Gospel Story Finder

My wife, Nancy, is also a convert to the Church. She has mentioned to me many times over the years the joy she has felt in her life since finding, accepting, and living the gospel of Jesus Christ. What follows is a reflection from Sister Maynes on her experience:

“As a young adult in my early 20s, I was at a point in my life when I knew I needed to change something in order to be a happier person. I felt like I was adrift with no real purpose and direction, and I didn’t know where to go to find it. I had always known that Heavenly Father existed and occasionally throughout my life had said prayers, feeling that He listened.

“As I began my search, I attended several different churches but would always fall back into the same feelings and discouragement. I feel very blessed because my prayer for direction and purpose in life was ultimately answered, and the fulness of the gospel of Jesus Christ was brought into my life. For the first time I felt like I had a purpose, and the plan of happiness brought real joy into my life.”

Garth and Eloise Andrus of Draper, Utah, USA, know what it means to have a missionary-minded family. They have 17 grandsons who have served missions, and they have served six missions themselves.
Fostering a spirit of missionary service in your family is something that begins from the time children are young, Brother Andrus said.
Sister Andrus agreed. “You don’t leave serving a mission as a silent expectation, but you talk to your kids and grandkids about it like it’s not a question—when you go on your mission, not if,” she said.
Teaching youth who they are by setting an example of missionary service is also important. Brother and Sister Andrus accepted their first call in 1980, just as their youngest son was leaving on his mission.
One grandson wrote them after receiving a gift they sent to help him prepare for his mission. “He thanked us [for the gift], but said, ‘Far more important is to thank you for the example that you have set,’” Sister Andrus said.

by Jeffery A. Lee and Paul Scott Embley
What do you get when you combine 39 Hollanders, eight missionaries, and five eight-foot sandwiches? The young members of the Groningen Branch, Netherlands Amsterdam Mission, found out when they joined their nonmember friends, the missionaries, and fellow branch members in the park. The combination means you’re having an American picnic, Dutch style.
Actually, the fun began the night before when the Aaronic Priesthood and the Young Women gathered to fill the lengthy loaves. Armed with spoons, knives, ham, bologna, cheese, lettuce, pickles, and condiments, they soon stuffed the “submarines” amply enough to satisfy any appetite.
The next morning, an unexpected problem arose: how do you transport five eight-foot sandwiches to the park when the major means of transportation is bicycles? The answer was easy—recruit a Volkswagen! Such a car may already seem small to some people, but it seemed even smaller stuffed with super sandwiches!
But the sandwiches arrived and so did the crowd, with young and old enjoying each other’s company. The picnic started with contests: tossing raw eggs between partners, three-legged races, wheelbarrow racing, Frisbee throwing, volleyball, and soccer.
The games were followed by a testimony meeting, during which the picnickers discussed their love for their Savior, Jesus Christ. Then, finally, it was time to eat. Even though everyone’s hunger was great, they found it small compared to the size of the sandwiches—a total of 40 feet of bread and fillings.

One gracious mother joyously recounted in a stake conference the marvelous experience of being in one of the temples with her husband and with all of her children but one and being sealed together as husband and wife and family for time and all eternity. Her husband, newly involved in the priesthood, sat in the conference audience a few rows back. For a moment she seemed to forget all of the rest of us and spoke only to him. Over the pulpit and through the loudspeaker, with more than a thousand people in tears watching and listening, she said: “John, the children and I don’t know how to tell you what you mean to us. Until you honored the priesthood, the greatest blessings of eternity would not open up for us. Now they have. We all love you very much, and we thank you with all our hearts for what you have made possible for us.”

Let me share a small personal example involving you—or at least someone like you. Some time ago, I had one of those days in which nothing seemed to be going right. The issues I was facing seemed to have no solutions. No one seemed happy with what was happening, and I was completely unsure why I was in the position that I am in. Fortunately those kinds of days are rare. But this was one of them. I just wanted to go home and be left alone.

However, several weeks earlier, Peggy and I had made an appointment to attend a temple session that evening. I recall hearing in my head President Nelson urging us to not only make an appointment to be in the Lord’s holy house but also to “keep that appointment with exactness and joy.” So I went to the temple, trying to be joyful and pleading to know what to do and to feel what I needed to feel.

I felt calmer during the endowment session, but I was still somewhat unsettled when the session ended. Peggy and I spent some time in the celestial room talking about tender mercies she had encountered in the session. Then a young couple came over and introduced themselves as BYU students. They just wanted to thank us for all that we did to make BYU a great place. They were full of joy and gratitude; it was clear that BYU had impacted them in a powerful way. This was its own tender mercy—maybe a miracle—to me.

Later, after changing into my street clothes and heading to the lobby to leave, I thought I should add someone’s name to the prayer roll—a practice I usually follow.

At first I thought: “No name comes to mind. Maybe I should just skip it this time.”

But then I thought, “Surely someone can use a temple blessing.”

So I went over to the area where there are both individual slips of paper and a notepad for adding names to the prayer roll. I wrote a name on one slip and put it into the box. I then glanced down at the list of names on the notepad that had been entered by different people. I usually pay no attention to that list, but, for some reason, this time I scanned the list, and partway down I saw my name: “Kevin Worthen.” I was almost overcome. Someone, maybe one of the students in the celestial room, had entered my name on the prayer roll that day. I felt a feeling of complete peace and a deep reassurance that everything would work out. And it did.

Some might think it was just a coincidence that someone wrote my name on the prayer roll list that day, that weeks earlier I had made an appointment to attend the temple on that day, and that on that day I happened to glance at the list. But for me it was a miracle—one God knew that I needed and that, consistent with President Nelson’s promise, God provided.

Many Latter-day Saint couples have asked themselves at one time or another: “Is my husband (or wife) progressing with me spiritually? Are we equal?”
In my earlier years of marriage, I found myself asking these questions and was discouraged by what I perceived to be the answers. Although my husband was an excellent father, I often felt irritated and angry. I wanted him to fit the image of what I thought he should be. I had certain ideals and goals that I wanted implanted in him.
One day, I turned to my father for advice. Because of his training as a psychiatrist, I knew he wouldn’t be too critical of his son-in-law. His first words were like a bucket of cold water over me: “Martha, if you continue like this, you could drive your husband away.”
My jaw dropped. “What do you mean by that?” I asked. This wasn’t going at all as I had expected.
He held up his hand to ward off my indignation. “Just let me explain. Not long ago, I counseled a Latter-day Saint woman who had left a basically good marriage. She felt her husband wasn’t living all the Church standards. Years of nagging and pleading hadn’t changed him. She thought that if she left him, he would change his ways in order to win her back. She never suspected that he would find someone else who loved and respected him as he was. He remarried happily after their divorce, and she was devastated.”
Why am I getting this lecture? I wondered. I had never considered leaving my husband. “Are you saying I should just quit being assertive and forget my own ideals?” I asked defensively.
“No, I’m saying lead but don’t drive. Be gentle in your persuasion while recognizing his strengths and achievements. Be an example without criticizing. In your rush to achieve your goals, you may be sending a silent message that he’s not good enough for you. He’s a good man, Martha, and he needs to know that you think so, too.”
I sat, unable to speak as tears welled in my eyes. I was torn. I understood my father’s words, but I expected my husband to be what I had always dreamed of.
My father tried a different approach. “Have you heard the story about the farmer who hitched two mice to his wagon? His neighbor saw him climbing into the wagon and laughed at the farmer. ‘You don’t really expect those two little mice to pull that wagon, do you?’ he asked. The farmer replied, ‘Why not? I have a whip.’”
I laughed in spite of myself. The image of me in the wagon was clear. I had been using anger and resentment as my whip, with just about the same chance for success.
“Okay, I guess I am being too pushy,” I said. “But I see other men who lead the way I want to be led. Is it wrong to expect that?”
Dad’s voice was gentle but firm. “You are going about this with the wrong attitude. One of the most treacherous developments in any marriage is when partners wonder if they made the right choice. The marriage begins to fall apart because they quit working at it.”
“Dad,” I interrupted, “it’s because I love him that I get discouraged. I want him to reach his full potential.”
“It’s all a matter of loyalty. Do you realize that disloyalty begins with your thoughts—that you are actually being disloyal when you compare your husband to others?”
I was losing my argument fast, and I knew it. I tried one more time: “My commitment to him is eternal. The day-to-day choices he makes as the priesthood leader affect the family eternally.”
“Patience and love are eternal, too.” He opened his scriptures and read: “No power or influence can or ought to be maintained by virtue of the priesthood, only by persuasion, by long-suffering, by gentleness and meekness, and by love unfeigned;
“By kindness, and pure knowledge, which shall greatly enlarge the soul without hypocrisy, and without guile” (D&C 121:41–42).
I knew these verses. They were written for priesthood holders about exercising unrighteous dominion. Why was he reading them to me?
“These two verses,” he explained, “contain the elements for success in any relationship—and especially the relationship between husband and wife. One of the great challenges in marriage is to accept all the differences in personality, background, and motivation—and to work toward being one in purpose. That’s no easy task, and it may take a lifetime. But as you pointed out, marriage is an eternal commitment.”
Then he told me about a farmer he had known when he was a boy. The man used to catch wild horses in northern Arizona. They were free and available to anyone who wanted to catch them, but they were difficult to tame and train. Late at night, he would round up part of the herd into a temporary corral near the watering hole. Then he would select the best one and tie one end of a cotton rope around its neck and the other end to his strong white mule, leaving just enough space for them to travel side by side. Then he would leave them in the desert to work out their own compromises.
The mule knew the way home and would gladly travel in that direction. If the horse tried to go another way, the mule would stand firm and not go. If the mule got off track, the horse would be unwilling to move. So it went until they had worked through their differences. Within two weeks, the two would come trotting home to food and shelter. The horse would be ready for training, and it and the mule would behave as though they had been together all their lives. Dad added, “I almost left out the most important part: that rope around their necks was a very soft rope.”

A few years ago, when I was serving in the South America Northwest Area and living in Peru, I had a beautiful experience that I would like to share with you.
It happened when I was returning home after a busy weekend of assignments. After finally completing the airport immigration process, I found a friendly taxi driver waiting for me from our usual taxi service. He took me to his car, and I sat in the back, ready to relax and enjoy a quiet trip home. After driving a few blocks, the driver received a phone call from his supervisor telling him I took the wrong taxi. A different car was reserved for me, and the supervisor asked him to take me back to the airport if I wanted to change cars. I told him it was not necessary, and we could keep going. After a few minutes of silence, he looked at me through the rearview mirror and asked, “You are a Mormon, aren’t you?”
Well, after that inviting question, I knew my quiet moments were over. I could not resist exploring where his question would take us.
I learned that his name was Omar, his wife’s name was Maria Teresa, and they had two children—Carolina, age 14, and Rodrigo, age 10. Omar had been a member of the Church since he was a child. His family was active, but at some point, his parents stopped going to church. Omar became completely inactive when he was 15. He was then 40 years old.
At that moment I realized I did not take the wrong taxi. It was not a coincidence! I told him who I was and that I was in his taxi because the Lord was calling him back to His fold.
We then talked about the time he and his family were active members of the Church. He had fond memories of sweet family home evening moments and some Primary songs. He then softly sang a few words of “I Am a Child of God.”
After getting his address, phone number, and permission to share with his bishop, I told him I would find a way to be in the chapel on his first day back to church. We finished our trip from the airport to my home, as well as our little trip to his past, and we went our separate ways.
A few weeks later his bishop called me, telling me Omar was planning to attend church on a certain Sunday. I told him I would be there. That Sunday, Omar was there with his son. His wife and daughter were not yet interested. A few months later, his bishop called me again, this time to tell me that Omar would be baptizing his wife and his two children, and he invited me to be there. Here is the picture of that Sunday where they were confirmed members of the Church.
That same Sunday, I told Omar and his family that if they were prepared, in one year I would be honored to perform their sealing in the Lima Peru Temple. Here is a picture of that memorable moment for all of us, taken one year later.
Let’s start with the first scenario, good members who have left the covenant path, as happened with my Peruvian friend Omar. When I asked him why he decided to return, he said it was because he and his wife felt their children would be happier in life with the gospel of Jesus Christ. He felt it was about time to go back to church for the sake of their children.

When I was about eight years old, I attended Lafayette School, which was very close to Temple Square. One day at lunchtime, my mother took me out for lunch at the Lion House, which is a house where President Brigham Young used to live. While we were there, she noticed President Heber J. Grant eating lunch. Taking me over, she introduced me to him, and he shook my hand. I knew he was different from other men. Since that time, I have shaken hands with the next eight Presidents of the Church. Each time, I could feel the honor and dignity of the prophet.

Probably all of us have had experiences when we really needed someone to help us. I remember once as a small boy I surely did. While playing on a mountainside near our home, I fell into the middle of a huge, prickly cactus plant. Oh, did it hurt! The prickly spines of the cactus went through my sneakers, through my stockings, through my trousers, through my shirt—they went through everything! I felt like a human dart board.
Immediately I let out a cry that was loud enough to shake the mountains. I couldn’t move up, down, in, or out. Every movement I made seemed to send those needles deeper and deeper into my skin. I just stayed there and howled.
I was five years old at the time and my older brother, who immediately rushed to my rescue, was eight. He was overwhelmed at the sight of me and the complexity of my plight. Nevertheless, he began to pull out some of the spines, but they seemed to hurt more coming out than going in and I howled even louder. Furthermore, the pin-size wounds bled so when the spines were removed that after a few minutes I looked like an advertisement for Red Cross donations.
Finally my brother saw that his feeble plucking was hopeless. There were dozens of spines yet to pull, and I was still screaming at the top of my lungs. He did the only thing an eight-year-old brother could do. He ran down the mountain, got his small red wagon, and labored painfully to get it up the side of the hill to where I was awaiting death—I thought. With some tugging and hauling and lifting—and plenty of noise from me—he got me out of the cactus and into the wagon. Then in some miraculous way, known only to children and Providence, he navigated me down off that steep mountain in his wagon.
The rest of the story is blurred in my memory. As I recall, my mother got me out of my clothes and the rest of the prickly spines out of me. What I do remember clearly and will never forget is the sight of my brother tugging that wagon and determinedly making his way toward me. He was so concerned that he worked wonderfully hard to get to me. If I live to be one hundred, I suppose no memory of my brother will be more vivid than the view I had of him that day. I needed him desperately. And there he was, coming to help!

When I was ten years old, my best friend was a Methodist. He and I determined that we would know which of our churches was true based on whether Southern Methodist University or BYU won the Holiday Bowl game to be played on December 19, 1980.
It did not look good for the Restoration when BYU trailed by twenty points with four minutes left. Then the Cougars recovered an onside kick and scored. Then they blocked a punt and scored. Then, with no time left on the clock, quarterback Jim McMahon threw a Hail Mary pass that Clay Brown caught amid a thicket of defenders in the end zone.1
It was a miracle. Now I knew which church was true. It was that simple.
In football, as you may know, a Hail Mary is a hope-filled prayer that the trailing team offers in the form of a desperate pass into the end zone with no time remaining. I did not know while watching the game that a Hail Mary is also a Catholic prayer. That fact interrupted my ignorance sometime after the game when I learned about Clay Brown’s postgame comment: “It was a Hail Mary,” he said. “That’s all right, Jim and I are both Catholics.”2
Wait, what? Two Catholics connected to bring to pass the miracle? My childish conclusion was less simple than I had thought.
However, everything became simple and certain again early the following spring, when the BYU men’s basketball team trailed Notre Dame 49–50, facing elimination in the NCAA tournament with just a few seconds left. That is when Danny Ainge took the inbounds pass, dribbled the length of the floor, went between, around, and finally over future NBA players, and scored the winning basket with two seconds left.3
That is a true story. Well, it is actually more complex than that. It is a historical narrative.

On my mission, I decided to become the world’s greatest scripture expert. I assumed that would be sort of hard but not too hard. When I returned to BYU after my mission, I enrolled in courses on biblical Hebrew and on the Old Testament. I discovered that the Old Testament is really, really complex. I had assumed that Moses wrote the so-called books of Moses, or the Pentateuch. Then I actually read them and realized that if he did, he did it in a weird way, which raised some questions.
One question was epistemological: How did Moses know what happened “in the beginning” with Adam and Eve and Noah and Abraham? The Bible doesn’t answer that question. The book of Moses in the Pearl of Great Price answers it. It says that God revealed the beginning to Moses. The book of Moses tells how Moses knew. It doesn’t tell who the author is or how they know what Moses knew. Neither the Bible nor the book of Moses answer the authorship question. Both the Pentateuch in the Old Testament and the book of Moses in the Pearl of Great Price are written from an omniscient third-person perspective that doesn’t disclose whose it is or how they know what they know.
The Pentateuch includes the story of Moses’s death and burial in Deuteronomy 34, but Alma 45:19 says, “The Lord took Moses unto himself.” And Mormon cites “the scriptures” as his source of that knowledge, so Mormon’s scriptures tell a different story than our Bible does. That should be enough Old Testament talk to illustrate my trip from simplicity to complexity. The more I studied the Old Testament, the less I knew—or, rather, the more metacognitive I became about how little I knew and about how complicated knowing actually was.
About that time I took Religion 341, the elective Church history class titled Joseph Smith and the Restoration. I decided that I had to know everything my professor knew and how she knew it. I caught up to her in the hallway of the Eyring Science Center after class one day and asked how I could do what she did. She smiled and said, “Get a PhD.”
So I did. Along the way I learned that the Restoration is richly documented. There are lots of best books—meaning primary sources of knowledge. You can find many of them at josephsmithpapers.org. They include Joseph Smith’s autobiographies, journals, letters, translation manuscripts, and revelation manuscripts. It was thrilling to me to realize that I could study the handwritten source material of a real live revelator. I learned how to read the sources. Literally, I learned to read the handwriting, but I also learned to be source critical so I could assess what the sources could tell me and what they couldn’t. I have been reading those best books ever since.

As a BYU student, I had an experience that catalyzed my life as a seeker. I got to work with esteemed professors, one a Methodist named Jan Shipps, the other a Latter-day Saint named John (Jack) Welch. They were copublishing the journals that William E. McLellin, an early convert to the restored gospel, wrote from 1831 to 1836. I was assigned to help Professor Shipps compare the original journals to typed copies to ensure accuracy. I read William’s journal entries closely as I learned the historical method and document editing. Those academic disciplines were entwined with evidence that Joseph Smith was a revelator.
In the summer of 1831, William gained an enduring testimony of the Book of Mormon by what he called “examinations searches and researches” and “earnest prayr to God to direct me into truth.”9 He wrote later about how he prayed for a revelation from the Lord through Joseph:
I went before the Lord in secret, and on my knees asked him to reveal the answer to five questions through his Prophet, and that too without his having any knowledge of my having made such request. I now testify in the fear of God, that every question which I had thus lodged in the ears of the Lord . . . were answered to my full and entire satisfaction. I desired it for a testimony of Joseph’s inspiration. And I to this day consider it to me an evidence which I cannot refute.10
William was the scribe for that revelation, now found in Doctrine and Covenants 66. He copied it carefully into his journal after these words: “The Lord condecended to hear my prayr and give me a revelation of his will, through his prophet or seer (Joseph)—And these are the words which I wrote from his mouth.”11 William bore a kind of testimony at the end of the revelation when he heavily underlined the words Joseph Smith, Revelator.12 In a letter to his relatives, William testified that Joseph Smith was “a Prophet, a Seer and Revelater to the church of christ.”13
Working with sources of knowledge like Joseph’s revelation manuscripts and William McLellin’s journals and letters showed me that brainwork could strengthen my faith. It also exposed some of my assumptions. It taught me to think more carefully and critically. My definition of a revelator became more complex and more justifiable. Working with sources of knowledge helped me to expect and to cope with ambiguity and paradox in people, including prophets like Joseph Smith and apostles like William McLellin.

That is one chapter in a long story of how I became a seeker and how studying the best books with rigorous faith led to my knowledge that Joseph Smith is a revelator. It is a true story.

Jacob and Abby walked to their car in the church parking lot. Their mom and younger sister, Sylvie, were waiting for them. Mom looked tired. She was going to have a baby soon, and Jacob knew she felt tired a lot.
“I’ll be glad when your dad gets home from his work trip on Tuesday,” Mom said.
“Me too,” Jacob said.
“I’m hungry,” Sylvie said.
Jacob was hungry too.
“I don’t know what we’re going to have for lunch,” Mom said. “I didn’t feel well yesterday, and I didn’t go to the store like I planned to.” She sighed. “I think we might need to go out for lunch today.”
“Really?” Abby said.
“Just this once,” Mom said. “We’ll go through the drive-through. I’m too tired to cook.”
Jacob sat in the back of the car, feeling confused. His family didn’t go out to eat very often, and it was a real treat. But he was thinking about something he had learned in Primary a few weeks ago. He learned about keeping the Sabbath day holy. His teacher said that Sunday is the Lord’s day and that the prophets have said we shouldn’t go to stores, restaurants, or movies on Sunday. Jacob knew he had promised to keep the commandments. But he really didn’t want to miss out on lunch. And it wasn’t as if they did this all the time.
As they got closer to the restaurant, Jacob didn’t like the way he was feeling. He said a silent prayer that he would know what to do.
They pulled up to the drive-through. Mom rolled down the window and said, “I’d like a cheeseburger and a salad please.”
Then Abby and Sylvie gave their orders. Jacob was next.
“Jacob, what do you want?” Mom asked.
In a quiet voice, Jacob said, “Nothing.”
Mom looked surprised. “Aren’t you hungry?”
“I just don’t want anything,” Jacob said.
There was silence in the car, and then Abby said, “I think Jacob doesn’t want to break the Sabbath.”
Mom turned around and looked at Jacob. “Well,” she said, “Jacob is right.” She turned back to the window and said, “We’ve changed our minds. We’re going home for lunch.”
“You mean I don’t get my hamburger?” Sylvie asked as they drove away.
“You get something better,” Mom said. “You get to keep the commandments and honor the Lord’s day. We can have eggs and toast at home. That will be quick and good.”
“Maybe later Abby and I can make some cookies,” Jacob said.
“That would be fine,” Mom said. “But I’ve already had a treat today. I’ve had a reminder that we can always choose the right, even when other people are doing something they shouldn’t. You set a good example for our family today, Jacob. I’m proud of you.”
Jacob smiled as they drove home. The confused feeling was gone. He knew that what he felt now was better than any restaurant lunch.

It was still dark when Gray Cougar awoke. The Indian boy faced the red fingers of light in the eastern sky and prayed as he did each morning. Last night he had not expected to see another dawn! Despite the pain in his right shoulder and ribs, he was filled with gratitude.
Now if I can only find the strength to get back to my village and the medicine man, he thought. Or would it be better, perhaps, if I didn’t go back? he began to wonder.
He had failed his mission. How his older brothers would laugh! They had said he was too young to scale the buttes and bring back an eagle feather. Not that he had intended to pluck one from a living eagle, however. Just the thought of their strong talons made him shiver with dread, to say nothing of the powerful wings and formidable beak!
Gray Cougar had hoped to be lucky enough to find a shed tail feather among the rocks. He was weary of the good-natured gibes of Red Fox and Standing Bear, his brothers, who were almost braves. Eagle feathers were highly prized among his people, and owning such a trophy would bring respect.
The Indian boy clenched his jaw to keep from groaning aloud as he moved down the steep boulder-strewn slope. He crept like an old man and held his injured arm tightly against his chest to ease the pain. Last night he hadn’t expected the fierce wind on the high irregular hilltops, but he had fought it and almost reached a huge nest of sticks when his moccasin slipped. Gray Cougar had dangled helplessly by his hands for what seemed like hours, feeling for a foothold. Then a mighty gust blasted him loose and he had fallen onto the slope below, where he rolled down against a large rock. He had slept a deathlike sleep for a long time, and the sun was setting when he opened his eyes. And with darkness upon him, he had not yet reached the canyon floor. Gray Cougar slumped down between boulders as drowsiness overcame him.
A white youth would have died of thirst in the blistering desert heat as the sun rose higher, but even in his delirium Gray Cougar knew where to dig holes in the sand and how to be patient as the water seeped in. It was bitter, but safe to drink. There were cool springs and threads of waterfalls among the buttes, but he had no strength to climb them.
Because he was dazed and sick, Gray Cougar was not as cautious as he would normally have been. At a turn in the canyon, his eyes widened with fear when he saw oxen and a covered wagon! He could not run. The bronzed youth sagged against a boulder and stoically watched a white man snatch up a long gun and turn. Gray Cougar closed his eyes. Will I hear the lightning crack of the shot—or will the pain come first? he wondered matter-of-factly. He was too feverish and sick to worry about it. But it seemed ironic that he had struggled so hard to reach his death place!
The man could easily have slain him from beside the wagon. Consequently, Gray Cougar felt hope as he heard him approach. The boy opened his eyes and tried to understand the strange-sounding words, but all he could make out was a series of croaks. Then he noticed the man’s swollen tongue and cracked lips and the lowered heads and glazed eyes of the team of oxen. The stranger, who wore fancy clothing from the east, must be asking for water!
Gray Cougar looked around, trying to concentrate on where he was. His face lit up when he saw the towering needle rock far above them. There, he knew, was a cool spring with lush green grass growing all around it just south of the stone needle. But I cannot help him, he worried. I cannot climb to show the way, and we cannot speak to each other. Then Gray Cougar had an idea. I can draw a map in the sand!
The sick youth pointed to the high rock then moved his finger south. He pretended to scoop up water and drink. Then he knelt and made marks in the hot sand. “How far? How far?” the white man cried. But Gray Cougar only stared in puzzlement and pointed to his injured shoulder and side.
“I’m sorry. I am hurt. I cannot lead you there,” he said, thinking that was what the man asked.
The man took two canteens and a wooden bucket from the wagon. He copied the crude map on a paper then disappeared among the rocks. Gray Cougar crawled beneath the heavy wagon and dozed off in the shade.
Splashes of cold water from an overflowing barrel lashed to the back of the wagon shocked the boy awake. The man must have made many trips to fill it, Gray Cougar thought. He gritted his teeth to keep from crying out when he tried to squirm from under the covered wagon. With every heartbeat the pain throbbed agonizingly.
The white man stooped to help prop the young Indian against one of the wagon wheels. He probed gently, watching the boy’s face. Then tearing a blanket into long pieces, he wrapped some strips tightly around the bruised ribs. Gray Cougar took a deep breath and smiled. There was no more knife-like pain. Next the man folded a square cloth into a triangle and made a sling that he knotted and slipped around Gray Cougar’s neck. The throbbing shoulder eased when his arm was supported. They smiled at each other. Each had helped the other. Words were not needed.
After they had eaten, they sat by the fire. The desert chilled quickly once the sun was gone. Gray Cougar wished he could talk to the man. Why is he here alone? Where is he going? What do the large black markings painted on the canvas mean? He stood and traced the letters with his finger then looked wonderingly at his companion, unaware that the letters spelled TAXIDERMIST.
The man chuckled, then began to pull boxes from the wagon. Gray Cougar stared in amazement when the man lifted out a stuffed red squirrel that was standing upright with a nut in its paws. It looked so alive he expected it to scurry away! There were birds, other small mammals, and even a coiled and deadly looking rattlesnake.
“They are for a new museum in San Francisco,” the man said proudly, as though Gray Cougar could understand. “I’m going to settle there and open a shop. Here, take a look at this one. A man found it dead beside the river and gave it to me.”
“Aiii!” Gray Cougar gasped, as a very large box yielded up an adult golden eagle, frozen in timeless splendor.
Eyes glowing with excitement, the youth pointed to the tail feathers, the bluffs, and then to his injured side. The man’s face cleared, and he made a motion as though sticking a feather in his long black hair. He knew eagle feathers were prized by the Indians. The boy was probably injured while searching for one, he decided. The taxidermist had collected many extra feathers to fill out the plumage of his specimens. Now he began to sort through a long, flat box. There were many bright feathers, but there were none from an eagle. He was sorry he could not give one to Gray Cougar.
The Indian youth examined the feathers, ignoring familiar ones. He gasped again as he lifted out an iridescent peacock feather. The end of it seemed to have an eye surrounded by rainbow colors! What manner of bird can be so richly dressed! he wondered. Gray Cougar could not even imagine what such a bird would look like. He was awed and delighted when the white man put the jewel-like plume in the boy’s hair and closed the box. His brothers and the other villagers would be astounded and impressed when the boy returned home wearing the exotic feather.
The man tried to describe a peacock. He strutted back and forth and swept his hands in a huge circle. Then he measured where the bird’s head would reach.
It was difficult to believe the man, yet he had no reason to lie. His feather came from a great bird that walked proudly but could not fly! And its tail feathers formed a huge warbonnet like a chief’s!
Gray Cougar grinned mischievously as he considered the flood of questions Red Fox and Standing Bear would ask. They would never believe such a bird existed. He decided he would just smile mysteriously and not answer. They would probably not tease him again. Instead, they and the other envious youths would rush off to the buttes to try to find feathers like his.
As though he could read Gray Cougar’s thoughts, the white man’s laughter boomed out at the thought of such scrambling.

They aren’t great basketball players, but they are determined, I thought as I watched the opposing team run up and down the court.
They were younger, less experienced, and shorter than our basketball team. But they kept on trying, even when it was clear that they didn’t have a chance of winning.
Randy, a boy with sandy-blond hair, played like he didn’t know what the score was. Although he rarely had possession of the ball, he chased it up and down the court as if the whole game depended on him.
When his teammates did pass him the ball, he would carry it four steps, stop, bounce it, and pass it to another player. But the referees didn’t call a penalty, and no one complained. Randy, who is mentally handicapped, was doing his best.
With seconds left on the clock, he got the ball and his teammates yelled for him to shoot. Concentrating so hard that his tongue hung out of his mouth, he shot—and missed. One of our players rebounded the ball, hesitated, and then tossed the ball to Randy.
“Shoot the ball!” our player yelled, and members of both teams joined in the cheer.
The ball went up, hit the rim, and bounced off. Again, Randy was given the ball, and again he missed. Time had run out, but the buzzer didn’t sound, and the referees stayed at half court. Everyone yelled for him to try again. This time the ball arched and swished the net, and the last two points of the game belonged to Randy.
The crowd went wild, and the members of both teams surrounded Randy to congratulate him. He jumped up and down as though he had won the game. And I realized that he had.
And so had every player in that game. They had been true sportsmen: fair and generous. That night no one went home feeling angry or disappointed. There was no bragging or teasing. There were no losers, only winners.

Now another covenant story.
While in school at BYU I always had the calling of Priests' Quorum Advisor. I tried to prepare a good lesson for Sunday morning, but I did not have the time to really magnify my calling. I was taking a full load in school, working twenty hours a week, serving in the Utah National Guard and striving to get good grades so that I could get into graduate school.
Many times I felt a guilt complex for not giving more time to spiritual things, like service projects, going the second mile in Home Teaching, spending more personal time with those young Priests, or other acts of charity.
Eventually, this feeling drove me to my knees and I poured out my heart to Heavenly Father. I counseled with Him. I tried to explain my circumstances, my burdens, my sorrow for not being more giving of my time. I made a covenant with Heavenly Father: if He would be patient and forgiving and would help me get through BYU and graduate school, as soon as I was out of school, I promised that I would make "serving the Lord" my highest priority in life. That I would accept every calling that came from His servants, and that I would be faithful and valiant in everything He would ask of me or my family. I really meant it.
The Lord heard my prayers. He quickened my mind in my studies. He provided jobs and income to get through school. He helped me finish at BYU and graduate from Arizona State in 1966. I am so grateful. I cannot thank Him enough. I was so ready to keep that covenant.
We graduated from school and accepted a job in Portland, Oregon. We moved into an inner-city ward that really needed help.
Myreel became a Primary President at 22 years old. I became an early morning seminary teacher, young men's president, Sunday school teacher, and helped with Elder's Quorum projects. A year later, I was called to be the Bishop of our ward. Since then the Lord has blessed us with countless opportunities to serve for which we are most grateful. And I think it goes back to that covenant in 1965.

A tragic example of this tendency is the story of Ignaz Semmelweis, a Hungarian physician who practiced medicine during the mid-nineteenth century. Early in his career, Dr. Semmelweis learned that 10 percent of the women who came to his clinic died of childbed fever, while the death rate at a nearby clinic was less than 4 percent. He was determined to find out why.

After investigating the two clinics, Dr. Semmelweis concluded that the only significant difference was that his was a teaching clinic where corpses were examined. He observed doctors who went directly from performing autopsies to delivering babies. He concluded that somehow the corpses had contaminated their hands and caused the deadly fevers.

When he began to recommend that doctors scrub their hands with a chlorinated lime solution, he was met with indifference and even scorn. His conclusions contradicted the “truths” of other doctors. Some of his colleagues even believed that it was absurd to think that a doctor’s hand could be impure or cause sickness.

But Semmelweis insisted, and he made it a policy for doctors in his clinic to wash their hands before delivering babies. As a consequence, the death rate promptly dropped by 90 percent. Semmelweis felt vindicated and was certain that this practice would now be adopted throughout the medical community. But he was wrong. Even his dramatic results were not enough to change the minds of many doctors of the day.

The first significant event in Opapo’s life was a dream he had as a young man. In it, he saw two foreign missionaries come into his village, walk directly to his fale (hut), and sit down. That’s where the dream ended; but when two Latter-day Saint missionaries entered his house a few years later, he recognized them as the men in his dream, and the Spirit strongly confirmed to him that their message was true.
Everything was ready for this man to do a great work among his Samoan people.
The records show that he and his wife, Toai, were baptized in 1890, two years after the Samoan Mission was opened. By 1890 the Samoans were already familiar with the tenets of Christianity. The London Missionary Society had begun proselyting in 1830, followed by the Catholics and the Methodists soon afterwards. Blessed with a deep faith in the Savior, the people were familiar with spiritual gifts and miracles. But as my grandfather accepted the gospel and joined this struggling little church, the signs promised to the believers in Christ began to follow him in an extraordinary way, even among those faithful people.
Ironically, there was bitter hostility between the groups who claimed to worship the Savior and love him. Mormons bore persecution and ridicule and were even nicknamed “cowboys” because Joseph Smith had grown up on a farm. Through it all, Opapo was fearless and faithful, recognized as a leader among the Latter-day Saints.
In 1904, he and a few others founded a settlement called Sauniatu (“Preparing to Go Forward”), a small sanctuary for the Saints in the mountains of Upolu. Shortly after the first chapel was built, the small cooking house behind it caught on fire and, despite the efforts of the people to carry water from the river, the fire spread rapidly, endangering the chapel itself. Then people noticed that Opapo had climbed atop the chapel and sat astride its roof-beam. Raising his right arm, he looked to heaven and said, “Father, we can spare the small house, but we cannot spare the big one. In the name of Jesus Christ and by the power of the holy priesthood, I command the wind to change.”
It did; the small house collapsed, and the chapel was saved. Not only was the chapel spared, but the Sauniatu Saints’ faith was strengthened at a very difficult time.
Blessed also with the gift of prophecy, he influenced the lives of many. On one occasion, he returned from a three-month trip to another island and saw preparations for a fiafia (celebration) in progress to celebrate the marriage of a young man and a young woman. As he interviewed the young woman, he suddenly told her, without any other explanation, that if she married the young man, she would soon be saddened.
Opapo and Toai were not spared personal trials. Eleven of their fourteen children died before adulthood. However, through it all they seemed to increase in humility, prayerfulness, and industry. Opapo reserved 5:00 A.M. and 5:00 P.M. for prayer, but frequently prayed at other times as well. And he always provided, not only for his own family, but also for others, especially widows and the fatherless.
He also served several missionary assignments, accompanying American missionaries to other areas for proselyting. On one of these journeys, Opapo, his long-time friend Elisala, and one of two American missionaries went to the island of Manu‘a. Upon arriving they found that the local king, Tuimanu‘a, had forbidden anyone from receiving or assisting the Latter-day Saints in any way—the punishment for disobedience was immediate stoning. However, the missionaries were determined to succeed and stayed for two months, eating fallen coconuts from the beaches and sleeping each night in holes. They covered their heads with leaves to protect themselves from the mosquitoes, each one taking a turn nightly to help the others arrange their leaves and then unassisted himself, suffering from bites the rest of the night.
After several weeks of this grueling ordeal, Opapo was awakened by the smell of some freshly baked food in a nearby basket. The missionaries did not know whether through a human or a divine source; but after weeks of coconuts, they were profoundly grateful. Near the end of their stay the incident was repeated when an elderly woman brought them some food, saying that if she had to die for her kindness, she would, but she did not fear Tuimanu‘a.
A few weeks later, after exhausting every possible avenue, the missionaries prepared to depart. Ceremonially, Opapo and Elisala spoke directly to Tuimanu‘a and his people, warning them that they would feel the wrath and power of God if they did not repent. As his last act before boarding the longboat, Opapo paused at the edge of the village and dusted off his feet as a witness against the island. A couple of weeks later a devastating hurricane struck the island, killing many, destroying all of the crops above ground, and leveling every house except one—the fale (hut) in which lived the elderly lady who had helped the missionaries.
It is true that miracles strengthen the faith of believers but do not necessarily give faith to the unbelieving. It was not until 1974 that a branch was actually organized in Manu’a. On the other hand, the Saints to whom Opapo returned heard of the incident and increased in faithfulness.
Soon afterward, Opapo and Toai moved their family from Sauniatu to the island of Tutuila, in preparation for eventually moving to Hawaii to join the Saints there. Persecution was particularly acute in Tutila, and it caused Opapo much sorrow though it never weakened his faith. On one occasion, he and Pinemua Soliai, a good friend, were walking towards Pago Pago and waved to a passing bus to stop for them. It stopped for them, but as they neared it, the driver, recognizing them as Mormon missionaries, suddenly pressed on his accelerator and left them standing in the dust. Brother Soliai ruefully commented to Opapo, “Well, it’s going to take us a long time to get up to town now.” Sadly, Opapo said, “No, we’ll get to town before he does.” One and one-half kilometers later they came upon the scene of an accident. The bus had collided head-on with a truck and the bus driver had been killed.
Brother Soliai and his family were the only Latter-day Saints in their little village of Nuuuli on Tutuila. On one occasion, he asked Opapo to come bless his children, his house, his property, and his friends. Present on that occasion was a wealthy nonmember widow, Salataima Puailoa, who was deeply troubled because her husband’s family was taking steps to deprive her of the land she had inherited from him. Impressed by the blessings, she requested one herself; but Opapo was reluctant because she was not a member.
She investigated the Church and was baptized, then came to him again and requested the blessing. In it, Opapo promised that she would receive the land without any hindrance from her husband’s relatives and that she would, if she were faithful, be an instrument in the Lord’s hands to further the work of the Church in American Samoa.
In the early 1950’s, that blessing was fulfilled. The Church purchased some of her property and on it built a high school, faculty housing, a large welfare farm, and a stake center.
In 1926, Opapo and Toai sent my father, Teila, to Hawaii to prepare for their arrival. Two years later, the Church called my grandparents to come do temple work for Samoans in the Hawaiian Temple. In 1935, my grandmother died of pneumonia at the age of seventy. She was buried in Laie, Hawaii, after a lifetime of generous and and faithful support of the Church and of her husband.
Like Toai, Opapo died of pneumonia near his eighty-first birthday and was buried beside her.
I did not know my grandfather well, but I have an increasing appreciation that I am his grandson. Because of his faith, my faith, is stronger. The gifts he exhibited testified to his Samoan people, at a crucial time in the history of the Church in those islands, that the gospel is true, the priesthood represents the power of God, and that the plan of salvation truly describes the pathway we must follow. Not only his family but all of the Saints in the Church can be heirs to the legacy of blessings he left.

The nine-year-old boy wandered, lost and stumbling in the dark. Around him in the freezing night, the trees and mountains made black shapes against the dark sky. Then the boy heard the voices—real voices, calling his name. Frightened, he kept silent.
Nearby, Tad Jessop led his rescue team in the search pattern they had practiced so often. Tad had been called out of a Sunday evening fireside by one of his officers in the Arapaho Rescue Patrol. Now, he and his team moved through the rough terrain in an organized search, guided by their flashlights and by each other’s voices.
As the search dragged on into the next morning, fatigue and cold began to numb the team members. Still, no young voice answered their shouts. Not until several hours later did the radio crackle with the news that the lost boy had found a road, where he was spotted by a ranger. While Tad and his team wearily made their way back, the boy was joyfully reunited with his parents, then taken to the hospital for a checkup.

Over the years the New Era has brought answers to my problems and prayers. I am often amazed at how many times I have received a personal answer from the New Era’s pages. I would particularly like to thank you for the article “One on One” (Feb. 1995). Ever since I started junior high, my little brother and I have experienced a falling out. As my interests started changing, we spent less and less time with each other. After reading your article, I realized that what we needed to do was simply take a few minutes to get away from school, church, and family responsibilities long enough for us to just goof off and relax. I started by helping him with his favorite video game, and within a few days I noticed a change in our friendship. Our relationship still isn’t as strong as it was, but the isolation barrier is coming down quickly. I am eternally grateful to the New Era.
Ted CoxSacramento, California

After spending her childhood in different locations throughout the United States, Sister Jeannie Anette Dennis thought her dreams had come true when her family moved to Cottonwood Heights, Utah.
“I thought everybody in Utah was a member of the Church and that it was going to be a haven here,” she said.
During her first few days in ninth grade, she was excited to be invited to a party. But a girl who became her best friend warned her that people at the party would be using drugs.
“I learned very quickly that the world is everywhere,” she said. Her testimony and a gospel-centered home, however, kept her strong throughout high school.

Throughout my life, I’ve lived in great wards with amazing members. It was not until I moved into a ward just west of Rexburg that I witnessed something truly unique. As a fairly new member to the ward, the elders quorum asked for six men to help strip the shingles off the roof of an elderly member's home and repair any damage to the sheathing in preparation for a professional crew to install a new roof the next day. Six of us raised our hands, and we were to meet after work in a couple of days. Internally, I was concerned because, in past wards, not everyone who volunteered would show up to perform the work, and this project had a strict timeframe.

The day of service arrived, and I was running late because of a meeting at work. I quickly dropped by home to change and grab my young son. The evening light was already starting to fade, and I thought to myself, “This is going to be a long night.”

To my surprise, as I drove down the country road to this elderly woman's home, there were many cars parked along the road. Even though the elders quorum had only asked for six men, both of the quorums came, elders and high priests. They came because they could, not because of an assignment. Even though I was only 30 minutes late, the work was done. The wonderful Relief Society sisters even had a table with water and refreshments. People were laughing and socializing throughout the property. Smiles beamed everywhere I looked. There were some very financially wealthy people and some who had very little, and yet they laughed and treated each other as peers, showing no pride or embarrassment.

I learned later that this ward had come together many times before in a like manner of service in building a home, renovating homes, and other activities to help each other. Whenever a need was raised, the ward would answer together. If I had not engaged in that opportunity to serve, I would not have witnessed a Zion culture in action. That night, I saw Zion—not a distant dream, but a living reality, built by hands and hearts united in Christ.