali walked into the lunchroom and looked around. All the other kids were running straight to their friends and gathering at tables. The room was noisy with excited voices and happy laughter. It was only the second day of school, but it seemed like everyone had someone to sit with but Kali.
She squeezed the handle of her lunchbox and walked to one of the tables. “Can I sit by you?” Kali asked.
A girl with a long, brown braid looked up. She huffed and shook her head. “No. It’s taken,” she said.
“OK.” Kali moved to another empty seat and set down her lunchbox.
“You can’t sit here! I’m saving that seat,” a boy in a green-striped shirt said. He pushed Kali’s lunchbox onto the floor. His friends all laughed.
Kali bent down and picked up her lunchbox again. She walked across the lunchroom and sat at an empty table. She saw someone from her neighborhood and tried to wave, but he looked the other way. Kali frowned. Why didn’t anyone want to be her friend?
Kali looked down at her food. She didn’t feel like eating anymore. She wiped her eyes, closed her lunchbox, and walked outside.
Everyone was already playing with their friends. Kali sat by herself on a bench and watched the other kids having fun without her. Then Kali noticed a boy about her age sitting alone on the grass. He was wearing a stained yellow shirt, and his hair stood up in the back.
Kali looked away. She saw a group of girls from her class playing foursquare. She wished they would invite her to play with them.
Kali looked at the boy again. His head was hanging down, and he was picking the grass around his feet. Kali remembered something Mom sometimes said: Look for the kids who are lonely.
Kali frowned. She was lonely too. Nobody was trying to be her friend!
But then Kali thought about when she got baptized last year. She promised to listen to the Holy Ghost. Maybe the Holy Ghost was helping her remember what Mom told her. Maybe the Holy Ghost was trying to tell her to play with the boy in the yellow shirt.
Kali sighed and got to her feet. A warm feeling spread in her heart. She walked over and sat next to the boy in the grass.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi,” he mumbled back.
“What’s your favorite color?”
“Um … green.”
“That’s cool. I like pink,” said Kali. “Do you have a favorite animal?”
The boy sat up a little straighter and looked at her. “Yeah. I really like dinosaurs.”
“Oh, me too. My favorite is a triceratops.”
The boy smiled.
Then the bell rang. Kali got to her feet and waved goodbye to the boy. She smiled as she walked back to her classroom alone. She might not have a best friend, but she felt happy knowing she had made someone else’s recess a little better.

The reality of this thought is delightfully portrayed in the closing lines of the well-known musical Camelot. King Arthur’s Round Table has been destroyed by the jealousies of men, the infidelity of a queen, and the appearance in the present of a mistake from the past, even Mordred. Deprived of his dream, King Arthur and his forces prepare to meet the armies of Lancelot. All he held dear is gone; disillusionment has darkened into despair.
Suddenly, however, there appears a stowaway—the young boy Tom of Warwick. Filled with the hope of youth, he tells the king he has come to help him fight the mighty battle. He reveals his intention to become a knight. Under the questioning of Arthur, Tom declares his knowledge of the Round Table. He repeats the familiar goals: “Might for right! Right for right! Justice for all!”
A look of renewed confidence spreads across King Arthur’s face. All is not lost. To the boy he repeats the goals and glory of Camelot. Then he formally knights him “Sir Tom of Warwick.” Thus commissioned to depart the battlefield, to return to England, to renew the dream of Camelot, to grow up and to grow old, Sir Tom places aside the weapons of war; and armed with the tenets of truth, he hears his monarch command, “Run, boy, run!” A boy had been spared, an idea safeguarded, a hope renewed. (Alan J. Lerner, Camelot, New York: Random House, 1961, p. 115.)

One time we had Elder Marvin J. Ashton, of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles come and speak. I remember exactly where I was seated in the auditorium. I remember him saying something like the following, “I know some of you young men have a list somewhere of what kind of a women you would like to marry. You go on a date, and you return from the date, you consult your list and if she misses one point from your list, she will never be invited to another date with you.” In his concluding remarks he invited us to get rid of the list. Those words were directed at me. We laughed when he first gave that advice, but later that evening I reflected on that counsel given. I got rid of my list. Ever since I have always welcomed and tried to act on the counsel given by those we sustain as prophets, seers, and revelators.

Photograph provided by the author
When President Russell M. Nelson described a home-centered Church during general conference in 2018, and when the Children and Youth program was announced in 2019, our family was excited.
As 2020 approached, however, we met a significant obstacle. Beginning in January, I had to leave home for a six-month deployment. I knew that my wife and I had a sacred responsibility to center gospel learning in our home for our five children, but I wondered how I could do my part while away from home.
Our children began brainstorming goals that would help them increase “in wisdom and stature, and in favour with God and man” (Luke 2:52), just as the Savior did. My eight-year-old daughter told me one of her goals was to learn to cook with Daddy. With a broken heart, I had to redirect her goal toward something she could do for a while without my help. My sons wanted to become better at basketball and running—two things we love to do together. I encouraged them in their goal, knowing I would miss opportunities to help them. As a family, we prepared the best we could.
Family separation is always a trial, but the combination of technology and the direction of a living prophet allowed me to take part in our family’s gospel learning after all.
We felt united, even when we were 10 time zones apart, as we studied Come, Follow Me. When time allowed, I would get on an early-morning video chat during my family’s evening scripture study and talk about the Book of Mormon chapters we had been studying. Over the phone, I would talk to my children about the Book of Mormon videos, and my wife and I would discuss ideas for family home evening.
Wanting to help my children with Children and Youth, I set my own goals and sent the children handwritten notes every week sharing my progress and asking them about their goals. Through regular phone calls, I could even join in family prayer at times.
During my separation from my family, I quickly saw the blessings of following the guidance of the prophet. I also found that creating a home of gospel learning is possible even when I was half a world away!

Years ago, while conducting a class discussion on stewardship, something remarkable happened. I posed the question, “Who captains your stewardship?” After considerable open, thoughtful, and sometimes invigorating discussion the class was clearly divided. Some answered “the Savior” while others countered by saying, “We are the captains” of our stewardship. The class-time ended without a clear resolution to the question.

The next morning as I entered my office I noticed on my desk a picture painted by Warner E. Sallman, entitled Christ the Pilot. On the back of the picture, one of my students wrote a note that read: “Brother Price, who captains my stewardship? Hopefully it is as the picture indicates.”

Though I had seen the picture many times, it was at that moment that insights flowed into my mind and soul as never before. A thoughtful student’s initiative and the Spirit of the Lord taught me that day. For the next few hours I recorded my thoughts, observation, feeling, scriptures and words of living prophets on the subject of stewardship, while gazing at this picture.

Let us review Heth’s observations and add a few from other students. We note that the:
1. Conditions are stormy, not unlike life
2. The speck of blue sky is a ray of hope
3. The Savior is near
4. He is showing (pointing) the way
5. The young man is attentive and alert
6. He appears calm and confident
7. The young man’s hands are on the wheel
8. The Savior’s hand is placed gently on the young man’s shoulder.
The young man seems to understand his stewardship role. He seems willing to receive divine guidance. With our hands on the wheel of stewardship, clearly, we are responsible for what happens.

As we look at this picture, our role as stewards becomes apparent, and our relationship to the savior is defined.

Elder Bednar highlights both “learning by experience” and “learning by faith”. We all know what it means to learn by experience. I’m sure we’ve each had situations where what we learned by experience was both surprising and impactful. For me, learning to swim was just such an experience. When I was approaching my twelfth birthday, my mom decided that I needed to learn to swim, since my dad was the Scoutmaster and I would obviously need that skill to become an Eagle Scout. She enrolled me in a swimming class in the community.

I still remember my nervousness when she dropped me off for my first class. The teacher, a rather gruff track coach, lined us all up at the deep end of the pool and then walked along behind us, pushing us in one by one. I thought I was going to drown that night. I was angry and frustrated but also frightened, and intent on quitting the class. But my mother didn’t believe in quitting, and so I returned. Eventually, I became good enough to make the high school swim team and then, through continued experience, practice and learning, I made the University swim team. Later on, I became a swimming instructor at a Scout Camp and taught each of my five children how to swim. Even now, what I learned by experience about swimming allows me to enjoy exercising several mornings a week in our campus pool.

Another opportunity to learn by experience did not turn out quite as well. From about age ten until about age twelve, my mother had me enrolled in weekly piano lessons. Like many kids that age, I would much rather have been out playing instead of practicing the piano each day. As a result, I tended to complain often about how much I wasn’t cut out for the piano. Finally, one day in exasperation, my mother said that if I would take piano until my 12th birthday, it could then be my decision as to whether I continued or not. Because I’d spent so much time complaining, I did quit piano when I turned twelve. I still recall feeling bad about that decision because I was starting to enjoy the piano. But I felt like I’d already set the course to leave piano and didn’t have the courage to reverse my decision. That was the end of my piano learning.

I have a friend who grew up in a less-active Latter-day Saint family. When he was a young adult, he too “came to himself” and decided to prepare for a mission.

He became an excellent missionary. On his last day before returning home, the mission president interviewed him and asked him to bear his testimony. He did so, and after a tearful embrace, the president said, “Elder, you could forget or deny everything you have just testified of in a matter of months if you do not continue to do the things that built your testimony in the first place.”

My friend later told me that he has prayed and read the scriptures daily since he returned from his mission. Being constantly “nourished by the good word of God” has kept him “in the right way.”12

Chris and Byron shared everything—their toys, their clothes, their books, their bedroom, and even their colds.
“I’m bored,” sniffed Chris. “I wish we could go outside.”
“There’s nothing to do in the house,” Byron said, coughing.
“Nothing at all,” Chris agreed, “except ride my horse.”
“You don’t have a horse,” Byron declared.
Chris wiped his nose. “I do so.”
“Prove it!”
Chris opened the door to their bedroom and pointed. “See?”
Byron blinked his eyes hard. “There’s nothing there but our bunk beds.” He snorted and started to turn away.
Chris walked over to the bunk beds and said, “Good horse,” as he gently patted one of the headboards.
Byron stopped and stared at the beds.
“Want to ride him?” Chris asked. “Or are you afraid he’ll buck you off?”
Byron stepped a little closer. “He’s your horse. You go first.”
Chris slowly climbed up the ladder and sat on the bed very carefully. He gripped the bedpost and whispered, “Giddy-up, horse.”
Nothing happened. He looked down at Byron.
“Try it again,” Byron urged.
“Giddy-up, horse,” Chris said louder.
Still nothing happened.
“Wait a minute,” Byron said. He lay on the bottom bed and lifted his legs up until his feet were touching the underside of the top bunk. “Now try kicking the horse,” he suggested.
Chris put one foot over the side and kicked the side rail. “Giddy-up, horse!” he yelled. With a little help from Byron’s feet, the mattress bucked up and down. “Yippee! Wahoo!” Chris bellowed.
Suddenly Mom appeared in the doorway. “Byron! Chris! Stop that right now before you break your beds,” she scolded, then disappeared back into the kitchen.
Chris swung his legs over the side. “What do you think?”
Byron sneezed, wiped his nose, and stood there staring at the beds for a long time. “I don’t think you have a horse,” he finally said. “What you have is a tree house in the middle of a dark, scary jungle.”
Chris screeched, “Look out behind you! There’s a tiger!”
Byron scampered up the ladder. “Where?”
Chris pointed his finger at Cat, who was sitting in the corner, busily licking his paws. Cat looked up at them with big, gleaming, hungry, yellow eyes.
“Should we shoot it?” Byron asked.
“No guns,” Chris reminded him.
Cat stretched, then stalked toward the bed.
“I don’t like the way he’s looking at us. Let’s get out of here before he decides to eat us.”
Byron pulled a long string out of his pocket and made a loop in one end.
“Here comes an elephant!” he shouted. “I’m going to capture it.” He swung the string over his head and neatly lassoed the bedpost. “Got it!”
The boys rode the big elephant away from the man-eating tiger, out of the jungle, and across the hot, white sands of the desert. The string slipped down in front of the bed and mysteriously came alive.
“Rattlesnake!” Chris exclaimed.
The elephant reared back, and the boys almost fell off. They had to hang on tightly while the elephant galloped past the rattlesnake.
“Whew! That was close,” Chris said.
Soon they came to a big lake.
“Let’s leave the elephant here and take a boat across the lake,” Byron suggested.
“Good idea,” Chris agreed. “I’ll go out on deck and steer the boat out of the harbor. You hoist the anchor.”
The boat hadn’t gone very far before it ran into a big storm. Hundred-foot waves crashed onto the boat and tossed the boys back and forth.
“Better head for port,” Chris shouted down to Byron.
When they were safely anchored in the harbor, Byron suggested that they take an airplane back home and get something to eat.
“Coming in for a landing,” Chris announced. “Check the landing gear.”
Byron learned over and looked under the bed. “There aren’t any wheels. Prepare to make a belly landing, and hope that the plane doesn’t explode.”
The plane skidded and jumped across the runway and came to a jerky stop.
“Everyone out before she goes up in flames!” Chris yelled. He and Byron bailed out just as the doorbell rang. They ran to open the door. It was George from across the street.
“Come outside and play,” George said.
“Can’t,” Chris sniffed. “We have colds.”
Byron coughed. “I wish we could go out,” he said. “There’s nothing to do in the house.”
“Nothing at all,” agreed Chris.

“Where did you get your name?” Elizabeth asked Jenny as they climbed to the fork in the branches of the old cherry tree and settled in to enjoy the spring sun shining through the leaves.
Jenny had never thought about where her name came from. “I don’t know,” she finally said. “I guess from my mom and dad.”
“No—I mean, where did they get it from to give it to you?”
“Where did they get if from?” Jenny repeated, puzzled.
“Well, Mother said that they named me Elizabeth and hoped that I’d be as strong and courageous as my great-great-great- grandmother Elizabeth. She crossed the plains with a covered wagon, and she walked most of the way and never complained a bit.”
Jenny smiled, but something in the way Elizabeth talked about her grandmother Elizabeth made Jenny a little envious.
“And she got married when she was seventeen,” Elizabeth went on enthusiastically, “and she had nine children. Four of them died when they were little, but she kept on going. She made hats to earn money while her husband served a mission. I want to be just like her: strong and valiant and faithful and courageous and wonderful.”
“Is that all?” Jenny laughed good-naturedly.
“Are you sure you’re not named after one of your ancestors?” Elizabeth queried her friend. “Maybe a famous queen named Jennifer or something? We could have magnificent times pretending to be the women we’re named for.”
“Nope,” Jenny said a little sadly. “I’m not named after anyone. I’m just me.”
“Well, ask your mother. Maybe she’s just never told you.” Elizabeth made it sound as though you weren’t important if you weren’t named after someone else.
“I could pretend that I was named after someone,” Jenny said, wishing that she could change the subject.
“It wouldn’t be the same,” Elizabeth persisted. “Somehow when you’re named after a true blood relative, it makes all the difference in the world.” Elizabeth leaned closer and whispered, “It makes pretending seem almost real.”
Jenny smiled. Sometimes Elizabeth’s dramatic ways made Jenny feel as if they were on television or something, not just friends talking to each other.
“Jen—ny! Jen—ny!” her mother called from the back door. “Time for lunch.”
“I have to go now,” Jenny said, “but I’ll see you right after lunch.” She climbed down from the cherry tree and ran into the house.
Mother was at the sink, filling water glasses with one hand and holding Joey, who was crying, with the other. Jenny was still thinking about what Elizabeth had said. “Why did you name me Jenny?” she asked.
Mother looked up startled. “Because we liked the name. Don’t you?”
“Yes. But why Jenny and not Ann or Margaret or some other name?”
Joey cried louder and hit one of the glasses with his two-year-old fist, sending water spraying across the kitchen.
“Joey!” Mother cried and began wiping up the water while trying to calm Joey down.
Jenny took Joey from her mother and sat down. But she couldn’t quit thinking about her name. Why couldn’t I have been named after some fantastic, wonderful woman I could tell stories about? She hardly noticed her mother taking Joey for his nap or even the taste of her sandwich. Why don’t I have the name of someone I can dream about and try to be like?
“Is anybody in there?” Mother put her nose next to Jenny’s and peered into her eyes and laughed.
Jenny laughed too. “I was just thinking.”
“I could tell,” Mother said. “But what were you thinking so hard about?”
“My name. Why am I just Jenny and not Jenny named after some other Jenny?”
“What?” Mother looked even more puzzled, so Jenny started from the beginning and told her everything.
“I can see why Elizabeth likes being named after her great-great-great-grandmother. She must have been a wonderful woman. But you do have someone wonderful whom you can try to be just like.”
“I do?”
“We all do. Let me show you.” Mother got her scriptures, then sat by Jenny and opened them to section 20 of the Doctrine and Covenants. “Read this,” she said, pointing to verse 77 [D&C 20:77].
Jenny quickly read it. “That’s the sacrament prayer on the bread,” she said.
“What does that have to do with me being named after someone wonderful?”
“Do you remember when you were baptized and Dad and I told you about the covenants that you were making?”
“Yes. You said that taking the sacrament each week was to remind us to keep those promises. But I still don’t understand. …”
“Read this part of the verse again,” Mother told her, “starting with the second ‘O God, the Eternal Father.’”
Jenny found the words, “‘… that they are willing to take upon them the name of thy Son’”—Jenny stopped and read it again—“‘that they are willing to take upon them the name of thy Son.’”
“When we take the sacrament,” Mother explained, “and have been baptized as members of His church, we promise the Lord that we are willing to take His name upon us and to be called by His name.”
A warm tickle spread up Jenny’s back. “I do have someone I am named after!”
“Yes, but it is a very sacred thing. It is not something to pretend about in the cherry tree. It is not something to even talk about lightly with friends. But it is something that you should think about every time you partake of the sacrament—and every time you make an important decision! You are a member of Christ’s church. You should be like Him and live worthy of His name.”
“Wow! That’s a lot to think about.”
“It’s the most wonderful name you could ever hope to be called by. So don’t worry about Jenny being just a name. You have another name to live up to.”

When I told my biological father that I had become a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, I could not understand why he was so calm.
“Let me tell you a bit of my history,” he said.
My father, who had never talked to me about religion, told me that as a young man, he had attended the Church’s Cumorah Ward in Cape Town. He had played on the ward basketball team. He had made several close friends who were Latter-day Saints. One of his best friends was a missionary who, after his mission, was killed in Vietnam.
Had my dad not lost that friend, I think he would have joined the Church. His life would have been a whole different story. Years later, he still had great respect for Latter-day Saints. He didn’t practice any religion himself, but he absolutely supported my decision to join the Church.

As his love for the Maori people blossomed, Elder Cowley had even more of a desire to learn their language. Soon after rising, he would turn to his books. “I studied until noon and then had dinner and took a little rest,” he wrote. “The rest of the afternoon was also spent in studying.”5

Years later, Elder John Longden, an Assistant to the Twelve, told how Matthew, when he was only 17, was blessed to learn Maori. “He had only been out for two and one half months, and a district missionary conference was called. … Brother Cowley had an opportunity to speak. … He spoke for fifteen or twenty minutes in a fluent Maori tongue, so much so that it amazed the older Maori people in the congregation.

“After the meeting … the district president said … ‘How did you master this Maori language in such a short time?’ …

“Brother Cowley said, ‘When I came here I did not know one word of Maori, but I decided I was going to learn twenty new words each day, and I did. But when I came to put them together, I was not successful.’ By this time they were passing a cornfield, and Brother Cowley said, ‘You see that cornfield? I went out there, and I talked to the Lord, but before that, I fasted, and that night I tried again, but the words just didn’t seem to jell. So the next day I fasted again, and I went out into that cornfield, and I talked to the Lord again. I tried that night with a little more success. On the third day I fasted again, and I went out into the cornfield, and I talked to the Lord. … I told him that I had been called by this same authority to fill a mission, but if this was not the mission in which I was to serve to please make it known because I wanted to serve where I could accomplish the greatest amount of good.’

“That was the spirit of Brother Cowley. He said, ‘The next morning, as we knelt in family prayer in that Maori home, I was called upon by the head of the household to be mouth. I tried to speak English, and I could not. When I tried Maori, the words just flowed forth, and I knew that God had answered my prayer and this was where I should serve.’”6

Alan Howell, one of two young men holding the Aaronic Priesthood in the Alexandria Minnesota Branch, Fargo North Dakota Stake, is the first branch member to earn the Eagle award. Because there was no Scout program in the branch and the stake center was over 100 miles away, Alan joined a troop sponsored by the Calvary Lutheran Church. (His mother has been a den leader and his father is on the Scout committee of that troop.) To complete his Eagle project, Alan organized the Scouts in cleaning and repairing an old hockey rink for use by the community. The boys cleared weeds and debris, leveled ground, and repaired boards. The park association flooded the area for ice skating, and the facility was used free of charge throughout the winter. Alan serves as priesthood chorister in his branch and as a home teacher in a 43-mile district. He has received his On My Honor award and was elected into the Order of the Arrow. When asked if it was difficult to keep LDS standards in a non-LDS troop, he replied, “No, it wasn’t hard to do. You are always in good company when you’re with Scouts!”

While my family and I were saying family prayer, I felt something I had never felt before. I felt this feeling when my mom was praying for a visitor of ours to be guided and protected. The feeling was warm and good. I felt that Heavenly Father would help me in my life and that He loves me. Lately I’ve been tempted with bad thoughts about the Church, but after feeling this good feeling, I feel good. I feel I have my own testimony now. I know the Church is true. I know Joseph Smith translated the golden plates and that they are the words of Heavenly Father. I felt the Holy Ghost tell me that, and I know it’s true.
Alex M., age 7, Utah, USA

What if I left? When I first moved here, there were only two other young women in my branch. We became friends and I got to know them very well. But they stopped going to church.
One time I went to the temple, I saw the mission president. I told him about my friends and asked what I could do to help them return to the Church. He told me to stay where I was, be strong, and to pray for them.
Soon after that, I saw one of the girls, and I was so happy to see her. When I returned home that night, I prayed, and felt strongly that I definitely needed to stay right where I was and keep going to church, keep going to seminary, and keep being an example to my friends. What if I left and never came back and one of my friends returned to church? Who would be their friend and help them return? Things are easier when we do them together.
My name is Alyona, and I live in Kharkiv, Ukraine.