Gospel Story Finder

Courage counts. This truth came to me in a most vivid and dramatic manner many years ago. I was serving as a bishop at the time. The general session of our stake conference was being held in the Assembly Hall on Temple Square in Salt Lake City. Our stake presidency was to be reorganized. The Aaronic Priesthood, including members of bishoprics, were providing the music for the conference. As we concluded singing our first selection, President Joseph Fielding Smith, our conference visitor, stepped to the pulpit and read for sustaining approval the names of the new stake presidency. He then mentioned that Percy Fetzer, who became our new stake president, and John Burt, who became the first counselor—each of whom had been counselors in the previous presidency—had been made aware of their new callings before the conference began. However, he indicated that I, who had been called to be second counselor in the new presidency, had no previous knowledge of the calling and was hearing of it for the first time as my name was read for sustaining vote. He then announced, “If Brother Monson is willing to respond to this call, we will be pleased to hear from him now.”

As I stood at the pulpit and gazed out on that sea of faces, I remembered the song we had just sung. It pertained to the Word of Wisdom and was titled “Have Courage, My Boy, to Say No.” That day I selected as my acceptance theme “Have Courage, My Boy, to Say Yes.” The call for courage comes constantly to each of us—the courage to stand firm for our convictions, the courage to fulfill our responsibilities, the courage to honor our priesthood.

With a speed like a low-flying rocket, the soccer ball (football) screams toward the corner of the net. But the goalie is ready. Totally focused, Tia J. dives at the last possible moment. She deflects the rocket (er, the ball) in midflight.

Being true to oneself at times requires extraordinary strength and courage. For instance, in the early days of the Church it was very unpopular, even dangerous, to uphold Joseph Smith as a prophet of God. Lyman Wight was one of those imprisoned by the leaders of a mob in 1839.

General Wilson advised Brother Wight, “We do not wish to hurt you nor kill you,” and then following an oath said, “but we have one thing against you, and that is, you are too friendly to Joe Smith, … Wight, you know all about his character.”

Brother Wight said, “I do, sir.”

“Will you swear all you know concerning him?” said Wilson.

Brother Wight then told Wilson he “believed … Joseph Smith to be the most philanthropic man he ever saw, and possessed of the most pure … principles—a friend to mankind, a maker of peace.”

Wilson then observed, “Wight, I fear your life is in danger, for there is no end to the prejudice against Joe Smith.”

“Kill and be damned, sir,” was Brother Wight’s answer.

Returning later that night, Wilson told Lyman Wight: “I regret to tell you your die is cast; your doom is fixed; you are sentenced to be shot tomorrow morning on the public square in Far West, at eight o’clock.”

Brother Wight answered, “Shoot, and be damned.”

The decree of execution of the prisoners was revoked the next morning. (See History of the Church, 3:446–47.)

Jason lay by the hearth, doing his homework in the firelight. But he couldn’t concentrate. The image of Mr. Rayburn’s ranch kept coming back to him, and with it the sight of the beautiful little pony the rancher had for sale. Only eighteen dollars, that’s all it would cost! he thought. But it might as well be five hundred. Jason’s father had gone to fight in the Civil War, and had left his ten-year-old son as the man of the house.
More than anything he had ever wanted before, Jason wanted a pony. But how will I ever get eighteen dollars of my own? he asked himself. All the other boys rode to school on horses. But Jason had to be up before dawn to milk the cow, feed the chickens, and then walk the long distance to school. When he wasn’t at school, Jason was busy at home, helping his mother on their farm.
Jason’s mother listened sympathetically when he told her about Mr. Rayburn’s pony. But when the boy finished, she just looked at him with a sad kind of smile. “Oh, Jason,” she said, “the pony sounds wonderful. But I’m afraid we don’t have any money to spare. We’re having a hard time now and with a new baby coming …”
“I’d forgotten for a minute about the baby. I hope it’s a girl. I’d like to have a little sister,” said Jason with a smile. “And maybe if I work extra hard, there will be enough money for a cradle.”
His mother hugged him close. “With you here to help, we’ll do just fine, Jason,” she said.
Later that night Jason climbed the ladder up to the loft where he slept. But before sleep came he couldn’t help thinking about the pony.
The next morning on his way to school, Jason saw a notice in the window of the general store:
Boys needed afternoons or evenings at the planing mill—10¢ an hour.
Ten cents an hour is a lot of money, Jason thought. I hope I can get that job after school.
The hours seemed to drag by until school was over. When the bell rang, Jason raced to the mill, but his heart sank when he saw the long line of waiting boys. At last it was his turn to apply for a job.
“How old are you, boy?” asked the man.
“Ten years old, sir. But I’ll be eleven in March. And I’m a hard worker,” replied Jason.
“I don’t think you’re old enough for a job here, son. Why don’t you try us next year?”
Jason did not move. “Please, sir, now that my father is at war, I’m the only man in the house. And I’ll work hard.”
“Well, if your dad’s off fighting, I guess we can find a job for you,” the man said.
Jason could hardly wait to tell his mother about his new job. “I know you’ll make me proud of you,” she said. “And since you’re working on your own time between school and chores, son, you may keep the money you earn.”
Jason jumped up with delight and hugged her. His chores weren’t so hard that night. In his mind he could just see himself up on the back of that little pony. It won’t matter if I don’t have a saddle. I’ll still be able to ride like the other boys, and they won’t call me a sodbuster anymore, he thought.
Jason liked his work at the mill. But it became hard to study without falling asleep and even harder to get up in the mornings. As the weeks passed, Jason’s little pile of money grew. Each payday brought him closer to his goal. However, it was nearly time for the baby to be born and Jason knew that he would soon have to quit working at the mill because his mother would need more help at home. Every night when he went to bed he wondered how long he would be able to work.
The next payday Jason counted his savings. He had $19.10, and in his mind he could see the little pony in their barn. He was so busy thinking about the pony that he almost bumped into a buggy parked in their yard. He looked up and his heart leaped. It was Dr. Frank’s. The baby must have been born! He raced toward the house. Then his face fell. The cradle! Mother still didn’t have a cradle for the baby. But it really wasn’t his fault. Mother had said he could keep the money he earned. Still, he felt a twinge of selfishness. He opened the door slowly and peeked in. His grandmother was in the kitchen.
“Grandma, is it a boy or a girl?” he asked.
Grandmother smiled and put a finger to her lips, “Shh, your mother is asleep. Come and see your baby sister.”
Jason approached timidly. He had not been this close to a newborn baby before. She lay curled up in the laundry basket, wrapped in layers of blankets. “Oh, Grandma, she’s so tiny,” he whispered.
“Your mother has named her Jenny. She looks a little like you did when you were a baby,” said Grandma.
Jason bent down to look at the tiny fingers. They moved when he touched them and curled themselves around his larger finger. He frowned. He was the man of the house, and this little baby was partly his responsibility. How could he think of buying a pony when Jenny had no cradle?
“Grandma, I’m not very hungry. I have something important to do. Please tell Mother I’ll be back soon.”
Jason ran outside and didn’t stop till he came to the general store. Mr. Wright, the proprietor, also did woodworking as a hobby.
“Mr. Wright! My mother had a baby girl. How much would you charge to make me a cradle for her—one that rocks?”
“Well, since you’re a working man,” the storekeeper said with a twinkle in his eye, “I’ll make a real nice one for you for nine dollars. I can have it ready by Friday.”
“That’d be fine,” said Jason. As he turned to leave, he spied some baby clothes inside a showcase. “How much is that pretty little gown?” he asked. “I want to get that for Jenny too.”
All the way home Jason whistled a jaunty tune. He was sure that the real man of the house couldn’t be any happier about the new baby than her big brother was.

It all started with a stutter. My mom would tell you it’s cute, but I would beg to differ. The first day of first grade, the teacher told us to stand up one by one and introduce ourselves. When it was my turn, I stood and immediately got nervous in front of the sea of people.
“H-h-h-hi, m-m-m-m-m-my name’s Smith.”
I was embarrassed that I had messed up in front of my new class. I sat down, and a girl looked me in my eyes (it felt like she looked into my soul) and said, “Why can’t you talk right?”
That day I decided I was different and that, because I was different, I was less important than everyone else.
Over time, my self-esteem got worse. I didn’t believe I could have friends who truly cared about me. I didn’t believe I was enough to make my parents proud. And ultimately, I didn’t believe there was a God who had sent His Son to die for me.

Some years ago, I went canoeing with a group of young women. The deep blue lakes surrounded by green, thickly forested hills and rocky cliffs were breathtakingly beautiful. The water sparkled on our paddles as we dipped them into the clear water, and the sun shone warmly while we moved smoothly across the lake.
However, clouds soon darkened the sky, and a stiff wind began to blow. To make any progress at all, we had to dig deeply into the water, paddling without pausing between strokes. After a few grueling hours of backbreaking work, we finally turned the corner on the large lake and discovered to our amazement and delight that the wind was blowing in the direction we wanted to go.
Quickly, we took advantage of this gift. We pulled out a small tarp and tied two of its corners to paddle handles and the other corners to my husband’s feet, which he stretched out over the gunwales of the canoe. The wind billowed the improvised sail, and we were off!
When the young women in the other canoes saw how we moved along the water with ease, they quickly improvised sails of their own. Our hearts were light with laughter and relief, grateful for the respite from the challenges of the day.

All my life I strived to be who I thought Heavenly Father expected me to be. But there was a problem: I never knew if I was good enough.
I fixated on my imperfections, especially after studying scriptures or listening to general conference talks. When reading these things that were supposed to encourage me, I would only focus on what I was doing wrong.
I lived this way for a long time—miserable and feeling weary in my discipleship.
But I didn’t realize that what I was actually failing to do was truly believe in the Savior and the pure, simple truths of His gospel.
My perspective changed while I was listening to a recent devotional with Sister Patricia T. Holland. She said, “What I regret most in my youth is that I didn’t see the simple beauty of the gospel; I made even the gospel too complex.”1
Her message struck me.
I realized that I complicate the gospel frequently! Many of us do. We expect ourselves to be perfect, believing there is no room for flaws and progress. And if things aren’t going the way we expect them to, we become anxious about the future, compare ourselves to others, lose connection with Heavenly Father, and even start wondering if living the gospel is worth it.
I realized my anxiety wasn’t caused by living the gospel. I was anxious because I had stopped focusing on the reason I live the gospel: Jesus Christ.
I forgot that He and Heavenly Father love me with perfect love (see John 15:9; 2 Nephi 1:15).
I forgot that I am meant to have joy in the journey (see 2 Nephi 2:25).
I forgot that mortality includes having imperfections and relying on the Savior to overcome them (see Ether 12:27).
I forgot that the Savior is here to help me learn and grow and progress and that He consecrates my efforts along the way (see 2 Nephi 2:1–2; 32:9).
We run into trouble when we turn the gospel into a checklist of rules and forget the pure truths of Jesus Christ. When we strive to keep our covenants and the commandments with the intention of becoming more like Him, then we are truly living the gospel.
Heavenly Father wants us to always remember that the Savior can help us reach our divine potential. But how do we not forget this important truth?
Here are a few practices that have helped me:
I pray for Heavenly Father to help me feel that He loves me and accepts my best efforts.
I take the sacrament, focusing on Jesus Christ’s Atonement. I remind myself that His grace can help me in the future and is already at work in my life as I strive to follow Him.
I turn to the scriptures for comfort. I read about those who also felt inadequate and were strengthened by the Lord.
I go to the temple often. Everything in the Lord’s house reminds me of His mercy and that I am capable of progress. There, I can feel peace amid so many anxieties.
These practices have made me appreciate what matters most in the gospel. They remind me to not complicate its simplicity.
By focusing on the pure truths of the gospel of Jesus Christ, I have seen my life and faith miraculously simplify. I know yours will too.

A year ago, in his opening remarks of the October 2018 general conference, President Russell M. Nelson provided this declaration and warning: “The long-standing objective of the Church is to assist all members to increase their faith in our Lord Jesus Christ and in His Atonement, to assist them in making and keeping their covenants with God, and to strengthen and seal their families. In this complex world today, this is not easy. The adversary is increasing his attacks on faith and upon us and our families at an exponential rate. To survive spiritually, we need counterstrategies and proactive plans” (“Opening Remarks,” Ensign or Liahona, Nov. 2018, 7; emphasis added).
Following President Nelson’s message, Elder Quentin L. Cook of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles introduced the Come, Follow Me resource for individuals and families. His remarks included the following statements:
“The new home-study Come, Follow Me resource … is designed to help members learn the gospel in the home.”
“‘This resource is for every individual and family in the Church’ [Come, Follow Me—For Individuals and Families (2019), vi].”
“Our purpose is to balance the Church and the home experiences in a way that will greatly increase faith and spirituality and deepen conversion to Heavenly Father and the Lord Jesus Christ.” (“Deep and Lasting Conversion to Heavenly Father and the Lord Jesus Christ,” Ensign or Liahona, Nov. 2018, 9–10.)
Starting in January of this year, Latter-day Saints worldwide began studying the New Testament, with the Come, Follow Me resource as our guide. With a weekly schedule, Come, Follow Me helps us study the scriptures, the doctrine of the gospel, and the teachings of the prophets and apostles. It is a marvelous resource for us all.
After nine months of this worldwide scripture study effort, what do we see? We see Latter-day Saints everywhere growing in faith and devotion to the Lord Jesus Christ. We see individuals and families setting aside time throughout the week to study the words of our Savior. We see improving gospel instruction in our Sunday classes as we study the scriptures at home and share our insights at church. We see greater family joy and unity as we have moved from simply reading the scriptures to studying the scriptures in a profound way.
It has been my privilege to visit with many Latter-day Saints and hear firsthand of their experiences with Come, Follow Me. Their expressions of faith fill my heart with joy. Here are just a few of the comments I have heard from various members of the Church in different parts of the world:
A father shared: “I enjoy Come, Follow Me, as it provides an opportunity to testify of the Savior to my children.”
In another home, a child said: “This is a chance to hear my parents bear their testimonies.”
A mother shared: “We have been inspired as to how to put God first. The time we [thought we] ‘didn’t have’ has been [filled] with hope, joy, peace, and success in ways we didn’t know were possible.”
A couple observed: “We are reading the scriptures entirely differently than we have ever read them before. We are learning so much more than we have ever learned before. The Lord is wanting us to see things differently. The Lord is preparing us.”
A mother remarked: “I love that we are learning the same things together. Before, we were reading it. Today, we are learning it.”
A sister shared this insightful perspective: “Before, you had the lesson and the scriptures supplemented it. Now, you have the scriptures and the lesson supplements it.”
Another sister commented: “I feel a difference when I do it [compared to] when I don’t. I find it is easier to talk to others about Jesus Christ and our beliefs.”
A grandmother remarked: “I call my children and grandchildren on Sundays, and we share insights from Come, Follow Me together.”
A sister observed: “Come, Follow Me feels like the Savior is personally ministering to me. It is heaven inspired.”
A father commented: “When we use Come, Follow Me, we are like the children of Israel, marking the side posts of our doors, protecting our families from the influence of the destroyer.”
Brothers and sisters, it is a joy to visit with you and hear how your efforts with Come, Follow Me are blessing your lives. Thank you for your devotion.

The first time I can remember hearing those words was as I sat in the balcony of the Salt Lake Tabernacle. A choir was singing the music of Handel. I remember feeling something in my heart. It was the Holy Ghost. The Spirit confirmed to my heart that the words I heard sung that night were true.

Over a quarter of a century ago I listened in the Tabernacle to these words by Elder Marion G. Romney:
“A few years ago as I began to practice law, members of my family were a little uneasy. They were afraid I would lose my faith. I wanted to practice law, but I had an even greater desire to keep my testimony, and so I decided upon a little procedure which I recommend to you. For thirty minutes each morning before I began the day’s work I read from the Book of Mormon … and in just a few minutes a day I read the Book of Mormon through, every year, for nine years. I know that it kept me in harmony, so far as I did keep in harmony, with the Spirit of the Lord. …
“It will hold us as close to the Spirit of the Lord as anything I know.” (In Conference Report, April 1949, p. 36.)
I echo President Romney’s counsel.

Abigail Moreno of the Burnham Second Ward, Baguio Philippines Stake, tells of an opportunity she had to stand up for what is right. A popular talk show in the Philippines has a regular segment called “By Heart” during which the hosts read letters from viewers. The letters are supposed to include seven “thank-yous.” Abigail wrote a letter, but she didn’t think the hosts would read it on the show because the first sentence of her letter read, “I like your show, but I’m offended.” She explained that the hosts’ frequent use of the Lord’s name as profanity offended her. She wrote that her family and her church believe in respecting the name of Heavenly Father.
One day she and her husband, Bobby, were watching another channel, and she realized the talk show was on. She changed channels and heard her letter being read. She missed the first part—they were already reading her sixth “thank-you”—but she noticed that throughout the remainder of the show, the hosts did not use the Lord’s name in vain. She felt she had made a difference by writing the letter.

Jerell C., 17, of Kansas didn’t have any major interest in religion. But when David M., a Latter-day Saint Jerell knew from both work and school, persisted in inviting him to church, Jerell decided he shouldn’t keep turning his friend down. He agreed to attend one Sunday.
People in David’s ward were kind and welcoming, and Jerell felt at home. Before long, he was attending church with David’s family every Sunday. One thing led to another, and after meeting with the missionaries and gaining a testimony of the Book of Mormon, Jerell received permission from his family to join the Church. David baptized him July 5, 2009.
But that’s just the beginning of Jerell’s story. He learned about early-morning seminary. He knew a little bit about it from David—David had talked to him about memorizing scriptures, for example—but Jerell had never been there before. And going would present more than a few challenges. For one thing, it began at 5:30 a.m. For another, David, who had been with Jerell at every step of learning about the gospel, had already graduated from high school and would no longer be attending seminary. And—perhaps the most daunting obstacle—Jerell didn’t have a way to get there.
That didn’t stop him, however. “I wanted to learn more about the scriptures,” he says. Although he had studied the Book of Mormon reading assignments the missionaries had given him, even taking notes and sharing his thoughts with the elders, he knew there was still a lot to learn, and seminary, it seemed, was the most obvious way to do it.
So Jerell began waking up at 4:30 a.m. and biking an hour to the building where the class was held. He continued doing so—even through bad weather—for four months. At that point, a member began giving him rides.
It didn’t always come easily, he admits. “There were mornings I just didn’t want to get on that bike,” he says. “It was dark outside, so I worried about drivers seeing me.”
But he persisted anyhow, praying for strength as he rode or singing hymns to focus his mind elsewhere. “I knew I couldn’t quit,” he says.
Jerell attributes his consistency to help from Heavenly Father, a great class of students, a dedicated teacher, and opportunities to socialize with them. “We were good friends outside of class as well,” says Jerell. The payoff? At a scripture-mastery-related competition at the end of the school year, Jerell took first place.
Of course, that’s just a side perk. “I never expected to win the seminary bowl,” admits Jerell. “The blessings have just poured in for me as a new convert. I have found comfort in the scriptures and good friends in the Church. It’s been a great ride—literally.”

From Texas, the Romneys moved to California, then to Idaho, where Marion’s father taught school for three years. Finances were tight. Young Marion couldn’t even afford a coat. Yet tithing was always paid. Marion never forgot the cold day he had to trudge to the bishop’s to deliver the tithing. He said later that it would never again be that hard to pay.

We were dressed in our home each morning, not only with hats and raincoats and boots to protect us from physical storm, but even more carefully our parents dressed us each day in the armor of God. As we would kneel in family prayer and listen to our father, a bearer of the priesthood, pour out his soul to the Lord for the protection of his family against the fiery darts of the wicked, one more layer was added to our shield of faith. While our shield was being made strong, theirs was always available, for they were available and we knew it.
What a protection it was to travel through the journey of life knowing that a shield of faith is being carefully constructed for you by loving parents from our first moments on earth.

It was almost Christmas, and Troy’s Pet Shop was decorated with fancy red bows for the holiday. A tiny, yellow ball of fur was curled up in a corner of the big front window. It was a kitten only eight weeks old.
The other kittens in the big front window were much prettier. The yellow kitten’s eyes were the same color as its fur, and it didn’t have a tail. Manx cats don’t have tails, but this kitten was not a Manx. It was supposed to have a tail. The kitten, however, didn’t seem to know that she was different from other cats.
“Look at that cute white kitten, Mommy,” said a little girl, pointing to the cat next to the yellow one. “I want that one for Christmas.”
“All right, dear,” said her mother.
The white kitten contentedly licked its paws.
“I want that black cat,” said a little boy soon after. His father picked up the handsome black cat and paid Mr. Troy for it.
The calico cat, most of the puppies, the goldfish, and the birds were all chosen for pets. Even the hamsters, gerbils, and guinea pigs were bought and carried out by their new owners—but not the little yellow kitten.
“Look at that funny-looking cat,” cried one little boy. “Where’s its tail?”
Mr. Troy answered, “She doesn’t have one, but she’s a very nice cat.”
“What good is a cat without a tail?” retorted the little boy. “I want that gray kitten, Daddy, the one with the fluffy tail.”
Later the yellow kitten heard a noise and looked up. Mr. Troy was talking to her: “If you aren’t sold in the next few days, I don’t know what I’ll do. I can’t keep feeding a cat that isn’t sellable. This is a business, you know.” He shook his head sadly and walked away.
The yellow kitten liked Mr. Troy. He fed her and played nice music with words like angels, peace, good will, jingle bells, joy, sleigh rides, and Christmas. The kitten didn’t know what the words meant, but the music made her feel happy.
After Mr. Troy locked the pet shop door and started to clean up for the night, he heard a whimper coming from the front of the store. A little black puppy was snuffling around forlornly in his cage. Before the shop owner could decide what to do, the little yellow kitten sat next to the puppy’s cage and started to purr. And when the puppy curled up next to her, the kitten licked him through the bars of the cage. The puppy was soon asleep.
Relieved, because he wanted all his animals to be happy, Mr. Troy went home.
Before the shop opened the next day, a whole new shipment of puppies and kittens was delivered. Mr. Troy told the delivery man, “Business has been so good that I don’t think I’ll have any trouble selling them all before Christmas.”
Mr. Troy put the new kittens into the front window with the little yellow kitten. They ran round and round, making pitiful sounds because they were afraid. The yellow kitten went to each one and licked it on the nose. Soon the new kittens felt safe and began giving themselves baths. They purred in time to the Christmas music.
“Well, isn’t that something!” exclaimed Mr. Troy, who had been watching them. “I’ve never seen anything like that.” Just then his attention went to a small puppy that was yelping frantically. A much larger puppy was growling at it.
“Here, now. None of that,” said Mr. Troy. He took the small puppy out of the pen. The large puppy gave a final growl and lay down.
But the small puppy couldn’t stop shaking and whimpering, despite all that Mr. Troy tried to do. “I’m a busy man,” the shop owner explained placatingly, “and we’re opening soon. I can’t stand here holding you all day. What am I going to do?”
He looked around and saw the tiny, yellow kitten. As he looked at the puppy, then back at the kitten, he thought, Well, it’s worth a try, and he put the puppy right next to the little yellow kitten. In no time at all the two were playing contentedly with each other. Mr. Troy shook his head in wonder. “I think that that cat has something. She certainly calms the animals down.”
That day was the busiest day of the holiday season for Mr. Troy. People were in and out all day. The small puppy went to a kind old man. In fact, most of the new kittens and puppies were sold.
It was a busy day for the little yellow kitten, too, because whenever an animal became nervous or excited—and many of them did with all the hustle and bustle in the store—Mr. Troy put it in the front window with the yellow kitten. The little kitten licked and purred and played gently with the upset animal until it relaxed.
Mr. Troy was very tired but very happy as he closed up for the night and went home.
The next day was almost as busy for Mr. Troy and the little yellow kitten. Just before closing, the shop owner went to the front window and looked at the yellow kitten. “Well, tonight is Christmas Eve. You haven’t been sold, and I don’t think you ever will be. But it doesn’t matter. You’re something special. Tail or no tail, pretty or not, you are an exceptional cat. You bring peace to the other animals just as Christmas brings peace. I think I’ll call you my Christmas kitten.”
Suddenly the door opened. A man and his son ran in. “Are we too late?” the boy asked anxiously. “We need a kitten for my sister for tomorrow.” Looking in the front window, he added, “Let’s take that one with no tail. It’s different. OK, Dad?”
“It’s OK with me, Son. You’re the one who’s giving the present.”
Mr. Troy shook his head. “I’m sorry, but that one is not for sale. You may choose any of the others, though. You see, I need that yellow cat. You might say that she works for me.” He patted the yellow kitten on the head adding, “And after all, I am running a business.”

The sun has barely risen over the ocean. White morning glories cling tightly to the dunes. The strong breeze whipping in from the ocean all night long has carved the sand into waterlike ripples; no human footprint breaks the pattern. It is a deserted strip of Padre Island, off the coast of Texas.
Into this solitude roars a blue pickup truck, stopping at the edge of the wide, flat beach. Three young women haul five white Styrofoam coolers from the pickup bed. In the distance car doors slam. The high-pitched voices of teenage girls talking and laughing pierce the air.
The beginning of a wild beach party?
No way.
In the Styrofoam boxes are hundreds of newly hatched Kemp’s ridley sea turtles. This species is biologically extinct—there are so few reproducing females that its survival is considered impossible without intervention. The Young Women of Corpus Christi Third Ward are helping park rangers of Padre Island National Seashore save these turtles.
The girls stand in the surf listening attentively to instructions. Then each one arms herself with two aquarium nets. Meanwhile, a park ranger dons plastic gloves and begins taking baby turtles out of the first box, one by one. There are 66 of them, each small enough to be encircled by a bracelet.
A few do push-ups to limber up their flippers. After all, they hatched from golf ball-sized eggs only yesterday. Then the tiny black turtles crawl straight towards the ocean, following the sun.
“Oh, they’re so cute!” say the girls.
It’s hard to believe these little darlings will someday weigh 80–100 pounds and be up to two and a half feet long.
The turtles ignore three photographers. They ignore a park ranger filling in the hole of a menacing crab. They ignore a row of spectators standing just west, where their shadows won’t fall on the turtles and confuse them. They ignore a spotter yelling, “Here’s the first one … get ready!”
The lead turtle makes the water’s edge and is tossed rudely by an incoming wave. Still she crawls stubbornly forward, making a rippled track with her tiny flippers in the wet sand. After being thrown by several breakers, she finally gets deep enough in the water to swim.
Alert girls watch carefully. They must allow the turtle to swim for long enough to be “imprinted,” but not so long that she gets away. After a few moments, Michelle Boyd, 17, dips her net into the murky water and retrieves the turtle. Everyone claps.
“Yea Michelle. You got the first one!”
Not a single turtle must get away, for its chances of surviving in the wild at this age are only about one in a hundred.
“I was scared at first,” said Teresa Mareth, 14. “I thought I would lose a turtle. They would have been goners if we’d let them go.”
LDS seasonal park ranger Ann Neville trusted the girls enough to invite them to help, and their efforts were invaluable. On the day they came, there were five clutches of hatchlings to release. A clutch is the number of eggs, from 50 to 100, laid in a nest by one mother turtle. All the turtles in one clutch must be released at the same time.
“The girls did a real service,” said Ann. “We only have a staff of six to eight people. There’s no way we could do it all by ourselves, especially when we have several clutches hatch at once.”
Ann put the girls on call, since nobody knew for sure when the turtles would hatch. Once they did, the girls had to be there first thing the next morning.
None of the girls had ever seen a live sea turtle before. If their efforts indeed help save them, perhaps others will have the opportunity to see a Kemp’s ridley sea turtle someday.
“Man is not the only creature on earth that is important,” said Ann. “We are all linked together. When we help another creature to survive, we enhance our own survival.” Ann has worked with the harbor seal and the harbor porpoise in Alaska, both also endangered. “I love to be able to help an endangered species,” she says. “It helps you be in tune; makes you appreciate what’s around you.”
Each girl realized that her participation made a difference in the natural history of the world.
“I thought it was neat that we were saving little baby turtles,” said Michelle. “I felt I was a part of something. I learned a lot.”
“I learned to appreciate what we have; not to waste by killing animals just for fun,” said Beth Regen, 14. “They can become extinct.”
Sabrina Zmeskal, 13, really summed it up. “It made me feel special to know I had a part in history,” she said.
After all the turtles were recaptured, they were taken back to the ranger station. The girls celebrated with a brief dip in the ocean, then returned to Corpus Christi, leaving the beach release site as deserted as before. Only their footprints remained, to be filled in with the ever-blowing sand in a matter of hours. But if, because of their help, the Kemp’s ridley sea turtle survives, their footprints in history will remain unerased.

Christmas that year had promised to be one of our best ever. Jim had graduated from dental school earlier in the year, and we had expected that he would open his own office soon and that we would have plenty of money for a wonderful Christmas. I dreamed of new clothes, new Christmas decorations, fruitcake baking in the oven, and gifts for everyone.
Instead, our lives were in turmoil for months. It had been more difficult than I had imagined to leave our cozy apartment and good friends and move to a different part of the country. The move had depleted what was left of our scanty bank account, and new bills were piling up.
Then I became pregnant with our second child, nearly lost the baby, and was required to severely limit my activities. Jim was gone for what seemed endless hours, working late night after night trying to get the new business ready to open. When he was home, he was cheerful and good company, but I had never felt so alone.
The business finally opened its doors in November—one month later than we had planned—which left us behind on paying our bills. Earlier in the year, we had comforted ourselves with the belief that by this time, money would be coming in from Jim’s new dental practice. But it wasn’t happening yet. We had little money for food—and no money for anything extra.
I became more depressed as Christmas approached. We squeezed a few dollars from the budget to buy some storybooks and a toy for our eighteen-month-old son, Erik. I told myself that gifts under the tree were of no real importance, and that the spirit of Christmas was what truly mattered. But I just couldn’t feel that Christmas spirit.
I gift-wrapped the books and the toy and placed them under our much-used, second-hand artificial Christmas tree. We set up our cardboard Nativity scene and strung a few mismatched ornaments around the room.
When Christmas morning arrived, we carried Erik to the tree to open his presents. There was a lump of sadness in my throat as he opened his gifts. Where was the joy I was supposed to feel?
Then Jim put his arm around my shoulders and placed a small package on my lap. My fingers trembled as I tore away the wrapping paper and found a red velvet box. I couldn’t believe it! Only expensive gifts came in boxes like that. Where could Jim have found the money?
As I opened it, my heart seemed to stop. Inside was the pendant Jim had given me for an earlier Christmas, before we were married. With it was a note: “With love—again. Jim.”
My eyes filled with tears as I realized that the pendant represented his love for me. The ache in my heart vanished and was replaced by a feeling of inexpressible love and joy. I felt the spirit of Christmas at last.
I will never forget the lesson a compassionate husband taught me that Christmas morning—that love is the most precious gift of all.

Born on January 8, 1805, in Oxford, Connecticut, Orson was the tenth child in a family of eleven born to Nathan and Sally Thorpe Hyde. At seven Orson was left homeless; then his mother died shortly after giving birth to her 11th child, and his father drowned in 1817. Homeless and orphaned, Orson was placed in the care of Nathan Wheeler of Derby, Connecticut, with whom he lived until he was 18. He was apparently happy, but as he matured, a yearning for education made him restless. However, before he could leave the Wheelers to seek an education, Mr. Wheeler’s business failed and the family moved from Connecticut to the cheap, fertile land of Kirtland, Ohio. Orson was 14 years old and walked the entire 600 miles with clothing and food in a knapsack slung over his back. The trip was exhausting but good experience for many similar adventures yet to come.

Elder Sorensen remembered that some of the happiest times that he had were the summers he spent with his cousins on his uncle’s farm in Idaho. “Three of us boys, all about the same age, slept in an old bed out in the orchard under an apple tree. It was there on the farm that I learned to milk cows, thin beets, and weed potatoes. We were allowed to help thresh the peas when the big steam threshing machine came to our farm. Some people thought that that was hard work, but I thought that it was fun—and I still like to ‘farm’ in my big garden in Salt Lake City when I can.”

One Sunday after church, I told my mom, “Our bishop has to stay after church a long time after everyone else goes home. I’d like to take him a snack.”
The next week, my brother, Tyler, and I took blueberry muffins to Bishop Schmidt after church. My mom said that I’m following Jesus when I think of other people.
I’m thankful for our bishop and for all the time he gives to our ward.