Gospel Story Finder

Eight-year-old Annie spent a night at her friend’s house. When they finally settled down, their conversation turned to serious things. Were the scriptures true? They each asked Heavenly Father in their prayers and felt a strong witness from the Spirit that, yes, the scriptures are true. The next day Annie told her mother about that witness of the Spirit and made a commitment to start regular scripture study.

I am a product of ministering from almost forty years ago. I had been baptized when I was nine years old, but my family had become less active during my twelfth year and so I drifted away. I started going to a different local church with my friend, who was my next-door neighbor. Over the next few years, life went on and after I married, I was contacted by my assigned Visiting Teachers. They called faithfully each month and over time set the foundation for Home Teachers to be assigned to our family. During those visits we never discussed the fact that I was not attending church; and my husband who knew very little about the Church and was not really interested in religion, didn’t feel pressured or uncomfortable accepting them into our home. We felt only genuine concern and friendship coming from them during their visits.
What struck us most was the kindness and joyful spirit that our Home and Visiting Teachers brought into our home. We developed a close relationship with one of our Home Teachers, who never ceased to offer his assistance when needed—inviting us into his home and in time, inviting me to a conference where Elder Thomas S. Monson (1927–2018), then of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, spoke.
During that conference it was as if Elder Monson knew what was in my heart and that he was speaking directly to me that day. I left with a strong desire to return to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and to become once again a part of His fold. A few months later, after the missionary discussions, my son was baptized, and we started to attend Church.

Sister Hazel Gotts, a widow who is a recent convert, was visited by Gerilynn Price and Mark Packard, the priests quorum group leader. They took her a cake. Mark reports, “I enjoyed talking with a person who has been around so long and seen so much. I think it’s a good way for the youth and older people to get to know and understand each other better. I had a very nice feeling when I left, knowing I had made someone happy, and I know she was very happy to know that someone cares about her. She enjoyed telling us about herself. I think it would be nice if the youth could establish a close relationship with the elderly people in the ward.”

His friends tell a story about something that happened during that time. Jake said, “He lost his leg in a basketball game.”
Steven Hultgren and Stephen Anderson started smiling and began to fill in the details. “Spence used to wear these long socks when we were on the freshman basketball team. We started playing teams from other high schools. No one on the other teams knew he had a prosthetic leg. When Spence was going up for a shot, some kid stepped on his foot right when Spence jumped. He jumped right out of his leg. You should have seen the expression on the other kid’s face. The ref was so surprised he didn’t even blow his whistle.”
Spence continued the story: “Everyone was staring at me. I slipped it back on, and since the referee hadn’t blown his whistle, I took off running down the court. Everyone on my team was rolling with laughter. I was laughing. The kid who was guarding me stepped back, and his eyes were huge. He didn’t know what to think.”
After that, Spence became much less self-conscious. The next time he was fitted for a new leg, his doctor offered him a green one. As Spence explained, “The doctor said that I’ve got something special. I’m like nobody else and I might as well show it off. I don’t think I’ll ever have a skin-colored leg again. Now I like the other colors. I have stickers and everything else on it.”

A young woman found that she had developed a spirit of criticism. She felt that this was hampering her spiritual growth. As she partook of the sacrament, she promised the Lord that she would not criticize anyone in her family for one week.

Each week she renewed her effort and asked for the Spirit to be with her. She overcame this weakness, though it was not easy and progress was slow. Her friends now use her as an example of one who never speaks unkindly of others.

Kevin watched as his older brother and sister got ready to go to the temple to do baptisms for the dead. Kevin wanted to go too.
Dad, can I go?
You’re not old enough yet, but I’m glad that you want to go. When you turn 12, you can go too.
Kevin helped his sister pack her bag. Then he helped his brother pick out a tie.
They left, and Kevin stayed home with Mom and his baby sister, Erin.
When Erin cried, Kevin gave her a teddy bear.
I know Heavenly Father is happy with the way you are serving Him today.
But I didn’t go to the temple.
Yes, but you helped your brother and sister get ready. And you are helping me take care of Erin.
When you help other people, you serve Heavenly Father.

I offer this as profound conviction born in the fiery crucible of life’s experience. Our second son, Adam, entered our lives when I was far away in the jungles and rice paddies of Vietnam. I still have the joyful telegram announcing his birth. Adam was a blue-eyed, blond-haired little fellow with an impish personality. As he turned five years old, Adam eagerly looked forward to starting school. Then a common childhood illness blanketed our southern California community, and Adam contracted the disease. Aside from concern for his comfort, we were not worried. He even seemed to have a light case. Suddenly one morning he did not arise from his bed; he was in a deep coma. We rushed him to the hospital, where he was placed in intensive care. A constant cadre of devoted doctors and nurses attended him. His mother and I maintained a ceaseless vigil in the waiting room nearby.

I telephoned our dear stake president, a childhood friend and now a beloved colleague in the Seventy, Elder Douglas L. Callister, and asked if he would come to the hospital and join me in giving Adam a priesthood blessing. Within minutes he was there. As we entered the small, cramped space where Adam’s lifeless little body lay, his bed surrounded by a bewildering maze of monitoring devices and other medical paraphernalia, the kind doctors and nurses reverently stepped back and folded their arms. As the familiar and comforting words of a priesthood blessing were spoken in faith and earnest pleading, I was overcome by a profound sense that Someone else was present. I was overwhelmed by the thought that if I should open my eyes I would see the Savior standing there! I was not the only one in that room who felt that Spirit. We learned quite by chance some months later that one of the nurses who was present that day was so touched that she sought out the missionaries and was baptized.

But notwithstanding, Adam made no improvement. He lingered between this life and the next for several more days as we pleaded with the Lord to return him to us. Finally, one morning after a fitful night, I walked alone down a deserted hospital corridor. I spoke to the Lord and told Him that we wanted our little boy to return so very much, but nevertheless what we wanted most was for His will to be done and that we—Pat and I—would accept that. Adam crossed the threshold into the eternities a short time later.

Frankly, we still grieve for our little boy, although the tender ministering of the Spirit and the passage of the years have softened our sadness. His small picture graces the mantel of our living room beside a more current family portrait of children and grandchildren. But Pat and I know that his path through mortality was intended by a kind Heavenly Father to be shorter and easier than ours and that he has now hurried on ahead to be a welcoming presence when we likewise eventually cross that same fateful threshold.

In my Spanish class recently, we were studying the verb tener. In English this verb means “to have.” At the same time, we were also studying the vocabulary of classroom items, things like pencils, paper, desks, etc. My teacher would ask us, “¿Que tienes?” which in English means, “What do you have?” Each student would answer using a new vocabulary word we were learning.
During one lesson, my mind went blank, and I couldn’t think of what I should say. Then a phrase came to my mind, “Tengo la luz.” When I said that, my teacher smiled and went on to the next student.
It wasn’t until later that evening, when I was lying in bed, that I realized what I had said, “I have the light.” As I lay there, an overwhelming feeling came over me. I knew that I truly did have the light, the light of Christ. I was so grateful for that insight and for my knowledge of the gospel.

This is an adaptation from material found in the diary of Solomon Hale. He was a nephew of the Prophet Joseph Smith and lived in Nauvoo at the time the Prophet acquired the Egyptian mummies described in this incident.
As the nephew of Joseph Smith, I had access to the many mysteries of the then fabulous Nauvoo Mansion House. When I think of that place, and time, I remember a joke I was fond of playing on the children my age in our neighborhood.
Many people had heard of the “mummies” my uncle had in his study, but I don’t think too many knew for sure what or who they were. In some, superior knowledge breeds contempt, and my twisted sense of humor had a field day with the naive children of Nauvoo. You see, not only had I seen the mummies, but I also knew they were harmless.
I would gather four or five of my intended victims together in front of the Mansion House, with the promise that they would soon see the strange and bizarre sights of the upper floor. I told them they were about to go back in time to the land of the pyramids and savage demons, half lion and half man. My party and I would climb the stairs slowly so as not to disturb the slumbering spirits of the mummies and carefully enter the room where the treasures were.
I would arrange my trusting friends in a line facing the closet where the mummies were kept and, with all due reverence place my hand on the black drape hiding them from view.
I would count slowly to three, whisk the curtain aside. and watch with glee as my former friends would dash down the stairs in terror of the shriveled and dusty Egyptians.
Later I would meet them in the street with a self-contented and, I assure you, very smug smile. Once I brought down an old rag with me and chased them down Mulholland Street with it; I had told them it was the very piece of cloth used to cover the hearts of the mummies and could turn them into youthful reproductions of the monsters in the closet.
One day I found an especially dumb bunch of kids playing outside my uncle’s home. After my usual opening explanation, I led them into the Prophet’s study and began my act. I looked at them very carefully to impress upon them the miraculous thing they were about to behold. I had changed my act and had added what I felt sounded like an authentic Egyptian chant.
I finished the chant, pulled aside the drape, and was appalled by the lack of reaction; no one yelled or ran; the little girl present didn’t faint. Either my friends had amazing self-control or someone had done something to the mummies. They did, however, see something, for their mouths were opened so far their chins nearly touched the tops of their shoes. I looked around the corner of the closet and came face to face with my uncle’s watch bob.
There he stood, the Prophet Joseph, right where the mummies should have been. I looked for the telltale mark of the not-too-mad-adult, that amused-but-not-showing-it-over-the-childish-prank look, but it wasn’t there. So, giving him my toothiest smile, I ushered my audience out the door and down the stairs. That was the last time I ever went to see or ever wanted to see the mummies of Nauvoo.

Illustration by Greg Newbold
I joined the Church at age 15, and four years later I submitted my missionary application. At the interview with my stake president, he complimented me for deciding to serve the Lord as a full-time missionary. Then that inspired leader said something that made a profound impression on me: “Brother, from now on, strange things will happen in your life to try to get you to change your mind about your decision to serve the Lord.”
While waiting for my mission call, I was working as a trainee at Xerox. This work made it possible for me to obtain some of the things that I would need for the mission field and to help my mother with expenses at home. Things were going very well.
Unfortunately, “strange things” did begin to happen. First, my mother was assaulted and almost died from her injuries, but a kind Heavenly Father miraculously spared her life.
At that time, my mother, two younger sisters, and I were living in a rented house. We lived off my income and a small benefit that my mother received because of my father’s death years before.
Some people, including Church members, would ask, “Are you going to have the courage to leave your mother like this and go on a mission?” Hearing this question over and over began to cause doubts in my heart.
One day my stake president called and told me that my mission call had arrived and asked me to come to his office that evening so he could give me the much-awaited envelope from Church headquarters. I was both nervous and happy at the news.
On the same day, my manager at work asked to talk to me before lunch. When I entered his office, I was greeted in a friendly manner, and we talked for a few minutes about my training and what I had learned at the company. Then, that powerful man in the organization said something that was the dream of most of the people in the city: “You have done a good job here as a trainee, and we want to hire you and keep you on the team. What do you think?”
This was one of the most difficult decisions of my life. The seconds felt like eternity. It seemed that I could hear people asking me if I was going to abandon my mother without my financial support and go to the mission field.
Nevertheless, I remembered the things I had learned from the scriptures and my Church leaders, and in a very sacred way, I knew with an unshakable certainty that God wanted me to serve as a full-time missionary of His Church. I knew that He would take care of my family, that I could trust Him, and that everything would be fine.
I explained the situation to my manager, and his reply still echoes in my mind: “I thought that you were such a level-headed young man, and here you are throwing away the opportunity of your life.”
I thanked him from the bottom of my heart for his offer, and 28 days later I reported to the missionary training center in São Paulo, Brazil.
During my mission, the Lord provided for my family’s needs through Church friends and in miraculous ways. My mother’s health was restored and new job opportunities arose for my sisters and her.
“Strange things” really do happen when we decide to serve the Lord. Yet I would humbly add my testimony to the testimonies of thousands of others who have embarked in the service of God that missionary service has profoundly affected my life.

Two weeks after I got my driver’s license, my parents let me take the car for the whole day. I was ecstatic! I couldn’t wait to go driving around town. That morning in my prayers I had a strong feeling to pray for safety and that the Holy Spirit would guide and direct me. I hopped into the car and headed to town to do some shopping with my sister. I was surprised at how comfortable I felt driving. But I was uneasy. I had a feeling that at sometime during the day some sort of obstacle would be in the road and I would have to stop suddenly. I wondered if I was just nervous because it was my first time driving alone. I decided to drive slower than usual. I drove all day without incident but still had that feeling. When we headed home, it was dark out, and we had a 45-minute drive home in the country. I decided to drive about 5–10 miles under the speed limit. Just as I came around a bend, I saw a deer standing in the middle of the road. I had to quickly slam on my brakes to stop. I stopped a couple of feet in front of the deer, which just walked off, leaving us with our hearts pounding. I couldn’t believe how close it was. I know if I had not been warned by the Holy Ghost and had been going faster, I would have hit that deer. I am so grateful to have the Holy Ghost guiding and protecting me.

A few weeks after I was baptized and confirmed, I was called to serve as the Primary secretary in the Valle Dorado Ward in Mexico. This was a surprise to me because I was new in the gospel, but I loved my Savior and wanted to serve.
I told my bishop that many other people could do the job better, but through serving I learned that the calling had been inspired. By being with the children in Primary, I learned the principles of the gospel, beautiful hymns, and the Articles of Faith. I loved the little ones too, and through them I met their parents.
But my greatest education came from working with the Primary president and her counselors. They patiently helped me, they forgave my mistakes, and little by little, I learned how to fulfill my calling. We worked together in the Primary for three years and became close friends.
When we were released, we were called to serve in Relief Society. As a result of the love we shared, we served together in unity for two more years. These sisters taught me to delegate responsibility and to allow others to learn to become leaders. We shared food storage, fasted for a purpose, and went to the temple together. They helped me become a faithful, dedicated, and loving leader. I feel obligated to share what I learned so other sisters will have the same kind of experience that I had working with the sisters who trained me.
Laura Viga D’Alva, Mexico

Sitting down to family home evening, a mother begins by asking her two children, “When have you felt guided by the Spirit?”
Her 17-year-old daughter complains, “I’ve already had three lessons on the Spirit this month.”
“Good, then you’ll have a lot to contribute,” her dad responds. It’s silent as Mom and Dad wait patiently while their children think about the question.
Eventually, their 14-year-old son shares an experience from school that day.
“Yeah,” replies his mother, “that reminds me of Nephi following the Spirit when he didn’t know how to get the plates from Laban.”
Her daughter speaks up, sharing how she followed a prompting to talk to a lonely girl on the bus. Her dad praises her decision and relates an experience he had at work.
They end the discussion by singing “Let the Holy Spirit Guide” (Hymns, no. 143).
A simple teaching method—sharing experiences about this doctrine—made this family home evening successful.

“What are you making?” Jonas asked.
“I don’t know,” Sam told his little brother. “I’m just making it up as I go along.” They were at the learning center, waiting for their parents to pick them up. Sam had found a box of scrap wood by the craft table. He was busy gluing pieces of wood together.
“OK.” Jonas shrugged and walked away. Sam watched him join some kids at the game table. Then he went back to digging through the box of wood.
Sam found a purple block he liked. He carefully squeezed a line of glue along its side and pressed it against the blocks he’d already glued together.
He really liked his wood creation so far. He wasn’t sure what it was, but he didn’t really care about that. It just felt good to do something with his hands after the craziness of last week.
A week ago, a fire started burning in Sam’s town. His family had to leave their house in a hurry. Sam could still remember the white ash falling in the air like snow. There were even flames on the side of the road as they drove to safety. It was terrifying!
Sam’s family was OK, but their house was gone. It had burned in the fire along with most of the town.
It doesn’t feel real! Sam thought to himself. He kept thinking his family was just on a weird vacation and they’d be going home soon. But he knew that wasn’t true. They were staying with friends until they could find a new place to live.
Today Mom had brought Sam and his siblings to the learning center. It was a place for kids who lost their homes in the fire. Sam’s favorite was the craft table.
At the bottom of the wood box, Sam found a triangle-shaped block he hadn’t noticed before. That gave him a great idea!
When Mom came back to the learning center, Sam was excited to show her what he had made.
“It’s a temple!” Sam said. He handed it to Mom.
“I love it,” Mom said. “It reminds me of the wooden temple I used to have.”
Thinking about Mom’s wooden temple made Sam’s stomach drop. They had wanted to save it from the fire, but it had been left behind.
“I wanted to put it by your temple on our bookcase,” Sam said. “But … your wooden temple is gone. And so is the bookcase.”
“How about we make this the first decoration in our new house?” Mom said. “The temple is a place of peace. It can remind us that no matter what happens, we’ll be OK.”
Imagining his wooden temple on a new bookshelf helped Sam feel a bit better.
“I like that,” he said.
That night, Sam put his temple on the kitchen table in the house where they were staying. The kitchen was filled with his family’s bags of emergency supplies, but seeing the temple there made the room look happier.
A couple of days later, Dad and Mom called a family meeting. “Someone donated a camper trailer we can live in,” Dad said. “We’re really blessed to have a place to stay.”
Sam helped his family pack their things in the car. He put his wooden temple on one of the seats so it would be safe during the bumpy ride.
“You OK?” Mom asked. She handed him a box to load into the trunk.
“Yes,” Sam said. He didn’t want to move again, but he remembered what Mom had said about the temple. “No matter what happens, we’ll be OK.”

I yanked the middle drawer right out of my dresser and rifled through it, hurling all the rejected clothing to the floor. It was school colors day, I was late, and I couldn’t find my blue sweatshirt. I finally saw a blue sleeve poking out of the bottom drawer, and I grabbed the wadded sweatshirt. After stretching it to try to pull out the wrinkles, I threw it over my head and rushed to the front door.
“Bye, Mom,” I said, kissing her on the cheek and racing down the driveway toward the bus stop. From the sidewalk, I could see the last child boarding the bus.
Someone must have told the bus driver and everyone else that I was coming because they all turned to watch me run to the bus. Embarrassed, I slunk into the first available seat without ever looking up.
At school, I quickly realized I had forgotten my homework. The night before I had struggled through a math problem four times before figuring it out, and now I had left it at home where it would do me no good at all!
By the time school was over, I was miserable. I trudged home from the bus stop, rehearsing my troubles of the day. But then a happier thought entered my mind: Maybe Mom made some of her delicious cookies. The chewy ones with the crisscross marks on top. Warm. With milk. I couldn’t wait!
My happy thoughts quickly disappeared when I walked into the kitchen. My little brother—not my mother—had been busy in the kitchen! There was a white powder trail from the flour bin to the middle of the floor, where he sat with a big mixing bowl full of “bread dough.” “What are you doing?” I asked.
“I’m making bread—just like Mom,” he answered, throwing a handful onto the floor and “kneading” it.
On another day, I might have found my brother’s “cooking” funny. But not today—I was angry. I wanted to be greeted by warm cookies, not by a little brother making a big mess!
Just then Mom walked in and saw the disaster. “What’s going on?” she asked. “Michelle, why are you just watching him make such a mess?” Her voice got louder. “And your room is a disaster! Go to your room and don’t come out until it’s clean.”
I slammed the door to my room and flopped onto the bed. It isn’t fair! I didn’t make a mess in the kitchen. Why am I in trouble? I’m the one having a bad day. Nobody cares about me. I wiped the angry tears from my eyes. I could hear the twins crying. Slamming my door must have woken them from their naps.
I looked around my room. Mom was right—it really was a disaster! There was a drawer on the floor, and I had scattered clothes everywhere while looking for my blue sweatshirt that morning. And my brother must have invaded my toys, because they were scattered around the room, too. It was a mess. And it wasn’t fair! That brother of mine is a problem, I thought. Why can’t he stay out of my stuff? I decided to rearrange my room so he couldn’t reach my toys anymore.
I pulled everything off the shelves and out of my desk drawers—toys, papers, crayons, everything! Everything of any interest to a little brother was going to be moved out of his reach. As I rummaged through my closet, looking for things that needed to be protected, I found my dinosaur drawing kit.
Meanwhile, Mom had gone to the twins’ room to settle them down again. When she returned to the kitchen, she found my brother trying to clean up his mess. Dragging a wet towel in the dough, he had smeared paste from the middle of the room to the sink.
After Mom finally got the kitchen under control, she came to my room, where she found me sitting on an even bigger pile of stuff, playing with my dinosaur drawing kit. I knew right away that I was in big trouble. Her eyes widened and she opened her mouth to say something. Instead, she started to cry and left, looking totally defeated.
I felt awful. Everything had gone wrong—my sweatshirt, the bus, my homework, my little brother—and now Mom was upset with me. I felt all alone. Not knowing what else to do, I knelt beside my bed and prayed. “Heavenly Father, please help me. Help make everything all right. Help my mom be happy. Help her to love me even though I have a messy room. Please, Heavenly Father, please help me.” Still kneeling beside my bed, I buried my face in my pillow and sobbed.
Soon I heard Mom in the hall. I sat up and grabbed a shirt to act like I was putting it away—I didn’t want to get in trouble again for not working.
When Mom came into my room, her eyes were red and swollen, even worse than mine. She quietly asked if I had been praying. I hesitated because I knew I was supposed to be cleaning, but I nodded yes.
Mom cleared a spot beside me, sat down, and put her arms around me. “I love you,” she said. “I’m sorry I was upset with you. I’m sorry you’re not having a very good day. I’ve had a hard day myself, and I was praying for help when the Spirit whispered that you were praying for me, too.”
“Really?” I asked. “Heavenly Father heard my prayer, and the Holy Ghost told you?”
“That’s right,” Mom said, smiling.
I started to cry again, but this time I cried because I knew Somebody cared. Heavenly Father had seen my awful day, and He understood that I needed love more than I needed a clean room. And even though I didn’t get warm cookies, I felt a real warmth inside, a comforting knowledge that I am never alone.

Sometimes young women have special challenges when the family isn’t complete. Last summer in Alaska, I met a Young Women president whose mother had died when she was three. She had been raised by her father, joining the Church at age 14. I asked her how she had learned to do all the feminine things, like fixing her hair and setting a pretty table. She said: “I watched my Young Women leaders! When I saw one of them who knew how to cook, I thought, I want to be just like her. Now, every time I clean my house, I think of my Laurel adviser.” So even if your own families are less than perfect, you can think about and plan for your own future family.

In tournament golf competition, there is a rule that a contestant must be disqualified if he signs an incorrect scorecard or turns his card in without signing it. Gary Player did that once and was eliminated from a prestigious tournament. He was asked if someone in the scoring tent couldn’t have reminded him to sign.
“My friend,” Player replied, “there are responsibilities in life. You cannot shove your responsibilities onto the shoulders of someone else. This was my responsibility. I failed to meet it, so I must suffer the consequences.”

I have five older sisters who all got married in their early twenties. Growing up, I expected my life to look just like theirs—but it didn’t. I graduated college with no fiancé or serious relationship prospects, started a career, moved back in with my parents for a while, traveled, bought a house, had amazing roommates, and charted my own course. I never felt at all excluded in my family, but there were times that I felt very single and wanted a husband and children like my sisters had.
And wasn’t that what God wanted for me too?
I wasn’t always lonely, of course. And I certainly knew that God hadn’t abandoned me—I had many amazing blessings in my life. I was able to focus on my spiritual and mental health, I volunteered and met incredible people, and I had the time and energy to serve in unique ways. When I felt discouraged, I kept telling myself that I was learning and growing and that God was aware of me.
Eventually I did get married, and it was absolutely worth the wait. A few days after our wedding, I had this very clear thought: “I am so grateful for the wait. I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”
I was honestly a bit surprised by this moment of revelation. Wouldn’t I have wanted to meet my husband much sooner? But for me, I was a better person and spouse because of all I had learned and experienced while waiting for this eternal blessing. I would have missed out on so much growth without that time.
Of course, one person’s timing isn’t better or worse than another’s. The timing of marriage is up to you and God, and growth can happen at any stage of life—married or unmarried, with or without children, etc. And I would continue to keep learning and growing; obviously marriage isn’t a final destination in our growth and spiritual development. But for me, there were crucial experiences that would likely not have happened under other circumstances, and I am grateful for how they have shaped who I am.

It was the week before Christmas, and Billy Otter lay in bed wishing for a pair of snowshoes. He brushed the tumble of straight black hair back from his brown face as he listened to the snip snip of his mother’s scissors. She was at work, cutting out moccasins from a deerskin.
Father had died of a lung disease three years ago, and since then Mother added to a meager pension by making beaded articles to sell to tourists who came to the Cree reservation. Her soft cough as she worked deepened the worried creases on Billy’s forehead. I must get some snowshoes so I can do the trapping for her, he resolved. It is too cold in the bush, especially when she’s sick.
“Your breakfast is on the warming shelf of the stove, son,” Mother called when she heard him stirring. Billy stretched and yawned widely. He got up and crossed the small, one-room cabin to warm himself by the wood stove while he dressed. When he had finished pulling on his clothes, Billy took his bannock biscuits (of unleavened oat or barley flour) and herb tea to the table. As he munched, his dark eyes watched the flash of his mother’s needle. “Mother,” he said, breaking the silence, “I’m going to help you.”
“How is that, dear?” she asked.
“By snaring the rabbits for the fur trim on the mittens and moccasins.”
“I appreciate that, Billy, but there’s no money to buy snowshoes for you, and mine are too big. You can’t get through the deep snow in the bush without them.”
While his mother sewed the bright beads to the deerskin, Billy sat thinking. Finally he said, “Old Joe Carver is the wisest Indian on the reservation. I’ll ask him what to do.”
When Billy arrived at Joe’s cabin, he found the old man sitting in his rocking chair, carving. A growling bear was taking shape from the birch block held between his knees.
“What brings you to visit, young man?” Joe asked pleasantly.
“How can I get a pair of snowshoes without any money? I need them to snare rabbits for my mother.”
Joe’s wrinkled copper face, framed by gray braids, creased even deeper as he thought. Then his gravelly voice intoned, “There is one way. Make them like our fathers did.”
“But I don’t know how.”
“I need a new pair myself. I’ll make them and show you how. We’ll start this afternoon.”
After lunch the two friends walked down a packed trail into the woods. The cold snow crunched under their feet as they strode along. Joe swung his axe in rhythm with his strides, stopping occasionally to examine the trees.
“What are you looking for?” Billy asked.
“A straight young birch.”
Soon they found a tree just the right size, and Joe cut it down and limbed it. Then Billy helped him drag it back to his cabin.
“What do we do next, Joe?” Billy asked excitedly.
“First we must cut this birch tree into three-foot lengths.”
“Can I do it?” Billy asked.
The old man handed the boy a large saw. Billy’s arms ached as he pulled and pushed it. Then the sawteeth caught and wouldn’t move in either direction.
“Here, let me help you,” offered Joe. “You must saw at a right angle or the teeth will bind.”
After Billy finished cutting the first length, and then two more, the old man ripsawed the curved sides away, leaving long square pieces. These he divided down the length into four sticks, each one about an inch thick.
By this time the sun was low. “Come back after supper,” the old man suggested, “and we’ll start the next step.”
After a supper of rabbit stew, Billy arrived at the old man’s cabin and saw a big tub had been placed on the stove. Now Joe was carrying pails of water from a hole chopped in the lake ice to fill it.
“Let me do that, Joe,” Billy offered. After he had lugged four more pailsful of water, Joe laid the long sticks of wood across the steaming tub.
“Why do you put them there, Joe?” Billy asked.
“We must soften the wood by steaming, so it will bend without breaking,” the old man answered. “While we wait, help me cut this moose hide into strips.”
As Joe slit the skin in a circular pattern with his knife, Billy gathered the thick velvet rope into a pile. Then the old man put the strips into the boiling water to soak.
Joe selected a golden strip of wood from a pile by the door and sawed it in half. Next he nailed the short pieces between two long slats from the tub.
“That looks like a ladder,” Billy said.
“Wait and see,” replied the old man.
Patiently the Indian curved the tips together, and Billy held them while Joe secured them with moose hide. The procedure was repeated on the other end.
“They have a snowshoe shape now, but how will you keep them on?” Billy asked.
“Tomorrow you will find out, when our moose hide babiche (pliable rawhide thongs) has soaked enough.”
The next morning when Billy arrived, the old man was weaving the babiche between the sides of the snowshoe. He showed Billy how to wrap the babiche around the frame and pull it tight. Finally a firm, flat net stretched between both frames.
When they had finished, Joe steamed the front tips again. Then he tied them around a log to form a curl. “Let them dry,” he said. “Tomorrow they will be ready.”
The next day, there lay two golden ovals with curved tips. The moose hide mesh had dried taut as a strung bow. Billy handled them longingly.
Suddenly his face fell, and he turned to Joe. “I’ll never be able to make a pair myself.”
“But with my help you can,” Joe said encouragingly.
“Not in time for Christmas, though,” Billy sighed. “I guess it’s sort of silly, but I’d really counted on getting some then.”
“Maybe Santa Claus will find the reservation this year,” Joe said, and they both laughed.
But on Christmas morning only boots and a shirt lay under the tree. Even the oranges and candy did not ease Billy’s disappointment.
That afternoon there was a knock on the door. When his mother opened it, Joe greeted her with a shy Merry Christmas.
“Come in,” Mother invited.
“Thank you,” Joe answered. “And how is your Christmas?” the old man asked, turning to Billy.
“No snowshoes,” Billy said sadly.
“Well then, maybe you’d better look outside.”
Billy opened the door. There leaning against the cabin was a pair of golden snowshoes with red tassels!
“They’re just my size! Where did you get them?” cried Billy excitedly.
“Each night after you left, I worked on them,” Joe explained. “I knew your heart was set on having them for Christmas. Now we can run the traplines together.”
Billy’s eyes were bright with anticipation. “Well, what are we waiting for?” he laughed and reached down to strap on one of the snowshoes.

When my first daughter was born, I realized that I must make a decision. With three children I knew that I could no longer go on living for just today; I had to make a choice and live by it. For months my soul was in conflict. I wanted to choose the right, but I also wanted to be sure that my choice was not based on ulterior motives. I felt I couldn’t return just to make my wife, children, and parents happy. I knew that real happiness for all of us would come only if I actually regained a testimony of my own.
After much prayer and study and struggle, I began to feel a small spark inside me that brought with it memories of earlier spiritual experiences that I could no longer deny. The feeling slowly grew. And finally I felt that the Lord still loved me, even though I had been excommunicated. There was hope! I felt I was moving again!
However, knowing I was on the right path didn’t make anything easier. In fact, for a while, the harder I worked the worse things got. I struggled with great tests and hardships. It seemed that when a blessing was near, my life would start to come apart again and I would start to feel despair once more.
But I held on, and, true to his promise, Heavenly Father poured out a blessing. After much effort and great help and support from friends and leaders in the Church, I was able to reenter the waters of baptism. What joy I felt!