Gospel Story Finder

Not long ago several of us in the Nash family hiked to the top of Huayna Picchu, a tall peak adjoining the ancient Incan ruins of Machu Picchu in the mountains of Peru. It is a very steep climb with breathtaking views and precipitous drop-offs. Sadly, some hikers have lost their lives by falling off that narrow, steep trail. To avoid such tragedies, strong cables have since been secured to the solid rock along the mountainside of Huayna Picchu. We held to those cables as we climbed, and they enabled us to safely reach the summit, where the view was majestic!

It’s not often that a brother and sister compete in team roping, yet team roping is only the beginning of the Janice-Brent team. Just last fall, serving the governor of Utah, his wife, and other judges a meal consisting of garlic lamb steaks, baked potatoes, tossed green salad, carrots, a melon-ball appetizer, braided yeast bread, and a raspberry cream dessert was—yes, the Janice-Brent team.
Adorned with aprons and hats, and reminded by 3-by-5 cards printed with such phrases as “Put plates in oven to heat,” “Cut green peppers,” “Set fruit on table,” “Change aprons,” and “Call guests,” the efficient team won first place in the state 4-H contest and a trip to Denver, Colorado.

One day I went to the beach with my brother and my mom. When our mom sat down to rest for a minute, she told us to wait for her, but my brother and I kept walking. Suddenly, we realized we were lost. We went back to where Mom had been, but we could not find her. I started to cry, and some people tried to help us. Finally our aunt found us.
While we were lost, I said a prayer. Our dad taught us that if we do not know what to do, we can say a prayer. I said one, very quietly, and then we were found. I learned that we should always obey our parents. And I know Heavenly Father hears us when we pray.

There are so many temptations in just one day in the life of a teenager. Every day I go to school wearing my CTR ring and an LDS necklace, and I try hard to make right choices. Without fail, people ask me what CTR and LDS stand for. Once, some kids at school sang a song about me called “Little Miss Perfect Can Do No Wrong.” It bothered me so I tried to become better accepted with my friends, knowing that some things I was doing were wrong. I know many were watching when I ignored my CTR reminder. I hope I can rebuild my reputation because I know that that is the reputation Heavenly Father wants me to have. Thanks again for re-inspiring me to choose the right.
Name WithheldOhio

In family home evenings or in Sunday School, we would practice lines that would help us stand up to peer pressure. I couldn’t wait to use these lines. For example, I imagined hanging out with my friends. Someone would pull out some alcohol and pass it around. The beer can would be handed to me, and all eyes would be looking in my direction. The pressure would mount. I would stand up and say, “No! I am a Mormon, and I don’t drink!” All the kids would be in awe. No amount of their persuasion would convince me. Soon the party would disperse, and someone special in the crowd would tell me I had impressed him so much with my firm stance that he wanted to learn more about my church. Angels would sing praises, and I would be filled with light.

One of the most wonderful chapters in the history of the Church occurred when Wilford Woodruff, an Apostle of the Lord, was teaching the restored gospel of Jesus Christ throughout Great Britain in 1840—just 10 years after the establishment of the Church.
Wilford Woodruff and other Apostles had focused their work in the Liverpool and Preston areas of England, with considerable success. Elder Woodruff, who later became President of the Church, was constantly praying to God to guide him in this very important work. His prayers led to the inspiration to go to a different place to teach the gospel.
President Monson has taught us that when we get the inspiration from heaven to do something, we do it now—we don’t procrastinate. That is exactly what Wilford Woodruff did. With clear direction from the Spirit to “go … south,” Elder Woodruff left almost immediately and traveled to a part of England called Herefordshire—farming country in the southwest of England. Here he met a prosperous farmer named John Benbow, where he was welcomed “with glad hearts and thanksgiving” (Wilford Woodruff, in Matthias F. Cowley, Wilford Woodruff: History of His Life and Labors as Recorded in His Daily Journals [1909], 117).
A group of over 600 people, who called themselves the United Brethren, had been “praying for light and truth” (Wilford Woodruff, in Teachings of Presidents of the Church: Wilford Woodruff [2004], 91). The Lord sent Wilford Woodruff as an answer to their prayers.
Elder Woodruff’s teaching bore fruit immediately, and many were baptized. Brigham Young and Willard Richards joined him in Herefordshire, and the three Apostles had remarkable success.
In only a few months, they organized 33 branches for the 541 members who had joined the Church. Their remarkable work continued, and ultimately almost every one of the members of the United Brethren were baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

Zeb didn’t need anyone to remind him that it was Saturday as he came into Mumma’s warm kitchen with an armload of firewood for the stove. The beanpot, burbling gently in the oven, gave off a tantalizing aroma of molasses, pork, and beans. The boy sniffed in anticipation as he dumped the sticks into the woodbox. Twelve-year-old Zeb enjoyed the traditional Maine Saturday night baked-bean dinner.
Hattie, his older sister, pulled a kettle of water to the front of the stove. “The water’s boiling now, Mumma,” she announced.
“OK, Hat, I’m ready,” Mumma declared, coming in from the pantry with two covered cans full of brown-bread batter. She eased the cans into the kettle for their steam bath, then looked out the window toward the cove where the seawater washed onto a rocky beach. “Zeb, did you hear Daddy’s boat when you were outside?” she asked.
“Well, no … I didn’t,” the boy replied sheepishly. “I was playing my trumpet in back of the barn. With Daddy and Bubba gone lobstering, I figured it was a good chance for me to get in a few licks of practice. The band’s going to have a concert at school Tuesday. You know, Mumma, Daddy and Bubba don’t seem to appreciate my music.”
Zeb and his mother shared a wry smile. But Hattie, arms akimbo, said indignantly, “Why, Zebadiah Beale! I never once heard Daddy say a hateful word to you about that trumpet, although everybody knows that you can make more racket with that horn than a cat with its tail caught in the door.”
Zeb shook his head. “I see you have no ear for music either.” He darted in back of Hattie and gave her apron strings a tug. While Hattie fussed and retied her apron, Zeb escaped to the pantry and fished a doughnut out of the brown crock. Munching contentedly, he eased back into the kitchen as Hattie was saying, “It looks like we’re going to have company. Here comes Effie Nash.”
Zeb watched with interest as a figure in a plaid coat came up the steps. She must be about Mumma’s age, he thought, but she doesn’t act like any adult that I know. People said Effie was “lacking,” but Zeb thought her way of thinking made about as much sense as anyone else’s. He remembered seeing Effie in town one day with her shoes on the wrong feet. When someone had pointed the fact out to her, she’d said, “Why, I find they wear longer if I change them around once in a while.” Maybe shoes do last longer by switching them around, Zeb mused.
Hattie opened the door, and Effie came in. She was wearing her shoes on the proper feet today. Getting right down to business, she announced, “Ma said to tell you to save three lobsters when Matt gets back. She wants them for dinner tomorrow. Ahh-choo!”
“Good gracious, Effie,” Mumma said, handing her a handkerchief, “how did you catch such a cold?”
“I’m sure I don’t know—SNIFF—unless it was because I had a hole in my mitten when I was hanging out the wash yesterday morning.”
Hattie had a sudden attack of coughing, and Zeb gave her a warning poke. Mumma said hurriedly, “We’ll be sure to save the lobsters for you, Effie. Won’t you sit down and stay awhile?”
“No, thanks. I have to get back home. Ma’s waiting for me to help her with supper.”
The door banged shut behind Effie, and she trudged down the path toward the road.
Mumma looked out the window and drew in her breath sharply. “Oh, my! Look at that fog coming in off the ocean.”
Fog! Zeb felt a hard knot of fear form in the pit of his stomach—Daddy and Bubba were still out there somewhere! When great fog banks rolled in from the sea without any warning, small fishing boats sometimes got lost because the fishermen couldn’t see the shore or any familiar landmark.
Mumma, Hattie, and Zeb grabbed their coats and ran outside and down to the edge of the cove, anxiously listening for the sound of a motorboat. As the fog thickened, blotting out even the outlines of the spruce trees behind them, all ordinary sounds were muffled into an eerie silence.
Mumma cupped her hands around her mouth and called, “MATT? BUBBA? … MATT!” But the fog seemed to wrap her cries in dirty cotton wool and drop them into the cold gray water near her feet. Putting her arms around her children Mumma sighed, then took a deep breath and turned to Hattie and Zeb and said, “Our voices aren’t going to carry far enough to be heard, so let’s build a bonfire on the beach. Maybe Daddy and Bubba will see the glow from it. You two go up to the shed and start lugging firewood. I’ll get some brush together. Don’t forget to bring matches back with you.”
“I’ll get the matches from the kitchen, Zeb, and be right back,” Hattie panted as they scrambled up the path toward the woodshed.
Zeb nodded and began pulling sticks off the woodpile. Hattie was back in a minute, shoving a box of wooden matches into her coat pocket. They worked quickly, and soon both had as much wood as they could carry. “C’mon, Hat! That’s enough for the first trip,” Zeb cautioned as Hattie seemed intent on loading herself like a pack mule.
They stumbled back down the path to the edge of the beach, hardly able to see where they were going. When they reached the rocky shore, they peered uneasily through the thick mist, trying to find Mumma.
“Is that you, kids?” Mumma’s voice sounded as hollow as a ghost’s, until she finally emerged in front of them. “I’ve piled a lot of brush near the edge of the water. Follow me, and we’ll get some wood on it.”
Walking single file, they approached the heap of brush, where Zeb and Hattie dropped their loads. Zeb arranged a few sticks loosely on top of the tinder, then lit a match to it. The fog and the sea air had dampened the once-dry brush, but it finally crackled and flared and caught fire.
“Mumma, you keep it going. Hat and I’ll go back for more wood.”
Zeb and Hattie were clambering up the path when they heard footsteps. Zeb, leading the way, almost bumped into a tall heavyset figure wearing oilskins and gum boots.
“Hold on there, Zeb. I don’t aim to be trampled to death,” Mr. Nash’s voice boomed out somewhere over the top of Zeb’s head.
“Daddy and Bubba haven’t come back yet, Mr. Nash,” Hattie blurted out. “We’ve built a bonfire down on the shore, and we’re going to get more wood.”
“Let me give you a hand,” Mr. Nash said, turning back up the path with them. “Effie said your Pa wasn’t back when she was over at your house. When the fog came in, I thought I’d check on you. It’s going to take a lot of wood to keep that fire going. Hattie, why don’t you scoot over to Peavys’ and tell them what’s happened. Those two Peavy boys can help carry wood too.”
“Oh, that’s a good idea,” Hattie said gratefully. She turned down the road toward the Peavy house, while Zeb and Mr. Nash plunged on up to the shed. Zeb felt better in the comforting presence of this big man, who seemed to know just what to do. The tight knot in his stomach loosened up a little as he listened to Mr. Nash’s matter-of-fact voice.
When they brought their wood back to the shore, Mumma was standing by the fire. “Well, Bertha,” Mr. Nash greeted her, “any sign of them yet?”
Mumma shook her head. “Not a sound.” She shivered and hugged her coat closer around her.
“It’ll take time for them to get to the cove here after they spot the fire,” Mr. Nash said. He threw more wood onto the fire. As it blazed higher, Zeb saw several figures coming toward them out of the fog with Hattie in the lead. They all carried armloads of wood. Zeb blew a sigh of relief.
But afternoon wore into evening, and in spite of the enormous bonfire, no one could hear the sound of a motorboat. It’s no use! thought Zeb in despair. They can’t see the fire through the fog. What else can we do? …
And then Zeb knew!
He charged through a knot of people coming down the path and bolted up to the house. “Hurry! Hurry!” he muttered to himself as he clattered upstairs to his room. Grabbing what he had come for, he sped back to the shore. On the rocky edge of the cove, Zeb raised his trumpet to his lips.
Out across the water, cutting cleanly through the vapor banks, the clear notes of a Sousa march pealed forth. Hardly stopping for breath, Zeb played through all the music he’d practiced for the band concert. With a stamina he never knew he had, he played on, switching to the old songs he’d known all his life. He was in the middle of “God of Our Fathers, Whose Almighty Hand,” when Mumma’s hand tightened on his shoulder.
“Listen! Do you hear it?”
Zeb lowered his trumpet, and from out of the mist came a faint throb of a boat engine. Then silence. Everyone strained to listen. There it was again, a faraway motor!
“Keep playing, boy, keep playing! You’ll guide them in!” roared Mr. Nash, pulling off his moisture-laden hat and slapping it against his leg.
Zeb lifted the trumpet to his swollen lips and began the old familiar hymn again, playing it as a joyful processional. The put-put of the motorboat grew louder. Suddenly a boat loomed out of the fog, lighted by the bonfire on shore.
Mumma was the first one out onto the dock, her racing feet barely touching the wooden planks. Hattie and Zeb were close behind her.
Matt and Bubba were quickly up on the dock, hugging Mumma and Hattie. Then Zeb, still holding his trumpet, was grabbed in a bear hug by his father, while Bubba pounded him on the back.
Daddy’s eyes were bright as he said only half-teasingly, “I’m sure glad to find you at the end of that trumpet, Son, instead of the Angel Gabriel!”

1802–1880
“I determined to trust in the Lord and stand bravely.”
She worked as a seamstress to support her family while her husband, Addison, was on a mission.
She took her children to the Salt Lake Valley in a covered wagon.
She served a mission with her husband in French Polynesia.
On her mission, she learned the Tahitian language and shared the gospel.
In S. George Ellsworth, The History of Louisa Barnes Pratt (1998), 65.
“It is a spiritual feast to … hear [Nabota and Telii] pray.”
They were some of the first Church members from the island of Tubuai in French Polynesia.
They learned the gospel from Elder Addison Pratt.
They gave him a place to stay, taught him to speak Tahitian, and traveled with him.
They taught others on the island about the Church and helped them live the gospel.
Addison Pratt in the Millennial Star, August 1, 1845, 59.

My thoughts turned also to my righteous parents, who raised me in the principles of the gospel. I was reminded in particular of a moment when my loving mother knelt with me to pray by my bedside when I was around 10 years of age. She must have felt that if my prayers were going to reach my Father in Heaven, they would need to improve. So she said, “I will pray first, and after my prayer, you pray.” She continued this pattern for many nights, until she was confident I had learned by principle and by practice how to speak to Heavenly Father. I will be forever grateful to her for teaching me to pray, for I learned that my Heavenly Father hears my prayers and answers them.

April was here at last. The all-night study sessions and final exams were over and most of our belongings packed into a closet in the old house we had lived in for the past year. Tearful see-you-in-Septembers echoed through the empty rooms as we locked the front door. My roommate, Lanell, and I lugged our bursting suitcases through the slushy snow and into the yellow Renault.
“What a dumb time for a snowstorm,” Lanell grumbled, slamming the car door shut.
“Oh well, we’ll soon be winging our way to Europe,” I consoled, reminding her of our exciting summer plans. We had schemed all year for this two-month vacation, and because we were trying to save money by driving to Chicago and flying from there, it looked as though this sudden spring snowstorm might threaten our plans.
I switched on the radio. Another weather bulletin, this time with bad news. “All interstates in Utah are closed,” the deejay stated blandly. “Students are advised to remain in Provo until further notice.”
“No way,” I declared. “A little snow won’t stop this Canadian!”
I pulled out the road map, and Lanell and I discussed all the alternative routes. We finally chose one that went south of Provo and then east into Colorado. Since it wasn’t an interstate and didn’t seem to be too mountainous, we reasoned that it would be open and fairly safe.
We headed out as the last rays of sunlight filtered through the gray storm clouds and disappeared over the top of the western range of mountains. It was a bad time to leave, I knew, but we were anxious to be on our way.
I drove cautiously on the snow-packed highway and wasn’t too alarmed when snow began falling. We soon noticed, however, that the highway was ascending into the mountains. Lanell checked the map and to our dismay found, in tiny print, the mountain pass we thought we wouldn’t have to cross. To make matters worse, the storm had increased in fury, the snowflakes splattering so thickly on the windshield that the wipers could barely keep up. As the wind howled through the canyon, I realized that conditions were perfect for a blizzard. We considered returning to Provo for the night but were encouraged by the steady stream of cars creeping toward us on the highway.
“They made it over the pass so we will too,” we told each other.
“And the other side probably won’t be so icy,” I said, trying to sound confident. Inside, I was beginning to wonder what we’d gotten ourselves into.
The road was now glare ice and we were steadily climbing. I grasped the wheel lightly as I’d learned to do on icy roads, but as the minutes passed, I felt a knot growing in my stomach and perspiration dampened my ski jacket. I wanted to turn back now but could find nowhere to do so safely. And what would Lanell think if “this Canadian” turned back? On the other hand, what would the downhill side be like, and would I have the nerve to drive it? I mentally tightened my grip on the wheel, silently begging the Lord to help us. If ever I needed a guardian angel, it was now.
Somehow, we reached the summit and I nearly shouted for joy at what I saw in the bright yellow beam of the headlights. Parked across the road, blocking the traffic, was a pickup truck, and standing beside it, a stocky man in a cowboy hat, coveralls, and a heavy parka. He was waving a flashlight, signaling for the cars to turn around and go back.
“The road’s closed. You kids would never make it down the other side,” he said, prying my hands off the steering wheel and kindly suggesting that he turn the car around for me.
As we headed back in the direction we had come, we alternately laughed and cried and prayed. We now knew the truth about all the cars that supposedly had made it over the mountain. All those cars had simply turned around and were coming back as we were now doing. How foolish we had been to ignore the weather warnings and how foolish were those in the approaching cars. Now that the storm had abated somewhat, we could see the ribbon of their lights for miles as we drove carefully down the mountain.
“Bet they’re thinking the same thing we did,” Lanell said with a grin. I grinned back, but silently I wondered, How many times do we make decisions without knowing the whole picture? How many times do we ignore the warnings? And how many times do we continue to tread dangerous paths just because it appears as if everyone is doing it?
We reached Provo late that night, and though I was shaken by the experience, I was grateful for the many insights it had given me. That Utah mountain pass and the angel in the cowboy hat who said it’s never too late to turn around, and who offered to help, will remain forever in my memory.

Steve Crandall sat bolt upright in bed.
“Your mother’s pains have started.” His father’s face was lined with worried creases. “Can you come help me clear the road to the highway?”
Steve was already struggling to pull on long underwear, sweaters, socks, pants, parka, boots, muffler, gloves. His heart was racing.
Shoveling snow, opening the garage door, starting the jeep, hitching the drag, swinging open the jeep door for his father—Steve fumbled with numb fingers while his heart beat with the fury of the wind swirling up the snow drifts.
Through the roar and clanking of the old jeep, his father shouted, “Take it easy, Steve. We’ll make it. Your mother has had nine kids before this, including you.”
Steve was glad to be able to hide his face in the parka hood. He was quiet for a moment. Then he let his memory wander and thought back to the time when Mom had Julie. There had been no special precautions that time; Dad had just helped Mom to the car, and they drove off to the hospital.
That seemed a long time ago and many miles away in a place where everything was so much different. This was Alaska. It was 50° F. below zero. The hospital was 51 miles away, and there was no telephone in their house. This time Dad paused to give Mom a priesthood blessing before helping her to the car. This time, Dad, Steve, and his two sisters prayed together in the car that they would make it down the road before the baby came. But this time, too, when it was all over and little Rachael took her place in the Crandall clan, 16-year-old Steve felt older somehow. It was as if he had been a part of something that was much more real than he had ever experienced before.

When he was a very young boy, my great-grandfather, Benjamin Lillywhite, came from England with his parents after they joined the Church. When they arrived in St. Louis, his father and little sister died of cholera. His mother did not have enough money to buy a wagon to travel the rest of the way to the Salt Lake Valley, but she wanted her son to go to where the Saints were gathering as soon as possible. So she sent six-year-old Benjamin with another family, and under their care, he walked to the valley. I was told that when his shoes wore out along the trail, he wrapped his feet in rags. But in spite of hardships, he made it to the valley.
As a child, I heard this story over and over. I heard of my ancestors’ sacrifices, and I wanted to be like them. I knew Heavenly Father was now depending onme to be as courageous and faithful as they had been.

Damon; King; Pythias. (Illustrated by Dilleen Marsh.)
Damon hurried along the cold stone passageway beneath the castle. He was looking for his friend Pythias, who had been arrested by the king’s soldiers. Damon searched among the prisoners until he found Pythias, who was chained in a dim corner of the dungeon.
“Why did they bring you here, my friend?” asked Damon.
Pythias reached his hand between the narrow bars to touch his childhood friend. “I am accused of being a rebel,” Pythias answered. “But I did nothing.”
The two young men did not hear the outer door open as the king entered the dungeon. He stood listening to the boys talk.
“How can I help you?” asked Damon. “Shall I go to your parents and comfort them?”
“If only I could see them again … , ” said Pythias. “If only I could say farewell to them … then I would return again to prison.”
The king laughed aloud. “So, you would come back to die if I would release you to say good-bye to your parents?” the monarch asked skeptically.
“I would come back,” Pythias said simply. “I promise that I would come back.”
“How do I know that you would keep your promise?” roared the king. His eyes glared.
Damon stood before the king. “Let me stay here in his place. Pythias has always kept his word. You may execute me if he does not keep his promise.”
The king could not believe his ears. This would be an interesting story to tell—a boy willing to risk his life for the promise of a friend. “I will grant your wish, Pythias,” said the king, “if Damon will take your place.” And so it was. Pythias was released, and Damon was chained in his friend’s place.
Many days passed. The king came to the prison to taunt Damon. “You will die for your friend—he has not kept his promise!” jeered the king. “Pythias always keeps his word,” replied Damon calmly.
Finally the day of the execution arrived. Many people came to mock the boy who had entrusted his life to his friend. “We told you that he would not return,” they jeered.
“He will come if he can,” Damon said. “It is a long way, and he will come if he—”
“Here he comes!” shouted a soldier. “Pythias has returned!”
Damon smiled as Pythias rushed to take his place. Storms and misfortune had delayed him, and Pythias could hardly breathe after his hard run. “I made it, Damon!” he panted.
“I knew that you would,” his friend replied.
The king was amazed. Never had he known that there could be such friendship and loyalty. His heart softened, and he said, “Go, Damon and Pythias. Go back to your homes. Keeping your promise has set you free.” Then the king turned to the crowd and said, “I would give all my wealth to have one such friend.” (Adapted from “Love Fails Not,” Sharing Time Resource Manual, page 57.)

It was a typical Ohio winter night, cold enough to be snowing, yet warm enough to be raining. I was making an almost futile attempt at driving and checking street signs at the same time. Jim Bowen and Mark Auckerman, eighteen-year-old non-LDS friends, were reading off the street signs as we slowly drove down the ice-covered street.
“All I know,” explained Jim, “is that Chris lives on Dibert Avenue, and it’s somewhere off this street.”
“But are you sure it’s down this far?” asked Mark.
We were in the south end of Springfield, a district that none of us was very familiar with. I was stuck with the treacherous task of driving and decided we should just keep going until we found Dibert Avenue or came to the end of the street we were on.
Slowly we drove on, block by block, attempting to read each sign as we passed it. Just as we were about to give up hope and turn around, we saw it. “Dibert,” we chorused happily.
Because of the ice and the poor condition of my tires, I turned the car into a parking lot about 20 yards past Dibert. By making a U-turn in the lot, I stopped the car perpendicular with the street we had been searching for. Now the problem was which way to turn on Dibert. As Mark and I argued about whether to turn right or left, Jim drew our attention to the house directly in front of us.
It was a two-story frame house, like most of the dwellings in this part of the city. The front of this house was a small store; the back appeared to be a couple of apartments. The store faced the street we had just turned off, and we faced the side of the house.
Through a side window we could see some kind of flame throwing shadows on the walls inside. The window shades were drawn, and we couldn’t see if the flames were in a fireplace or a stove. But soon we realized that the flames looked too big for a stove and too high off the ground for a fireplace.
Leaving the engine running, I put the car into park and jumped out, followed closely by Mark. As we reached the window, we could see the flames were much taller than we had realized. We hopped the fence and ran to the back door. We pounded as hard as we could, but no one answered. The door was locked. I ran around to the front of the building while yelling to Jim to go call somebody.
I kicked open the front door and leaped over the counter just inside. There was a small room between the front of the store and the apartment in back.
In the living room of the attached apartment was a young woman who was screaming hysterically and trying to beat out the fire with a small rug. What appeared to be a large overstuffed sofa was completely engulfed in flames. The paper on the wall had caught fire, and the flames were shooting up the wall and across the ceiling directly above her.
My first reaction was to bend down low, turn, and leave the room. The heat was intense, and the smoke was quickly filling the room.
I screamed at the woman to leave but finally had to grab her by the arm and drag her out of the room. I asked her if there was anybody else in the house. Before she could answer, there came cries from upstairs.
“My children,” she sobbed.
“How many?” I asked.
She said there were two children upstairs. She pointed to a doorway right next to the flaming couch. Though only a few seconds had elapsed, the flames had now engulfed the entire wall and were shooting across the entire ceiling.
Glancing at the doorway, I realized that even if I could make it through, there would be little chance of returning the same way.
My thoughts turned to Heavenly Father. It seemed there was only one thing to do. Putting my complete trust in God, I darted for the flame-engulfed doorway, my face burning as I ran up the narrow stairway as fast as I could.
Standing at the top were the two children, a five-year-old girl and a two-year-old boy. They were crying for their mother. I tucked a child under each arm and turned to run back down the stairs. Their mother had broken away from Mark and was about three-quarters of the way up the stairs when I turned around.
I heard a loud boom. The flames were now coming about halfway up the inside of the stairwell.
In that split second on those stairs, I prayed harder and with more intensity than I had prayed in my entire life. I now realized that not only my life but the lives of a woman and two children depended on my actions. I remember praying, if not saying aloud, the words, “Not my will, but thine.”
I suddenly remembered Mark was still downstairs and started yelling at the top of my lungs for him. Mark later told me that the loud boom I heard was the living room ceiling collapsing and that a huge piece of blazing plywood had fallen to the floor just as the woman disappeared into the doorway. He had stayed downstairs and tried to confine the fire by shutting doors throughout the house. He never heard me yell that we were going out a window.
Knowing that the smoke wasn’t going to leave us much time, I ran up the stairs to look for a window.
When I reached the second floor, I ran straight into a totally dark room that apparently had no windows. I could feel the soles of my feet getting warm and realized that the smoke was getting more unbearable by the second. The woman led me down the hall to a small window that led out onto the roof.
She climbed out first and I followed, still squeezing a child under each arm. When we reached the edge of the roof, I could see that smoke was pouring out of every window in the house. I saw Mark on the ground right below us and yelled that I was going to drop the children down to him.
Pivoting, I tossed the little boy about three feet away from the house to Mark, who made a perfect catch.
The smoke was so thick now that I couldn’t see the ground, but I heard a voice I didn’t recognize and dropped the little girl off the roof. I was told later that a man had seen the blaze, stopped his car, and ran over to Mark in time to help catch the little girl.
The woman was still sobbing and crying hysterically. Mark had put down the little boy and broke the fall of the woman as she fell from the roof. I jumped feet first and landed unhurt.
Safely on the ground, I ran to the apartment on the other side of the house. There, Jim and I pounded on the door, but no answer came. After a few seconds, we broke the glass and unlocked the door. We checked the entire house and found that no one was living on that side.
My thoughts, as we ran back around the building, were the products of years of Boy Scout training—treatment of smoke inhalation, shock, and exposure. The woman and the children were brought to my car, which was warm and still running. The little boy asked where his puppy was, and even though I had seen no dog, I tried to assure him his puppy was all right. By now the fire trucks and ambulance were parked at the front of the house, so I told Mark and Jim to meet me at the hospital.
Everyone was treated and released.
When we returned to the scene of the fire, we counted nine fire engines. The blaze had been doused, and all that remained of the building was the charred frame. It sent chills up my spine to look at the house, smoke still billowing from the windows. As we stood there solemnly looking at the destruction that had taken place, a fireman emerged with what looked like a small stuffed animal. It was the little boy’s puppy. It had hidden in a downstairs closet in some kind of air pocket and had survived the two-hour blaze without so much as a scratch.
A feeling of relief and thankfulness swept over me. I realized that chance had not led us to this house, but that a heavenly force had inspired us to make that wrong turn. I knew that without the Lord’s help, several people would likely have lost their lives. Before this experience I had thought my faith was weak, but I knew then that if it had not been for faith, I would have panicked at the thought of death. Because of the teachings of the gospel and the understanding it gives us of death, I was able to think clearly and do what had to be done. I realized that my life was in Heavenly Father’s hands. I’m thankful now that we were spared and that my faith was strengthened immensely by an inspired wrong turn.

When my mom died unexpectedly at age 61, I felt completely blindsided. She was my source of love, gentleness, support, strength, and laughter. I felt that I had been robbed of my mother and that my three children had been robbed of their grandmother. I even felt anger toward Heavenly Father. How could He do this to us?
For a while, I would wake up in the middle of the night unable to fall back asleep. One morning, I woke up at 3:00 a.m. Hoping to distract myself from life without my mother, I looked on my phone and found a cooking video on my newsfeed. It was comfort food in all its glory: chicken pot pie. I thought how amazing it would be to have a chicken pot pie, but I didn’t feel up to preparing any food for my family other than pouring milk into a bowl of cereal. For now, I would have to do without any comfort food, or so I thought.
Within one day of each other, two friends brought me chicken pot pies. I broke down and cried. I was incredibly touched by their kindness. I knew this wasn’t a coincidence. It reaffirmed to me that God was mindful of me, that He loved me, and that He cared about my seemingly insignificant desire for a chicken pot pie even when I had been angry with Him. I needed this reminder so much.
I’m grateful for those friends who brought me chicken pot pies. They ministered to me in ways they couldn’t have imagined. They helped me feel my Heavenly Father’s love when I needed to feel it the most.

David had been playing on a children’s baseball team all season. More than anything else he wanted to be a regular member on the team, and he wanted to be a pitcher. He never missed a practice or a game. Whenever his dad or his older brother could find the time, he’d get them to throw the ball back and forth with him. Even when David watched television he would wear his baseball glove and pop a ball in and out of it almost automatically. Sometimes he’d forget to take the mitt off when his mother called him for meals, and then the family would have to wait while David put the mitt away, washed his hands, and came to the table.
Near the end of the baseball season the coach told all the little leaguers they should meet at the ball park on a certain Sunday morning to have a special practice and to have their pictures taken. “I can’t come on Sunday,” said David.
“You’d better,” said the coach, “because we’re going to talk about our team for next year after we have our pictures taken.”
Usually, David ran home full of excitement after a ball game or a practice. But this night he was late, and he hardly answered when his family spoke to him. He was unusually quiet all week, but on Sunday he didn’t go to the ball park. On Monday he was at practice and at every practice afterward. Finally the day came for the tests to see who would be on next year’s team.
“You’ll be one of our regular pitchers,” the coach told David, “but you’ll have to play whenever a game is scheduled. We need you, and that will mean sometimes you will play on a Sunday.”
“I can’t play ball on Sundays,” David said.
“Then you’ll have to be an alternate pitcher instead of a regular one,” answered the coach. And that is how it was all season. Sometimes David had a chance to pitch a game but more often he didn’t. The other boys on the team played on Sundays, but David went to Sunday School and sacrament meeting with his family.
In the spring when David was ten years old, the coach called the boys together to begin a new season and to make selections for the team. “We’ll need you for a regular pitcher this year, David,” he said. “But sometimes you’ll need to play on a Sunday.”
“I’ll have to think about it,” said David. That night he talked the problem over with his dad, and then he said a special prayer for help to have the courage to do what he knew was right. The next day he told the coach he’d have to be just a standby pitcher again. The coach only shook his head.
Several weeks went by and David was at every practice. One night the coach called the boys around him. He explained that David couldn’t play ball on Sunday even though the team often had a game on that day. “But I’d like him to be our pitcher anyhow,” he went on. “If you agree, we could let David be our regular weekday pitcher and have a standby pitcher for Sunday games. How about it?”
There was a moment of silence. David could hardly breathe. The team members hesitated only a minute, and then every little leaguer agreed wholeheartedly to the plan.
The coach smiled. “Then it’s settled,” he said. “David will be our pitcher.” David’s eyes filled with tears. He knew that Heavenly Father had helped him to do what was right.

One year for Christmas, my family decided to give the money we would have spent on gifts for ourselves to a family who could use some help. We prayed to know whom to help. I kept the money in an envelope in my purse so I would be ready when the prompting came.
A few days before Christmas, my kids went sledding. When I arrived at the hill to pick them up, I watched as they made one more fun run down the hill.
Soon, I noticed two little girls who were not dressed for the cold weather. They wore rain boots, pants with holes in the knees, spring jackets, and one mitten each from the same pair. They were having a great time sliding down the hill on a piece of cardboard.
As I watched them run up the hill to their mom, I felt an unmistakable impression that this was the family we needed to help. I walked over to speak to the mother. When she turned around, I was stunned to realize I knew her.
I am grateful I reconnected with this dear sister. That day, not only did Heavenly Father answer the prayers my family had offered to find a family to serve, but He also blessed me with an opportunity to forgive myself for a previous mistake. I had not expected this gift, but it’s one I’ll never forget.

A story is told of the son of King Louis XVI of France. As a young man, he was kidnapped by evil men when they dethroned the king. For six months he was exposed to every filthy and vile thing that life had to offer, yet he never buckled under the pressure. This puzzled his captors, and they asked him why he had such great moral strength. His reply was simple: “I cannot do what you ask, for I was born to be a king” (see Vaughn J. Featherstone, “The King’s Son,” New Era, Nov. 1975, 35). You were born to be daughters of a King. By being baptized, you have been promised the blessings of royalty as you sanctify yourselves and become holy.

My second example emphasizes the importance of persevering through the trial of our faith. A few years ago a family traveled to Europe from the United States. Shortly after arriving at their destination, a 13-year-old son became quite ill. The mother and father initially thought his upset stomach was caused by fatigue from the long flight, and the family routinely continued on its journey.

As the day continued, the son’s condition became worse. Dehydration was increasing. The father gave his son a priesthood blessing, but no improvement was immediately evident.

Several hours passed by, and the mother knelt by her son’s side, pleading in prayer to Heavenly Father for the boy’s well-being. They were far from home in an unfamiliar country and did not know how to obtain medical assistance.

The mother asked her son if he would like to pray with her. She knew that merely waiting for the anticipated blessing would not be enough; they needed to continue to act. Explaining that the blessing he had received was still in effect, she suggested again petitioning in prayer, as did the ancient Apostles, “Lord, Increase our faith” (Luke 17:5). The prayer included a profession of trust in priesthood power and a commitment to persevere in doing whatever might be required for the blessing to be honored—if that blessing at that time was in accordance with God’s will. Shortly after they offered this simple prayer, the son’s condition improved.

The faithful action of the mother and her son helped to invite the promised priesthood power and in part satisfied the requirement that we “dispute not because [we] see not, for [we] receive no witness until after the trial of [our] faith” (Ether 12:6). Just as the prison holding Alma and Amulek did not tumble to the earth “until after their faith,” and just as Ammon and his missionary brethren did not witness mighty miracles in their ministries “until after their faith” (see Ether 12:12–15), so the healing of this 13-year-old boy did not occur until after their faith and was accomplished “according to their faith in their prayers” (D&C 10:47).

Another way we partner with God is by letting our light shine. Eighteen years ago, while I was serving as a bishop, a woman visited our ward for a Sunday worship. After the service, I invited her to meet in my office. During our discussion, a Primary child walked into my office, greeted the visitor, and gave me her tithing envelope, after which I proceeded to shake her hand and thank her. These few seconds with this faithful Primary child touched the visitor, and she began to ask questions about tithing and other doctrines of the Church. She later joined the Church and today serves as a stake Relief Society president—all because a Primary child was living the gospel.