Gospel Story Finder

When I was a boy in Primary, I believed whatever my Primary teacher told me. One summer day she taught us about prayer: “Remember, if you need Heavenly Father’s help, just ask Him. He’ll always answer.” I skipped home thinking of nothing more than playing ball with my brothers. I didn’t know that the next day I would test my teacher’s words.
The following morning began with the sun scorching the sandstone cliffs and rocky hills that circled my town. Into the warmth of that perfect day my friend Eva and I started off on one of our adventures. Clutching a bag of small, sharp fish-hooks, two spools of thread, and our lunches, we hurried toward the fish-pond.
At last we arrived. We paused and looked at the pond and the willow trees surrounding it, feeling as though some great ocean lay before us and that we had come to bury stolen treasure.
We sat down, slipped off our shoes, and dangled our dusty feet lazily in the cool water. Tying our thread to the hooks, we dreamed of catching a big fish. Then we realized that we had brought nothing to use for bait! It was unthinkable to use any part of our lunches, so the homemade lines just hung loosely in the water, our excitement sinking as rapidly as the bare hooks.
We soon found something new to occupy the morning. Close to the pond was a sand hill. One side of the hill was a smooth slope, but the other side dropped off steeply, forming a cliff as high as a house. At the bottom of the cliff was a pile of jagged sandstone rocks. We started up the smooth side of the hill, pretending to be the world’s greatest mountain climbers, courageously tackling the tallest mountain.
As we climbed, we could see an old wooden post on top of the hill.
“I’ll race you to the post!” I shouted to Eva.
We ran up the hill, sinking at times into the soft, warm sand. Small avalanches trailed behind us and could be heard falling on the rocks beneath the cliff. Soon I was crawling, hurrying toward the post as fast as I could—but I didn’t realize that I was climbing by myself. I reached the top, pleased with my victory, and turned around with a smile to speak to Eva. But she wasn’t near me! As she had climbed, she hadn’t been watching where she was going, and she had run into deep sand. Unable to lift her feet, she had panicked and started swinging her arms wildly—sliding sideways and backward toward the edge of the cliff.
Eva was very frightened, and tears streamed down her cheeks. I shouted to her to turn around and go down the hill on the safe side. But her only answer was a sobbing, “Help me!” We both knew that if I went straight down to her, the sand moving before me would push her over the edge. Desperate, she cried out again, “Help me!”
Suddenly, I remembered my Primary teacher’s words from the day before, and I prayed with all my strength. Eva stopped sliding. Something beneath her small feet was holding firm. I carefully went down a different way to where she was, and helped her turn around. Once she was on safe ground, I reached down to where she had stopped sliding and picked up a rock no larger than the palm of my hand! Somehow that hard bit of sandstone had kept Eva from falling. I put the rock into my pocket, and we went home. We had had enough adventure for one day.
When I got home, I put the rock on a shelf in my room to remind me of my wise Primary teacher’s words: “If you need Heavenly Father’s help, just ask Him. He’ll always answer.”

Some of the first forks were brought to Europe from Byzantium, a rich and powerful empire to the east. About a thousand years ago a Byzantine princess came to live in Venice, a city in Italy. She ate with a fork. The priests thought her way of eating was so fancy that it was sinful. They scolded her. They preached against her in church. Soon afterward, the princess caught a terrible disease and died. Many people believed that she was punished for using her fork.

When I was about seven years old, my Primary president wanted to help the children be more reverent in our Primary. She made a large bulletin board shaped like a lamb. Whenever a child was reverent, she put a lamb-shaped sticker on the bulletin board next to his or her name. I really wanted one of those lamb stickers.
So one day in Primary, I sat quietly with my arms folded and stared at the Primary president so she would notice me being reverent. A taller boy sat in front of me, so I slid down the bench so she could see me.
Then, as I sat there quietly, the pianist started playing a sweet, quiet Primary song. As I listened, a peaceful feeling came over me, and tears started to come down my cheeks. I didn’t know why I felt so happy and peaceful inside.
After Primary I told my mom about what I had felt, and she told me that it was the Spirit. That day, I learned what the Spirit feels like. Whenever I need to make important decisions and need guidance from the Spirit, I remember how peaceful I felt that day, and I can recognize how the Spirit speaks to me.

One August I went to the Salt Lake Temple with my father and stepmother after spending a long summer in Oregon. I had been looking forward to the visit because I had been feeling overwhelmed about going back to school. I wasn’t sure if I could meet all of the requirements of my upcoming junior year.
While my parents went in to participate in an endowment session, I went to do baptisms. Going to the temple had always been a spiritual experience for me, but that day I didn’t feel the Spirit, which increased my lonely feelings. I decided to say a prayer.
In my prayer, I admitted I didn’t know how to feel better but asked for a chance to help someone else. When I opened my eyes, there was a girl my age by herself who appeared to be confused. When I asked if she needed some help, she said it was her first time in the Salt Lake Temple and didn’t know where to go. As I helped her find her way around the temple, we enjoyed our time together doing baptisms. I know helping her was the answer to my prayer.

Just two weeks into the new school year, my best friend, Scott, and I were driving home discussing our plans for later that evening. As we pulled into the driveway, I saw my dad working on the barbecue. As I stepped out of the car, I told Scott I would be ready for him to pick me up later. My dad, overhearing the conversation, told me that he was having students from his college ward over that evening for a ward social. “I could use your help getting things ready,” he said. I turned to Scott and told him that our plans would have to be postponed.
As Scott left, my dad asked me to take the grill’s propane tank to the store and fill it. After quickly changing my clothes, I loaded the tank into our truck and drove toward the store.
Between my home and the store there is an elementary school. I was well aware of the school as I had gone in that direction many times. But this time I was in a hurry and did not pay attention to the school zone speed limit. I knew school had been out for about an hour, so I ignored it.
After filling the tank, I headed home. As I approached the school, I had the feeling I should slow down. I didn’t heed the prompting and continued on. As I came closer to the school, I saw Bobby Logan,* a young boy from my ward, run onto the road.
He was on his way to the school to play with his sister and some of his friends. As Bobby came to the road, he stopped and looked at me. I started to slow down, again feeling the prompting. As I approached Bobby, he looked directly at me. We had eye contact for a second, and I had the thought that he was going to run in front of me. At that very moment, he did.
I was too close to miss him, and although I hit the brakes, it was too late. Realizing what had just happened, I quickly got out of the truck and ran to Bobby, who was lying on the ground. I ran to his house and told his mother to call an ambulance. Then I went back to Bobby’s side. I offered a silent prayer and pleaded for his life as I knelt beside him.
Bobby’s mother arrived and immediately checked for a pulse. I was crying hysterically and repeatedly said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hit him.” Sister Logan looked at me and told me that she forgave me.
The ambulance arrived and took Bobby to the hospital, but he died about 30 minutes later. My bishop came to our home with the tragic news of his death. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I didn’t know what to do or say. I was devastated.
A few days later I saw the Logans. As we visited, Sister Logan told me that the family felt strongly that Bobby was happy. She told me they held no harsh feelings toward me. As I heard these things, I felt the Spirit testifying to me that what she said was true, and their sincerity was very real.
During the next few days I struggled with the realization that I had taken another person’s life. As I battled with my emotions, I withdrew more and more. I didn’t want to go anywhere or do anything.
One day my mom and sister persuaded me to go with them. They were conversing in the front seat of our car, and I was lying on the back seat, pondering the question why and wondering how I could ever move on from that point in my life. Again I offered a silent prayer to Heavenly Father for the strength to overcome this obstacle. In the midst of my crying and praying, I suddenly felt the most overwhelming feeling of joy and peace. It was at that moment that I knew Bobby was fine and that he was happy. I also realized how much love my Heavenly Father has for me. I could truly feel His arms of love and understanding around me.
Since that day I began healing from my emotional pain. It took a long time for me to get to the point where I could accept myself again, but I knew I was on the right track. Because of this experience, I have become even more grateful for the gospel of Jesus Christ. I can’t imagine trying to endure this without the love of my family, the Logans, and countless friends who rallied around me. I saw the gospel in action. I saw my Savior’s healing hands work through those I love. I also know the Spirit is one of the most precious gifts we have.
The Logans are my heroes because they epitomized Jesus Christ from the very beginning of this ordeal. They forgave. For that I am eternally grateful. I know that I will see Bobby again and that hopefully then his family and mine will rest together in the heavens.

One of the most touching stories Nana Esi Ninsin VIII shared was about a young girl named Mary Mensah in the village, who was inspired by the queen’s example and started her own informal church group, called the Children’s Church. With no resources or formal training, the girl gathered friends and neighbors to pray, sing, and study scripture. After the children’s church service, Mary, their leader, uses their offering of one cedi each to prepare food for them, saying, “They don’t have access to their offering in the mother church.”

When Nana Esi Ninsin VIII learned of her efforts, she welcomed the girl into her fold, integrating her group into the larger church community, the Ekunfi Ekrawfo Group of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. “She had a good spirit,” Nana said. “And now she’s part of our training and outreach.”

This act of inclusion not only validated the girl’s leadership but also reinforced Nana Ninsin’s belief that spiritual growth and community development are inextricably linked.

“People on my island have a strong bond to each other,” he explains. “The word ‘family’ is very important, and it drives me to help my own people.”
Eritai learned about hydroponic sustainability while attending Brigham Young University–Hawaii. He spent hundreds of hours developing that idea into a solution to take to his people.
In 2017, he returned to Kiribati and introduced innovative hydroponic gardening to families and communities in response to the challenges faced in accessing healthier food options. He explained that “it provided a healthy alternative to the processed foods that people were eating.”

I would like to thank you for your articles “Gold Mine” and “Stephen” in the May New Era. Never before have I been so touched by a magazine. I live in the same ward in which Stephen Farrance lived. A few years ago Steve showed me the story “Gold Mine.” It was his intention at that time to have it published in the New Era. After his death I intended to get the story and send it to you. You can imagine my delight when I discovered it in the May issue. It brought tears to my eyes as I read it again.
Stephen was a fighter. Never did I see him give up on anything that he started. He was a fierce competitor and always put up a strong battle at the scripture chases. Stephen loved life and got the most from it. In the last weeks of his life, he was serving others, directing and producing our roadshow. The week before the performance, we practiced every morning at 5:30 A.M. For Steve this meant getting up at 4:30 or 5:00 in the morning to be at the church on time. He was always there.
The roadshow took place on Friday and Saturday nights. On Friday night Steve was cheering us on. That evening he went to the hospital, and the next morning he passed away. That night we were all surprised to see his family at the church giving us encouragement. We gave it our best, and for some reason I could remember my lines, which I had forgotten the night before. I could hear Steve telling me the words. It’s something I shall never forget. Steve was a wonderful person, with as much drive and enthusiasm as anyone I have known. I feel privileged to have known him. He was a good friend and a fine example of a true Latter-day Saint. I hope to meet Steve again. He touched the hearts of all who met him.
Brian BurgessBurnaby, British Columbia, Canada

On a cold December afternoon, Tia C. walked through the doors of the Church History Library. History is one of Tia’s favorite subjects, so she was excited to help show Friend readers some of the library’s fascinating historical treasures. Tia met Elder Marlin K. Jensen, who is the Church Historian. He showed her some very special journals and photographs. He told Tia it is important for every boy and girl in the Church to keep a journal. “Two or three times a week, sit down and think about how Heavenly Father has blessed you, protected you, and kept you from temptation,” he said. “Mainly, it is important to write about your feelings.”
Tia watched a video about a pioneer girl named Mary Jane Millett. Mary Jane’s father had a special experience that he wrote about in his journal. Mary Jane copied it into her own journal. Mary Jane’s journal is in the Church History Library, and Tia visited the conservation lab to see how it is being preserved.
Tia loves writing stories. Now she knows how important it is to write down her own special experiences. “Visiting the Church History Library was the best experience ever!” Tia said. “I will never forget it.”
But just in case, she went home and wrote about it.

Our doctrine and our belief in eternal families strengthen and bond us. I will never forget the promise of my maternal Grandfather Harris, when we children were living on his farm near Payson, Utah. He gave me the tragic news that my father had died in faraway Denver, Colorado. I ran into the bedroom and knelt beside the bed, crying my heart out. Grandpa followed me and went to his knees beside me and said, “I will be your father.” That tender promise is a powerful example of what grandparents can do to fill in the gaps when families lose or are missing a member.

The girls staying at one house had a three-day running water fight with the boys staying at a house a few blocks away. As they were packing to leave, the girls made a sign and presented it to the opposition. It said, “To be continued at next year’s youth conference.”
But more than a water fight would be continued. They had all learned about bridging gaps, and that knowledge helps in that carnival we call life.

Described as a loving husband and father, Elder Ashton has always been able to admit when he was in error.

“The occasion I can remember most in my growing-up days was when Dad had punished me for something he thought I had done. I’ll never forget the night he came to my bedroom, sat on the side of my bed and asked my forgiveness because he found out that he had misjudged me,” said his daughter Jonne.

Because I grew up outside of the Church, the law of chastity was not always something I lived by—it wasn’t something I even knew about. My mom never taught my twin brother or me about keeping any moral standards. We, as well as our younger brother, had been born out of wedlock. Our dad would often move in with a woman the moment they started dating.

As I got older, my conversations with friends were filled with derogatory language. In high school I started dating a guy who also did not live by the standards of the Church, and doing things outside of the law of chastity just felt like a normal “rite of passage” into adulthood.

But when I started taking lessons with the missionaries when I was 18, they taught me about how I should have clean thoughts, good language, and actions that reflected Christ’s teachings. At first, I was crushed. I had been living a life without the law of chastity, and I felt like I was broken—too far gone. It felt like even if I truly repented, I would never be fully forgiven of my sins. I told myself that Christ would continue to hold my mistakes over my head. I was constantly thinking about how I had let Him down—without even knowing it. Not only that, but I also felt as though following the law of chastity wasn’t attainable.

Questions from the adversary flooded my mind, making me second-guess what I was learning about chastity. While taking lessons with the missionaries, I was in a relationship that did not prioritize staying morally clean, and I thought that joining the Church would change the relationship. Maybe The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints wasn’t a good fit for me. I remember thinking, “I have already given up so much. And now this?” It made me question if joining the Church was even worth it.

But I couldn’t deny the truth I had found within the Church. If I knew that Joseph Smith was a prophet, then that meant that the law of chastity must be a true commandment from the Lord. It was a nonnegotiable. I knew that my next challenge would be applying the law to my life and striving each day to be better.

It was not going to be something I could change overnight. There were times when I fell short. I felt like it was a never-ending cycle; I would try my hardest to do better and then I would revert to my old ways. When I had finally reached the point where I was obeying the law of chastity and felt like I could look my Maker in the eyes and say, “I’m trying; I’m doing my best with a willing heart,” I still kept remembering all the times I had “messed up.” I had to remind myself that I knew in my heart that the Lord forgives when we truly repent, which I had. But that didn’t really stop me from still feeling like a disappointment.

Since then I have realized that the Lord will forgive us, but we must learn to forgive ourselves as well. Heavenly Father wants us to recognize our mistakes, repent, strive to do better, and move on. Satan, however, wants us to be chained to our sins. Those feelings of failure were Satan telling me, “You can’t do this. You’re crazy for even thinking you can.” But I know the Lord loves me and wants to see me grow in my faith. He wants that for all of His children.

Now, being a member of the Church for just over a year, I have seen the blessings that come from following the law of chastity. I don’t feel broken and confused anymore. Yes, I still sometimes have moments when Satan tempts me with the temporary satisfaction that comes from immorality, but I’ve learned that true satisfaction can come only through Christ. I know that He blesses us when we follow His commandments.

I’ve also learned that you can never be too far gone to receive the blessings of the gospel. Heavenly Father welcomes us back with open arms. Those doubts I had didn’t come from Christ or Heavenly Father. He gave us the law of chastity to protect us and guide us along on the covenant path. Learning about this law has strengthened my testimony of the Savior’s Atonement immensely. The Lord loves each of us. We may mess up, but we also have the opportunity to learn and grow from our mistakes—to repent. He has not given us this commandment to make life tough; He did it because He loves us.1

I am so grateful for the law of chastity and everything it has taught me. I’ve seen how it has blessed my life, and I know it will bless others too.

One experience that helped me learn this lesson took place when Elder Jeffrey R. Holland of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles visited our mission, together with the three other missions in Santiago. There were over 1,000 missionaries gathered in our chapel where my husband had been asked to conduct the meeting. Elder Holland entered the chapel, took the seat next to my husband, leaned over to us, and said, “Okay, here’s what we are going to do. Sister Wright, you will speak first and represent all of the mission presidents’ wives here. Then President Wright will follow.”
I honestly didn’t hear the rest of the agenda. It had never occurred to me that Elder Holland would ask me to speak, so I had made no preparations. I prefer time to prepare to speak, time to gather my thoughts a little at least, but I would be speaking immediately after the opening hymn and prayer.
As my thoughts began to swirl, I felt the sudden desire to share my message in Spanish. However, though we were a year into the mission, and I had worked very hard to learn Spanish, I was still struggling with the language, and I was definitely not fluent in it. The translator was available to me if I spoke in English, but this was a Spanish-speaking mission, and I really wanted to speak in Spanish. Speaking would be a hard thing for me to do in English; speaking in Spanish felt like a giant leap. So amid the sound of 1,000 missionaries singing “Called to Serve” (Hymns, 249), I took a deep breath, confessed my inadequacies to my Father in Heaven, and pled for help to be rescued by the Spirit.
I told Heavenly Father that I had no idea what to say or how to say it in Spanish, but I promised Him that I would open my mouth and do my best, having faith that He would fill it (see Moses 6:32). In that moment, I felt a peaceful assurance come over me. After the prayer I rose to the pulpit and began to speak. Words I had pondered before came back in that needed moment, even in the foreign language I was struggling to communicate in. I sat down after my short three-minute talk, still feeling at peace but unsure about how effectively I had communicated.
After the meeting, the brother who had translated for Elder Holland approached me and said, “Sister Wright, I had no idea you spoke Spanish so well!” I replied, “I don’t.” He assured me that I hadn’t made any mistakes.
I am sure that none of those missionaries remembers anything about my short message that day. But for me it was a life-changing experience. I learned to put my trust in Heavenly Father and the Savior, that They could and would strengthen me despite my weaknesses when I was willing to take a leap of faith. If I had chosen the safe route and used the translator, I might never have learned how They rescue us when we open ourselves to letting God prevail.2

“There are many that will rejoice and think Mormonism is down now,” wrote Sally C. Randall in a spirited letter to family and friends only days after the martyrdom of Joseph and Hyrum Smith. “But they will be mistaken, for the Lord has begun His work and He will carry it on in spite of all mobs and devils.”

In the same letter, Sally wrote: “Never has there been such a horrible crime committed since the day Christ was crucified. It seems that all nature mourns. The earth is deprived of the two best men there was on it.”

“Sally’s letter is remarkable for several reasons,” explained Latter-day Saint historians Jordan Watkins and Steven C. Harper. Though Church history is rich with other accounts from the time of the martyrdom, “in [this letter] we hear a believing woman’s voice, and in it we have captured a very early response to the tragedy, a raw and revealing reaction.”

Written on July 1, 1844—when hostility raged against the Saints by mobs that besieged them on every side—this letter reveals a Nauvoo that was filled with faith. The letter reveals Sally’s rock-solid confidence in God and her ironclad determination to defend her faith, even though the Saints were outnumbered by persecutors and she was aware that further sacrifices could be required.

Sally was a relatively new member at the time of the martyrdom. She and her husband and their two sons had joined the Church near Buffalo, New York, and migrated to Nauvoo in 1843. Here they found many Saints sick with fevers, malaria, and measles. Writing to her family in the eastern United States, she said, “It is very sickly here at present … , and a great many children die” from the diseases.

Sally’s oldest son, 14-year-old George, soon got sick and died about three weeks later. With “a heart full of grief and sorrow” from her son’s death, she received word eight months later of the Prophet’s martyrdom. In this state of grief, she wrote her family to detail the events, share her emotions, and give perspective to events of the time.

While in the county jail in Carthage, Illinois, Joseph and Hyrum Smith were shot by a mob on June 27, 1844. A few days after, Sally Randall wrote: “About 6 in the afternoon … about one hundred and fifty of the mob made an attack upon the courthouse and the guard[. They] went into the jail, and the first one they shot was Hyrum. He was killed dead on the spot. Elder Taylor was badly wounded. Joseph then jumped out of the window. They shot him I know not how many times. The mob then fled as quick as possible.”

Martyrdom, by Gary E. Smith, may not be copied
In the letter she notes that some men were spotted the next day crossing the river still wearing paint on their faces and that on the day of the martyrdom, only eight men had been left to guard the courthouse and jail.

She describes how, about four miles (6 km) outside Nauvoo, troops intercepted a man who was heading to Nauvoo to deliver “the sad news.” The troops would not let him proceed and detained him, delaying the Saints from receiving news of the martyrdom until the next morning.

“If you can imagine … how the Apostles and Saints felt when the Savior was crucified,” Sally continued, “you can [get] something of a guess of how the Saints felt here when they heard that their prophet and patriarch were both dead and murdered, too, by a lawless mob. … They have sealed their testimony with their blood.”

Sally expressed the sentiment of the time that Governor Thomas Ford of Illinois was at fault for failing to protect Joseph. She declares the belief of her neighbors and fellow Saints that Joseph and Hyrum voluntarily suffered martyrdom to seal their testimonies with their blood.

Yet this letter appears to have never found its destination to family and friends, leaving historians to speculate what happened. Did the local militiamen prevent postal service due to hostile sentiment? Perhaps letters from Nauvoo during this turbulent time went only as far as a local town in Illinois or maybe Chicago and were never forwarded? Maybe Sally never mailed the letter and left it behind when she migrated west.

For more than 100 years this letter lay yellowing and obscure to the world until an unusual set of circumstances suddenly aligned to bring it to light. A doctor in the Chicago area with an interest in antique items bought an old trunk in an estate sale. Rummaging through its contents, he discovered the letter.

The doctor recognized its importance and took care of the letter until one day in 1963 when two missionaries knocked on his door. They had come to deliver a Church magazine with his name on the label that had been inadvertently delivered to a member of the Church several blocks away. The doctor, who had spent time in Utah years earlier, had developed an interest in the Church and had subscribed to the magazine to stay informed.

On this day the missionaries were tracting in this neighborhood west of Chicago when they unknowingly knocked on the door of a member of the Church who had received the magazine in error only a few minutes earlier.

The missionaries took the magazine to the proper home, where they met the adult son of the doctor. During the conversation, the son showed the letter to the missionaries and allowed them to make a photocopy.

Jim Nowa, one of the missionaries, says, “I believe it was providential that the mailman delivered the magazine to the wrong address, even though the correct address was clearly labeled. It was fortuitous that the member was home and we were tracting that area, or we may have never met the son of the doctor with the letter.”

The missionaries delivered copies of the letter to the Church History Department after their missions.

Brother Nowa believes that Sally’s testimony and account of the horrific events the Saints faced at the time of the martyrdom serve as a message to strengthen us in our day.

From his study of her letter, Brother Nowa concludes that Sally had confidence in her own spiritual sensitivity and capacity to act on promptings. Despite mobs who threatened her community, opposition from family and friends who fought her conversion, and the premature death of her son, she was faithful in her conviction of the truth.

“Sally’s clear and faith-filled voice allows us to draw on the bravery, courage, and determination of the Nauvoo Saints to battle the tides of opposition of our own day,” he adds.

Shortly before leaving Nauvoo, Sally wrote her family: “The mob are threatening continually to come upon us. We heard they were coming today but I have not seen anything in the least, for I believe there is faith enough in the city to keep them back until the Saints all get away.”

She described how they planned to travel “with a yoke of oxen and a mule,” while driving their cows. “I don’t know when I shall have another opportunity to write, but as soon as I have I will improve it, and I must close for the present so goodbye to all, earthly friends.”

Sally and her husband, James, with their surviving son, settled in Nephi, Utah, where she resided until her death in 1874.

The train carrying them had to make frequent stops while repairs were made to railroad tracks damaged by land mines. Brother Thach explains, “To clear the tracks, the train crew would unhook the locomotive from the passenger cars and use it to push ahead a weighted freight car to set off any unexploded mines. Then they would repair the track. This took so long to do each time that all of us on the train were afraid we would be stranded without food.”
Brother Thach says that at one repair stop, “I left the train and prayed that the Lord would help me find food for my family. They had not had anything substantial to eat for some time. After walking for about two kilometers I came to a village. I went to a house at the edge of the village and asked a lady if I could buy some food from her. She cooked a pan of rice, packed it in a banana leaf, added a pinch of salt, and gave it to me.” He paid her and took the rice back to his wife and the two hungry children, not forgetting to thank the Lord.

In fleeing with Joseph from a mob, a young man reported, “sickness and fright had robbed me of my strength. Joseph had to decide whether to leave me to be captured by the mob, or endanger himself by rendering aid. Choosing the latter course, he lifted me upon his broad shoulders and bore me with occasional rest through the swamp and darkness. Several hours later we emerged upon the only road and soon reached safety. Joseph’s herculean strength permitted him to [save] my life.” (New Era, Dec. 1973, p. 19.)

When I recently faced the daunting task of choosing two counselors, I wondered how I could possibly choose just two from twelve men whom I love and respect.
Because I know that good inspiration is based upon good information, I prayerfully met one-on-one with each Apostle. I then sequestered myself in a private room in the temple and sought the Lord’s will. I testify that the Lord instructed me to select President Dallin H. Oaks and President Henry B. Eyring to serve as my counselors in the First Presidency.

There once was a little girl named Misha who “wore” freckles. She didn’t wear them because she liked them, but because they happened to come with the rest of her face.
She tried washing them off. She tried covering them with her mom’s skin-color makeup. She tried wearing big glasses, low hats, and high collars. But nothing would remove her freckles or even hide them.
Her mother said, “Don’t worry about them.” Her dad said, “I think they’re cute.” And her grandpa said, “Your freckles are my favorite thing about you.” Of course, he had freckles too.
None of Misha’s friends had freckles. Rhoda wore glasses and had big, beautiful, black eyes. Lauren wore ribbons in her curly, fuzzy hair and could stand on her hands for a twenty-five count. Jennifer wore striped shoelaces and was very short.
One afternoon the girls were sitting on the ground in Lauren’s backyard, playing archeologists. While they were looking for arrowheads and potsherds in the sand, Jennifer announced, “I have a new secret. Look.” She showed them a piece of paper.
“What is it?” Lauren asked as she stopped digging and looked up.
“A secret wishing spell. I copied it from a book about tricks and things.” All four girls leaned close together, squinting at the writing on the crumpled piece of paper.
Wishing Spell
Put your pajama top on backward.
Let a caterpillar walk up and down your leg until you get goose bumps.
Jump over a gray hair three times.
Put your pajama top on frontward.
Turn off the light.
If you do these things fast enough, you will hear the Wish Genie ring a bell. He will grant your wish.
“Aw, I don’t believe it,” scoffed Rhoda. “You can’t really think that thing is real.”
“All that stuff is just pretend,” chimed in Lauren.
“Let me see it,” said Misha. She tried to keep her voice from sounding excited.
Jennifer gave the paper to Misha. “What are you going to wish for?” she asked.
“I don’t want to tell you,” answered Misha, “but I’ll tell you if it works.” With the paper squeezed tightly in her hand, Misha ran home. What if it works? she couldn’t help thinking. What if a genie comes and zaps my freckles?
All afternoon Misha scrambled and searched through leaves and bushes. Finally, under a rock, she found a yellow caterpillar with black stripes. With a sigh of relief, she scooped it into a jar and put the jar under her bed.
Then she went looking for Grandpa and found him reading the newspaper. His hair was gray from ear to ear. “Grandpa, may I please have one of your gray hairs?”
He stopped reading and looked at her. “Do you mind if I ask you what for?” He was always polite.
“I’m sorry, but it’s a secret right now. Maybe I’ll tell you later.” He squeezed his eyes and twisted his mouth and pulled out a gray hair. “Thanks, Grandpa,” said Misha. She ran upstairs and put that under her bed too.
That evening, Misha felt nervous and excited. For once, she didn’t argue with her mother about bedtime. She ran upstairs, slipped inside her room, and closed the door.
She quickly changed into her pajamas, being careful to put the top on backwards. Then she placed the caterpillar and gray hair carefully in the middle of the floor. She went over the steps again to be sure she could remember: Get goose bumps from the caterpillar, jump over the gray hair three times, put her pajama top on frontward, turn off the light, and listen for the genie to ring the bell. She was ready.
Misha carefully put the caterpillar on her foot, and it began to crawl slowly up her leg—creepy-crawly, ickly-tickly. Goose bumps popped out all over her! She put the caterpillar back in the jar and jumped once, twice, three times over the gray hair. She quickly pulled the pajama top off and put it back on frontward. She flicked off the light switch, and flung herself into bed as the room went dark. Finished!
Silence. Silence and darkness. She strained her ears, listening for the ringing of a bell. The beating of her heart thudded in her ears. Her head began to hurt from listening so hard. But there was no ringing, no tinkling, no buzzing—no bell.
Gradually the thudding grew quieter as her heart slowed down. She could hear dishes rattling downstairs as her mother washed them. Daddy was listening to the news on the television. But in her room, all was quiet.
Her eyes were used to the dark now, and she could see the shape of her bed. The moon was just a sliver between her curtains. She looked around. There was no Wish Genie granting magic wishes, and there never would be. Not tonight, not ever.
Tears began to trickle down her cheeks as she slipped between the sheets on her bed. She put her head on the pillow and began to cry hard.
There was a tap-tap on the door, and then Grandpa’s voice. “Do you mind if I come in?” He was always polite.
As Grandpa sat on the bed, Misha sat up and put her arms around him and began to cry even harder. When she finally stopped, Grandpa turned on the night lamp. He was very quiet as she told him the whole story.
“Granddaughter,” he said slowly, “everyone in the whole world would like to change something about himself or herself. A magic make-over is not the way to be happy. Happiness comes from accepting yourself the way you are—the way God chose to make you—with the things you like—and with the things you don’t like so much.
“Think about your friends. Do you like them just because of the way they look?”
Misha thought about Rhoda with her glasses, and Jennifer with her short legs, and Lauren with her fuzzy hair. The way they looked really didn’t matter at all. She liked them just the way they were.
Grandpa said, “You know something else? Your freckles are part of what makes you the special, one-of-a-kind person you are. You wouldn’t be you without them. Besides”—he grinned—“I have a special reason for liking those pretty little freckles. They make me feel that you belong to me, and I love you very much.”
Misha felt better than she had in a long time. She hugged her grandpa tight. “I love you, too,” she said.
She snuggled back down between the sheets as Grandpa kissed her good night. She closed her eyes and smiled a great, big, freckle-dotted smile.

The entire family enjoys drama. They put on skits, puppet shows, and brief musicals during family home evenings and for summer activities. One of their favorite skits was a Western, which they did for a Primary talent show in Emmett, Idaho. Nicholas liked it because he got to fall into a pie tin filled with whipped cream. Ashley liked it because she had a beard made of chocolate—yum! Sometimes they wear animal noses and play zoo.