Gospel Story Finder

I grew up in Mexico with my siblings, my mother, and my grandmother. Every day after doing homework and chores, I played football. I loved football! I would pretend that my right leg was one team and my left leg was the other team.
One day when I was playing football, I suddenly couldn’t breathe very well. I rested for a few minutes, but I still had trouble breathing. I became so sick that I had to go to the hospital.
The hospital room had many other children in it, but I missed my family and felt very alone. Although I was not a member of the Church yet, I believed in God. Every day I prayed to be healed, but instead I got worse and worse. The doctors thought I might not live.
The doctors finally sent me home from the hospital, but I had to spend the next year in bed. I took many pills and had two shots every day. And I still had a prayer in my mind and heart. I told Heavenly Father that if I got well, I would serve Him all the rest of my life.
Then one day when I was reading in bed, I accidentally dropped my book on the floor. When I leaned down to pick it up, I realized that I was breathing normally. I dropped the book again. Again I could pick it up without any problem!
I got out of bed. At first I was dizzy because I had not walked by myself in such a long time. I looked in the mirror and saw that I was smiling. I knew that I had received an answer from Heavenly Father.
Every day since then, I have tried to do something to express my gratitude to Heavenly Father. When I grew up, I became a doctor to help answer the prayers of other children. And now I am trying to serve Heavenly Father with my calling in the Church.
The answers to prayers do not always come easily, and they do not always come right away. But I know Heavenly Father answers our prayers. He knows our needs, and He knows what is best.

When I was 11 years old, my bishop invited me and a few other young men my age to meet with him to discuss our responsibilities once we received the priesthood. He also shared with us his testimony of the Book of Mormon and made a request. I had no idea how much of an influence his words would have on my life.
Our bishop invited us to read the entire Book of Mormon five times before we served our missions. We would have about eight years to complete the task. It seemed daunting, given that I didn’t really enjoy reading, especially not text as difficult as scripture. Yet, for reasons I cannot remember or fully explain, my 11-year-old mind decided to take this challenge seriously. I started that night by reading chapter 1 of 1 Nephi.
I didn’t understand much of the chapter, but I had a feeling that I was doing the right thing. The next day I read another chapter, and although I still didn’t understand all of Nephi’s words, I had that same feeling.
As time went on, I read a little bit of the Book of Mormon every day. Later that year, I closed the book after reading Moroni 10 and beamed with a sense of accomplishment. The next time I saw my bishop, I told him with excitement that I had finished reading the entire Book of Mormon. He smiled and commended my efforts but then said, “Don’t forget—you still need to read it four more times before you leave on your mission!”
Later that night, I picked up the Book of Mormon again and flipped through the pages. It had taken me a long time to read it. Would it take me as long the second time? Was it worth it? As I pondered, I turned to 1 Nephi chapter 1. I started reading the first few verses, and the Spirit again confirmed to me that this was the right thing to do. So, I read on. This was the turning point for me where scripture study became a habit rather than a one-time goal.
Over the next several months, the stories seemed more familiar and made more sense. I recognized several meaningful verses from the first time I read it, and I highlighted them. When someone taught from the Book of Mormon at church, I started to recognize some stories and teachings.
As I read, the book slowly changed me. Line upon line, precept upon precept, I started to understand and draw closer to the Savior. The teachings from the Book of Mormon became a part of who I was and what I believed. I continued reading the Book of Mormon over the next several years, and each time I finished reading Moroni 10, I put a tally mark on the inside cover of my book.
Eventually, the time came when I received my mission call. After celebrating with family and friends, I found some time alone and opened the inside cover of my Book of Mormon. I had accomplished my goal. More importantly, however, I had come to know my Savior.

For over a decade, Parkinson’s disease had gradually robbed John of his mobility, clarity of speech, and independence. I watched sorrowfully as he suffered not only each new loss that Parkinson’s disease inflicted but also two heart attacks, two rotator cuff surgeries, and constant pain from other physical ailments. Eventually, John became dependent upon me to move, feed, dress, and shower him. Ultimately, the muscles in his mouth and throat stopped functioning, and he could not swallow food or liquid without aspirating.

In March, his physician told us that John had two options: (1) have a feeding tube inserted, which might sustain John’s life for a few more months but that would require him to stay mostly in bed; or (2) have John continue without the feeding tube and endure the difficulties that came with his inability to eat. The doctor said, “It’s your life. You should make the decision. What do you want to do?” Calmly and remarkably clearly, John replied, “No tube.”

Tears trickled from my eyes as we left the doctor’s office. Memories of John’s recent remarks and actions came to mind, making it clear that he had known this was coming and had already accepted it. My love for John led me to support his choice.

I believed I knew what that meant. In reality, I did not. Neither did I know how gratitude would ease my pain.

Throughout his life, John had loved the words of 1 Thessalonians 5:18: “In every thing give thanks.” Before mealtime prayers, for instance, John never asked someone to “say the blessing.” Instead, he always said, “Let’s give thanks.” John knew that gratitude was vital to happiness. He also knew, as the rest of that verse from Thessalonians continues about gratitude, “for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus concerning you.”

John recognized that death is part of God’s plan (see Alma 42:8–9) and that for him, death was near. But he continued faithful in Christ with gratitude.

After leaving the doctor’s office, John and I called a family council. Our family who lived far away joined us through video conferencing. We began with prayer. Then, as I held John’s hand, I shared his decision and what the doctor told us to expect. I spoke of the peace we both felt and reminded our family of the comforting feelings everyone had experienced for months. All of us, including the grandchildren, realized that Papa (as they called John) did not have long to live.

We had expressed gratitude to God for letting us all know that time with John was short and for granting us the opportunity to prepare emotionally. A few weeks prior to this day, our son Spencer had asked John how he felt about dying. John had responded, “I’ve lived a good life, and I am still trying to do so. I’m grateful for my life! As long as Carma Lee is by my side, I’m not eager to die, but I’m also not afraid.” John was prepared and, because of that, he felt at peace (see Doctrine and Covenants 38:30).

We sat in family council, with our hearts aching and tears falling, yet we also felt peace. We asked John if he had any last wishes. He looked at us with love and longing in his eyes; then, although for weeks he had only spoken in a whisper, he said one word distinctly: “Temple.” His sons immediately replied, “We’ll make that happen, Dad!”

Our family council ended with our sons, who were with us in person, giving both John and me a priesthood blessing. As they laid their hands on my head, gratitude filled me. I felt warmth, like that of a loving hug. I knew God would help us traverse the challenges ahead. He would soften the grief and help us find the joy.

That is exactly what happened! We soon attended the temple again, with our sons helping John through the endowment session. I was so grateful! The Spirit filled our hearts.

As John’s condition worsened, he and I continued our practice of beginning and ending each day with prayers of gratitude. As we did so, we found that grief did not overwhelm us or our posterity. Each one had opportunities to hug Papa and express their love and gratitude for him. We found moments of joy. Peace seeped into the hearts of our posterity and others who visited, strengthening them and softening their grief too.

However, despite the peace that prevailed in our home, watching my vibrant, exceedingly active husband deteriorate and lose 50 pounds in a month was heart-wrenching. Late at night on April 21, John lay in bed. He was surrounded by his children and me. We sensed that his spirit would depart his body at any moment. I lay beside him, holding his hand and whispering words of love and gratitude for our life. I thanked him for the inspiring example he had set as he responded to his afflictions by turning to the Lord in faith and gratitude. I kissed him. Within seconds, he was gone.

After John’s body was taken away, our family sat together in our home. Tears fell from our eyes as we expressed thankfulness that John’s mortal suffering had ended. Words of gratitude spilled from my mouth as I thought of the many tender mercies Heavenly Father had given to us (see 1 Nephi 1:20). God had enabled me to care for John in our home, despite having physical issues myself (which actually necessitated multiple surgeries not long after John died).

As we talked, I was comforted as I expressed thanks for the eternal promises of our temple covenants (see Doctrine and Covenants 132:19–20). I told my children I felt like Johnny was hugging me, confirming what I was saying as I expressed gratitude. What a joyous feeling! I reminded my family of President Russell M. Nelson’s words in November 2020: “Practicing gratitude may not prevent us from experiencing sorrow, anger, or pain, but it can help us look forward with hope.”1

Suddenly, I felt a heavenly embrace so strongly that it filled me with awe. I also felt that John was well and happy and that I should be too. Right then, I promised myself—and my sweetheart—that I would be.

As the weeks passed, I marveled that most often peace and joy, not grief, dominated my heart. I contemplated why. One day, I decided to research the words of our prophets and apostles that relate to grief and gratitude. They confirmed what I had already concluded: that I had been strengthened by the comforting power of Jesus Christ and His Atonement, along with my gratitude.

The title of a 2005 Ensign article by President Thomas S. Monson (1927–2018) struck me deeply. It was called “The Profound Power of Gratitude.” In that article, President Monson said:

“God in His infinite mercy has not left grieving loved ones to wonder. He has provided truth. He will inspire an upward reach, and His outstretched arms will embrace you. Jesus promises to one and all who grieve, ‘I will not leave you comfortless: I will come to you’ [John 14:18].”2

I realized I had been experiencing God’s comfort and embrace. They were profound and powerful! They enabled me to look at John’s picture each morning and smile as I said, “Thank you!” to him and to God!

Elder Dieter F. Uchtdorf of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles has perfectly described what I experienced: “When we are grateful to God in our circumstances, we can experience gentle peace in the midst of tribulation. In grief, we can still lift up our hearts in praise. In pain, we can glory in Christ’s Atonement. In the cold of bitter sorrow, we can experience the closeness and warmth of heaven’s embrace.”3

These blessings were what I had felt within minutes of John’s death and in the days since! I am grateful for the peace in my heart and how I continually feel God’s embrace. I never want to lose those feelings! And so, I continue to express gratitude daily for my sacred experiences, for gospel knowledge that brings me closer to Jesus Christ, for the strengthening comfort made possible by Him and His Atonement, and for an eternal perspective and the hope of spending eternity with my Johnny.

“Will you give the blessing if she wants you to?” asked Jacob on the other end of the phone line. Jacob, my home teaching companion, explained that one of the people we home taught wanted a blessing.
“What would I say in a blessing?” I wondered. I was only 18, and I’d just become an elder and moved away to college. I had prepared my whole life to receive the Melchizedek Priesthood, but I had never thought about the day when I would really need to use it.
I hesitated, swallowed hard, and then heard myself say reluctantly, “Yes.” As soon as I realized what I had said, I cut the word so short that it was hardly audible. I hadn’t meant to say it, but somehow it had popped out of my mouth.
“Great!” cheered the enthusiastic voice. “I’ll be over in a couple of minutes.”
I stood by the phone in my basement apartment, considering calling Jacob back to tell him I couldn’t do it. Then I remembered my dad. Whenever he had to give a blessing, he went quietly into another room and prayed first. He would always say, “Just a second,” and then go say a prayer without anyone noticing. I had noticed though.
Alone in my apartment, I knelt down next to the couch. I bowed my head and started to pray: “Heavenly Father, I might be giving a blessing in a few minutes, and I’ve never done it before. If it be Thy will, help me to have my mind clear of my own thoughts and help me to know by the Spirit what I should say.”
As I stood up, I had a peaceful feeling that I was worthy and that the Spirit would tell me what I needed to say when I needed to say it. I didn’t know what I was going to say, but it didn’t seem to matter.
Several minutes later Jacob and I were in our suits and ties, sitting in the home of the young lady we home taught. The three of us talked for a few minutes about how her life was going. She was having a difficult time and hoped a priesthood blessing would help.
“Who would you like to give the blessing?” Jacob inquired.
She turned to me. “Will you give the blessing?” she asked.
“Yes,” I answered, this time without cutting the word short.
We pulled a white metal chair from the kitchen table into the middle of the room. As I laid my hands on her head, I silently repeated my prayer that I would know what to say. Jacob placed his hands on top of mine, and I began speaking: “By the authority of the holy Melchizedek Priesthood, we lay our hands upon your head and give you a blessing …”
As soon as I finished speaking those words, I knew what to say next. She had told us what her troubles were, and some of the words that came to my mind were about those troubles. Some of the words, though, dealt with things she hadn’t even mentioned. It wasn’t as though I thought ahead about what to say next; the words just came to my mind. They weren’t words I had heard my dad or my companion use. I could feel the Spirit telling me what to say.
After I ended the blessing, she looked up with tears in her eyes and thanked me. I realized I also had tears in my eyes, and I silently thanked my Heavenly Father. He really does inspire worthy priesthood holders. I learned that truth because I had prepared myself to be worthy to receive and use the Melchizedek Priesthood.

It was beginning to get dark, and the softly falling snow was blanketing the busy New York streets. Tired office workers and shoppers rushed to the waiting horse-drawn streetcars. A driver viciously whipped the tired, thin horses forward, and the miserable animals, cold and hungry, struggled to pull the overfilled cars through the slippery streets.
Suddenly Henry Bergh, a tall, handsome gentleman in a black silk hat, stood on the tracks in front of the departing streetcar and ordered the driver to stop and unload the passengers. When the driver resisted, Bergh pulled him out of the car and threw him into a snowbank. Then Bergh unhitched the overworked, underfed horses. This action caused many streetcars to be stalled behind the first, now horseless, car. Bergh then stopped a car going in another direction.
The “man in the black hat” had been trying for many months to get the streetcar companies to treat their horses more humanely. He wanted them to assign more horses to each car and to not allow too many passengers on a car so that the horses wouldn’t have to work so hard. But no one at the companies would listen to him. Now, finally, after he had blocked traffic for two hours, at least one company listened! Henry Bergh had won a victory. A car was sent out with four horses pulling it, and the streetcar company agreed to treat its horses more kindly.

Over 100 years ago, in the Samoan Islands of the Pacific Ocean, a young man named Tom Fanene was an important help during a life-and-death situation for members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Tom lived in a village called Sauniatu, which had been founded by Latter-day Saints in the area as a place for them to gather and make a community. Just like Saints of God in other times and places, they experienced trials as well as miracles as they worked to build God’s kingdom together. One trial came in 1918, when an influenza pandemic reached the village.
As soon as the illness arrived, it was devastating, and it spread quickly. Nearly every one of the roughly 400 villagers was bedridden because of it. Only a couple of them were well enough to get around: an older man and 12-year-old Tom.
During the 1918 influenza epidemic, Tom exercised faith as he worked hard to care for the people of the village. “Every morning I went from house to house to feed and clean the people and to find out who had died,” he said.
He fetched buckets of water from a spring and brought water to every house. He climbed coconut trees, picked coconuts, husked them, and opened them to collect the juice to bring it to the sick. He also killed all of the chickens in the village to make soup for each family.
The 12-year-old Tom Fanene helped nurse his village to health during a pandemic.
Illustration by James Madsen
During this pandemic, around one-fourth of all of the people in Samoa died of influenza. Some of the people in Tom’s village died as well. Tom helped dig graves and bury more than 20 of them, including his own father, Elisala.
But thanks to Tom’s hard work and loving care, many people in his village survived. He made a big difference to those people and to the building up of the Lord’s kingdom in Samoa. He was “laying the foundation of a great work.”
The 1918 influenza pandemic hit them hard. But Tom helped many to survive. Children went back to school, and villagers again formed the Sauniatu Branch Band (above).

Warmed by the medicine man’s healing fire inside the earthen lodge, Little Wind’s all-day vigil is over. For the valiant heart of the old buffalo—injured in a senseless and shameful slaughter two days before—is still beating.
Curled against the shaggy warmth of the great beast, the exhausted boy dreams of the sky people, then sleeps …
The first long, frosted slivers of light pierced the night sky over the tablelands. Ten Days Walking stepped out of his tepee, pulled a buffalo robe around him, and headed toward the earthen lodge. He entered quietly and stood for a long moment in the little bit of night still hiding inside, his eyes upon Little Wind, his son, who lay asleep with his head pillowed against the old buffalo. The ancient beast’s sides no longer rose and fell with a steady cadence.
Ten Days Walking stepped closer and put his ear to the animal’s side, but there was no heartbeat.
Little Wind stirred, then awoke. The look on his father’s face told him all he feared to know. His dark eyes widened and studied the creature beside him, then his vision was blurred by a thin veil of tears. “He only sleeps, Father.” Little Wind whispered with wishful uncertainty.
“It is the long sleep, my son,” Ten Days Walking uttered with reverent matter-of-factness. “The Great Spirit has called it home.”
“But I prayed so hard. It cannot be!” Little Wind buried his face in the old creature’s soft fur and wept.
Ten Days Walking sat down beside the boy and leaned back against the still warm bison. Gently and slowly he ran his large hand through Little Wind’s long hair, then he spoke. “Was it not this great one’s time, small warrior?” he asked. “No man or beast can remain on this earth place beyond his given time. This old four-legged had fathered countless of its kind and given much majesty and dignity to Mother Earth. Would it not perhaps be wrong now, maybe even selfish, to deny it its blessed rest?”
Little Wind could not—even in his pain—deny the simple wisdom of his father’s words. He nodded through his tears and snuggled himself against the big warrior who enclosed him in his great robe.
For a long while Little Wind watched the new light grow brighter in the lodge, spilling down through the hole in the center of the thatched roof and shedding its glow on the old buffalo. Then he muttered softly, “Grandfather says that life is like a blossom and that death is like the flower unfolding. What does he mean, Father?”
Ten Days Walking smiled knowingly. “Red Owl Watching means that to become like the Great Spirit, we must first become like a little child, like a … blossom … that opens into its greater self in the brighter light of heaven.”
Little Wind looked confused. Ten Days Walking’s smile broadened and he went on. “What your grandfather means is that he is anxious to leave his earth lodge and enter the great lodge of your Father and mine and to share in the wondrous things that await every valiant warrior who has served his Creator well.”
Little Wind didn’t know if he felt better because of his father’s strong arms around him or because of his wise counsel. Maybe it was both. Whatever it was, it was something to cling to every time his eyes returned to the old buffalo or to the lodge where his Grandfather, Red Owl Watching, lay in a long illness. “Will Grandfather die soon also?” he wondered out loud.
Ten Days Walking held his smile. There was a sadness in his voice at the thought of the old man’s leaving, but also the sound of hope. “Yes, it will very soon be his time. But as time rushes by like wind over a bird’s wing, my son, we will soon be together again. It is all part of a very wise plan.”
It was Little Wind’s unusual compassion and regard for the buffalo that caused his father to give the old four-legged special consideration. A great scaffold was prepared and its body carried on a litter to the sacred burial grounds that stood on the high jagged cliffs above the village. It was the first time such a thing had been done for any but a Sioux in the history of their people.
Little Wind climbed the steep trail in the icy November wind to the top of the butte to pay final tribute to the old buffalo. He watched as the mighty beast was hoisted up onto the scaffold, covered with furs, and secured with rope. Little Wind’s mother and little sister, Night Fawn, along with a few other village women, heaped brambles at the base of the scaffold to keep away wild animals. Then Ten Days Walking and the others left Little Wind alone to express his mourning.
When the sun had made its journey across the heavens, Little Wind turned from the wind-lashed scaffold and descended the darkened mesa to the village below.
In the days and weeks that followed, driving prairie rains beat unmercifully upon the little Sioux lodges. Winds howled and thunder boomed like the white soldiers’ cannons. Little Wind sat huddled in his family’s tepee, listening to the strange, wonderful stories spun by his grandfather from within the immense warm hides of his sickbed. The stories were of great battles fought and fine prizes won long, long ago.
Then one day came the great white silence. Little Wind pushed back the door flap and gazed upon it, wide-eyed. Winter had come in all its chilly white grandness.
The boy pulled his fur wrappings tightly about himself and stepped out, marveling at this shivering white Eden. Nothing stirred, and there was not a single footprint or track in sight. Mine will be the very first! he thought as he moved forward across the crusted snow.
The sun had just begun to rise above the huge white cliffs and had sprayed a silvery glow of near-blinding brightness over the valley mist. Suddenly his breathless wonderment was broken by the frightened whinnying of the village horses. He looked through the misty light toward the corral at the far end of the lodges. Vague, ghostly shapes moved stealthily among the ponies. They were the shapes of warriors warmly dressed against the weather … but not of his tribe!
Little Wind dashed quickly and silently into the tepee and shook his father from his sleep. “Father!” he cried in a loud whisper. “There are strangers in our village!”
Ten Days Walking sprang to his feet, grabbed a buffalo horn club and shield hanging next to his war medicine bundle, and bolted outside. He shouted an alarm to the other sleeping villagers.
Red Owl Watching strained up onto an elbow. “Young Shoshones,” he uttered in a raspy, unworried voice. “They come to take our horses, not to take scalps.” He arched his neck and gazed up at Little Wind, who stood tensely by the door. “It is the way of things. It is honorable to take ponies from an enemy tribe and return triumphant to your village. It shows much courage and brings dignity to any young warrior.”
Little Wind’s mother looked harshly at the old warrior in the ermine blanket. “We cannot let our horses be taken just so some young Shoshone brave can paint victory marks on his leggings, old man! Without our ponies we will—”
Red Owl Watching chuckled and placed a quivery, reassuring hand on Laughing Water’s arm, then beamed at Little Wind. “It is also honorable for a young Sioux brave to disgrace a Shoshone brave.”
“How is this done, Grandfather?” Little Wind questioned.
The ancient Indian broke into a toothless grin. “Simply by keeping him from stealing a Sioux pony.”
“And how is that best done?” Little Wind pressed eagerly.
“It is best done quickly!” was the reply.
Little Wind was gone in the shake of a pony’s tail. Laughing Water argued with motherly concern, “He’s still a boy, old man!”
Again Red Owl Watching softly patted the woman’s arm. “Yes. But do boys learn to become men just by listening to tales of valor, or must they at some point take part in those deeds that lift them beyond themselves to that high, noble place of manhood?”
Laughing Water twisted her face. Can I never win an argument with this old one? she wondered. “Must you always be so wise?” she asked aloud.
The toothless grin once again returned to the old face. “Old age does have its rewards, good mother.” Then the two peered outside through the hide flap where the village was alive with warmly outfitted combatants. The warriors were dashing in and out in a ragged pattern, waving stone clubs and feathered lances. But as Red Owl Watching had testified, there was no noticeable desire to inflict grave injury upon each other. They were just taking coup—the touching or striking of an armed enemy with a lance or any other object and getting away unscratched. It was a deed far more noble than taking a scalp or inflicting a fatal injury.
Ten Days Walking had jumped atop the corral fence and had leaped onto a mounted Shoshone, wrestling man and animal to the ground. The enemy’s horse whirled about wild-eyed, then crashed into and broke a section of fence. Eighteen of the tribe’s twenty-two fine ponies, spooked by all the excited hoots and frenzied activity, plunged through the opening in the crude fence and disappeared into the mist. And with the fading sound of exiting, pounding hooves filling his concerned ears, Ten Days Walking quickly whacked his foe with his shield and sent him sprawling among the four remaining ponies. One of them, the warrior chief’s great buffalo runner, whirled by instinct toward the grounded Shoshone and nickered defiantly. The frightened Shoshone scrambled to his feet and ran off. Ten Days Walking hooted victoriously and gestured tribute to his war-horse. Then he plunged back into the fray.
At the same time, Little Wind darted in a low run through the tinseled fog, scooped up a broken lance, and leaped onto the back of an enemy brave who had pinned down a Sioux tribesman. Holding both ends of the lance in his hands, Little Wind quickly looped it over the Shoshone’s head and pressed it tightly against his throat. The Indian abandoned his grip, yelled angrily, and toppled over backward onto Little Wind, his wolf headdress falling off in the process. Before the startled would-be horse thief could get a fair look at his boy attacker, Little Wind had vanished with his prize, the wolf headdress, into the frozen brushwood.
By now the whole village was swarming with armed Sioux men, and even some of the women were wielding bone clubs and whatever else they could come up with. And the small band of hapless Shoshones, seeing themselves hopelessly outnumbered, reluctantly mounted their ponies and fled in shame, rubbing their wounds and suffering the sting of injured pride.
Joyous shouts burst forth in splendid unison from every lodge in the little community. But there was still an important matter to be attended to—recovering the tribe’s eighteen ponies. They would have to be found quickly before they were adopted by another tribe or before gathering clouds ushered in another storm.
Ten Days Walking sprang onto his buffalo runner and hastily instructed three braves nearby to get the three remaining horses and assist him in the hunt. Then he glanced at Little Wind with a flash of pride that seemed to lift the boy ten feet off the ground. After all, was it not he who first warned the village of the presence of an enemy tribe? And was not that a Shoshone headdress hanging from his belt?
The boy watched his father’s horse plunge away into the frigid whiteness. Then he started back toward his tepee, anxious to share the story of his first coup with his mother, grandfather, and little sister. But he had only gone a few steps when someone pulled at his arm. It was Yellow Fox, a village boy. “Your pony is gone too,” he said excitedly. “I saw it run away when the Shoshones first came!”
“My father will find it, with the others,” Little Wind responded confidently.
“He’ll not find your pony!” Yellow Fox insisted. “I saw your horse go toward the high rock county. Your father and the others rode off in another direction. They’ll not find your pony. But maybe a Shoshone will.”
Little Wind gazed anxiously toward the great mountains veiled in glacial mist. His pony had been given to him as a gift by his father before the big hunt. It was priceless to him. He had to find it before the next storm or he might never see it again. If he hurried, he could be back before his mother even knew he was gone. If he waited for his father to return with the horses, it might be too late. I’m well dressed against the weather in this big otter coat Mother made me, he assured himself. Besides, my pony probably hasn’t gone very far.
Little Wind pulled his wrappings snugly around him, gave a quick glance toward his tepee, and hurried off in the direction of the hoofprints in the snow.
What Little Wind did not know was that a new storm was gathering just beyond the mesas. Hidden behind the fog, it crouched like some huge, nameless beast ready to lunge across the sky and engulf anyone or anything careless enough to leave the fires of home.

Difficulties at home did not prevent the Church from growing elsewhere. In various parts of the eastern United States, missionary work prospered, and conversions in Canada led to the expansion of the work across the Atlantic. In April 1836 Elder Parley P. Pratt of the Council of the Twelve was sent to Canada where he preached in the Toronto area. There he met John Taylor, a Methodist preacher who was looking for the restoration of the original church of Christ. After three weeks of investigation, the future third president of the Church, John Taylor and his wife were baptized, and within two years he was called as one of the Twelve.

A nearby explosion jolted me awake, and alarms started to blare. For a moment, I couldn’t figure out what was happening. The glowing white numbers of my alarm clock told me it was 06:00. I looked around the darkened room, wondering what was going on. Nothing seemed out of place.
But then a second and third blast began a barrage of incoming rocket-propelled grenades and bursts of gunfire outside. I was not sure from where the barrage was coming, but I knew we were under attack.
Feeling my adrenaline kick in, I rolled off my bed and began grabbing my gear. As I pulled on my tactical vest and helmet, I could hear the continued wail of alarms and the engines of the Quick Response Force vehicles rev as they rushed through the camp to meet the attack.
With my M9 pistol strapped to my side, I grabbed my rifle and headed into the hallway to await orders.
I was about nine months into my longest deployment to Afghanistan with the United States Air Force. My responsibilities working with the senior Afghan Air Force finance officer and officials from the Afghan Ministry of Finance often put me in harm’s way, and I had felt the Lord’s protecting hand. But this attack was a first for me. When our colonel asked for volunteers to follow him outside, I joined six others taking position around the building in case attackers overran the gate.
The colonel ordered me to take my post on the side of our base that faced the attack. Gunfire continued as people darted left and right, seeking shelter. Marines posted on the top of a nearby building ducked for cover as rocket after rocket flew into the camp to the north of my position. They rocked the ground and buildings when they exploded. Some hit a hangar. Many left craters.
I lay on the ground with my M4 assault rifle pointed toward my sector of fire. Deafening gunfire surrounded me, though it was directed toward the camp to the north of me. I had trained for such a scenario but had never faced a real threat. I was terrified, and I wasn’t even in the thick of the fight!
My stomach knotted. Sweat coated my skin. I braced myself, expecting at any moment that a rocket would explode where I lay. Thoughts of my family popped into my mind.
“Heavenly Father,” I prayed, “please protect us so we can all get home to our families.”
As I finished my prayer, a memory played in my mind that momentarily replaced the sights and sounds of battle. The memory was of seven-year-old Gabriel, one of the boys in the Primary class I taught back in the United States. Just a few weeks earlier, his father had emailed me a video of Gabriel praying at his bedside—praying for me and for my safety in Afghanistan.
I remembered teaching my Primary class about prayer. At the time, I had wondered if any of them understood the miraculous power of prayer. But when I saw that video, I was astounded by the faith of that little boy—something I witnessed with many of the children I taught.
Now the memory of that simple prayer inspired my faith in that terrifying moment. I felt God tell me that little Gabriel was praying for me. I knew He had heard Gabriel’s prayer, my prayer, and the prayers of countless others on my behalf. I felt peace replace worry. I felt in my heart that my fellow servicemen and I would be all right.
When the firefight finally ended six hours later, we assessed our casualties. To our surprise, nobody in our camp had been injured by the 47 rocket-propelled grenades and thousands of rounds fired into our camp.
I knew I wasn’t the first to pray on the battlefield. I also knew that not every battlefield prayer had been answered in the same way. But I was grateful for the assurance that God hears and answers our prayers, even those of a little child.

My name is Magnolia. I go to a ward where we speak Spanish. One day Mia came to my Primary class. She speaks only English. I wanted to help Mia feel welcome, so I decided to help her. I would be her interpreter!
An interpreter translates words that someone is speaking into a different language.
Keeping Up
At first it was hard to keep up when I was interpreting for Mia. Then the teachers slowed down to give me time. We all felt good that we could help Mia.
Lots in Common
We both just got baptized and confirmed. We both like music, especially hymns and Primary songs. We both like family home evening. And both of us like to read stories in the Liahona.
Whispered Help
My name is Mia. My parents speak Spanish, so we went to the Spanish-speaking ward. I couldn’t understand what people were saying. Magnolia saw that I was frustrated. She moved over next to me and whispered English in my ear.
Good Friends
After Primary, I asked Magnolia if she would be my friend. She said yes. From then on, Magnolia was my friend and my interpreter. She helped me make other friends too.

With his confidence in himself established on a spiritual basis, Peter was ready to work toward going on a mission. After submitting his papers and undergoing a special interview with Elder Thomas S. Monson, Peter received his call to the Northern California Mission.
Up until then Peter had always worn dark glasses in an attempt to cover the slits that had been sewn closed over his eyes to compensate for his lack of eyelids. He had been so self-conscious of his appearance that he never went anywhere without his glasses. On the way to his mission interview, he took his dark glasses off and never wore them again. Surgery later corrected the problem with his eyelids.
His new attitude about himself helped him serve a successful mission. He was able to influence people and encourage them to become members of the Church.

My friend Stephen was not just any friend. He was awesome in every way, and I really looked up to him. One day, he asked me if I wanted to know about something that made him incredibly happy. Of course I did. Anything that was important to him was important to me. He continued to ask me other questions before he would reveal what it was that made him so happy. Did I want to know the truth? I finally realized that he was probably talking about his church. After a couple of weeks, he asked if I would speak with the missionaries. I thought, “Why not? Nothing is going to happen from just one visit.”
The day came to meet the missionaries, and as I walked into Stephen’s house, I was quite nervous. I had no idea what to expect. The elders introduced themselves. They seemed extremely nice and fun. Then after a prayer, they began the first discussion. I remember the feeling so well. As they talked about Joseph Smith, the Book of Mormon, and Jesus Christ, I knew that there was something special about this gospel.
When I arrived home, I told my mom everything I had learned and how much sense it made. My mom seemed slightly interested but not even close to the level of excitement I had. I was filled with some sort of energy, and I wanted to know more.
The next week I had the second discussion. Again, everything taught made sense. At the close of the discussion, one of the elders asked if I would be baptized. Honestly, I was shocked. I didn’t think this question would come up so soon. I told the elders that I simply didn’t know. They asked me to kneel with them and pray aloud to know if the things I had been taught were true. I had never prayed vocally with others before, so I was rather timid.
My best friend, the missionaries, and I knelt, and I prayed. I prayed to Heavenly Father to know if Joseph Smith was a prophet. I asked if the Book of Mormon was true. I pleaded to know if this was the true church and if it was in His plan for me to join it. I prayed for guidance and direction. I prayed to know what Heavenly Father wanted me to do. After probably 10 minutes of sincere prayer, I said amen and opened my eyes.
All I could feel was the Spirit. It was the most wonderful feeling I had ever felt. I was amazed with the knowledge and truth I had just been blessed with. I looked at the missionaries and told them I wanted to be baptized. We set the date. I knew at that moment that everything I had been taught and everything to come was true. I had gained my own testimony.
When I told my mother, she was more understanding than I had expected. She told me that if I really felt this was what I needed to do, then I should do it.
Sooner than I could believe, I was getting ready to be baptized. My whole family attended, which made it even more special. As my best friend and I walked into the font, wearing all white, the Spirit was present. I was about to be clean, as clean as I had been when I was born.
When I came out of the water, I couldn’t believe it. I had been baptized. This was my first best day.
The missionaries soon started teaching my family the discussions. My family had a hard time grasping concepts such as the Book of Mormon and Joseph Smith, key concepts to the Church. But they kept listening to the discussions.
Finally, during the sixth discussion, the elders asked my family to be baptized. The room was silent. After a few moments, my dad looked up and said, “Yes, this is what we need to do.” I was in awe because my dad had never been very faithful about going to church. He looked at my mom, and she also said yes. My 14-year-old brother was in tears. He, too, wanted to be baptized. Three months after my baptism, my family was baptized. This was my second best day.
About a year later, my family was sealed in the Atlanta Georgia Temple. As we walked into the sealing room, the Spirit overwhelmed me. We knelt together as a family and were sealed together forever. This was the best day of all.
I love this Church. I am thankful for Jesus Christ, Heavenly Father, my friend, and the missionaries who taught me the gospel. Now, thanks to them, each of my days can be a best day.

—The snow outside didn’t mute the lights inside of the Paisley Scotland Stake celebration, either. They were putting bows all over the stake Christmas tree, each bow representing an act of service performed by one of the young women. Among other things, they had collected household equipment and used clothing for a women’s refuge center and had put on a concert at a home for the elderly.
“We should serve everyone, not just those we like being around. Christ is our best example of service,” said Heather Wallis, as she pulled her coat on and prepared to walk out into the snowy dusk.

San Francisco Earthquake
Steve Gudmundson, 15, Rockwood Ward
I was trying to watch baseball, the World Series. I saw the cameras moving, and then it went black. When the television came back on the air, I remember the sportscasters were trying to announce what was happening. They started talking about the earthquake. I thought they would be able to play the rest of the game, but it was postponed. During the next day, we found out how bad it was.

Gift of health. In October we heard the shocking news that our beloved stake president had suffered a heart attack and was in a coma. As the weeks passed, members of our stake prayed earnestly for him. The doctors were very concerned, but then he came out of his coma and drastically improved. He lives in my ward, and one Sunday before Christmas I walked into the chapel and was surprised to see him sitting on the stand. After the speakers gave their talks, the stake president came to the pulpit and told us that he could feel the strength of our prayers. As I looked at him, tears streaming down my cheeks, I realized his return to health was a great Christmas present for all of us.Katie B., Washington, USA

In Elder Pedro X. Larreal’s fourth month as a full-time missionary, President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008) visited the Venezuela Caracas Mission.
Elder Larreal recalled, “He extended an amazing invitation to us about consecration: ‘If you are focused 100 percent, I promise your future family will receive blessings.’”
Afterward, Elder Larreal wrote a letter to break up with his girlfriend back home. “I needed to put everything on the altar because I needed to be more focused.”
Looking back, he recognizes many blessings—beneficial education, successful employment—sprouting from trust in that apostolic promise.
“When we follow the direction of a prophet, seer, and revelator, we will get blessings in our life,” he said. “I promise.”

Everything in the green velvet bag with the gold drawstring was good for something. That’s what Willie told his older brother, Roger, when he asked why Willie carried it with him everywhere.
“But that stuff is just junk!” Roger protested. “It’s a stupid-looking bag, anyway!”
Willie just shrugged and kept on looking for things to put into it. He decided to call it his “good for something” bag.
Willie emptied his bag onto the kitchen table one morning and carefully examined the blue shoelace he’d found on the school playground. Only one plastic tip was missing.
Then there was the lopsided tennis ball, a stick, and a brown lunch sack. He put each item back into the green velvet bag that he’d found on top of Mr. Ison’s garbage can. The bag was actually the first “good for something” thing he’d found. After Mr. Ison had given him permission to keep it, Willie had set out to find just the right things to put into it—you just never knew when something would be needed!
Now he was searching for more things to put into his “good-for-something” green velvet bag with the gold drawstring. He was quite pleased when he found some wire tangled around a bush by the pond at the park. After untangling the wire, he took the stick from his bag and wrapped the wire around it. Then he put the stick back into his green velvet bag. It was later that afternoon, on the way to the store, that he found a use for the wire.
“Willie?” his mother had called to him from the kitchen. “Will you please go to the store and get some light blue thread for me? I’m right in the middle of mending Daddy’s shirt, and I’ve run out.”
“Sure, Mom.” Willie whistled as he skipped to the store, the green velvet bag in his hand.
“Oh, Willie, can you help me for a minute?” Mrs. Jones called from her yard. “My clothesline broke, and my clean clothes are all over the grass!”
Willie hurried over. “I have just the thing to fix your clothesline, Mrs. Jones!” He reached into his bag and pulled out the wire he’d found that morning.
“This ought to hold it up.” Willie carefully unwound the wire from the stick and tied it to the broken clothesline, then to the post. “There!”
“Willie, that’s wonderful! You’re such a clever boy!”
“It’s my ‘good for something’ bag that did the trick,” Willie explained.
“Well, thank you, Willie. And thanks to your ‘good for something’ bag.”
After he put the stick back in the bag, Willie started on down the sidewalk.
Two blocks later, Willie saw little Joey sitting on the curb in front of his house. As Willie got closer, he could see that Joey looked very unhappy. “What’s wrong?” Willie asked as he went up the walk.
“I’m trying to tie my shoes. I’ve practiced and practiced, and I just can’t get it right. And then my shoelace broke. Now I can’t even tie it at all—see.” Joey showed Willie the broken shoelace. “It’s too short.”
“Well, Joey,” Willie said as he put his bag down on the sidewalk, “I have just the thing for you in my ‘good for something’ bag.”
Joey watched Willie search in the green velvet bag and pull out the blue shoelace with only one end missing. Joey’s eyes brightened as Willie put the blue lace on Joey’s shoe.
“Watch, Joey. I’ll show you how to tie it.”
Joey watched intently as Willie demonstrated how to tie the lace.
“Now you try it,” Willie said.
Joey carefully held the blue shoelace just as Willie had showed him, and tied it according to Willie’s instructions. When he finished, he had a perfect bow.
“I did it! Wow! Thanks, Willie!”
Willie patted his bag. “You never know when you’ll need one of my special things from the ‘good for something’ bag,” he said as he waved good-bye.
Willie turned the corner and hurried on to the store. Just as he opened the door, Mrs. Johnson and her four-year-old twins, Mary and Kerry, came out.
“Now, Kerry, please stop that!” Mrs. Johnson was saying. “And, Mary, you can hold your treat in a minute.” Mrs. Johnson was trying to balance two full bags of groceries and keep track of her squabbling children.
“But I want to hold the treat!” Kerry wailed.
“No! I want to!” Mary wailed back.
“Hi, Mrs. Johnson,” Willie said brightly. “Need some help?”
“Oh, yes, Willie, please,” Mrs. Johnson said desperately. Willie took a hand of each girl and followed Mrs. Johnson to her car. A relieved Mrs. Johnson set down the groceries.
“I want to hold it now!” Mary yelled again.
“It’s still my turn!” Kerry yelled back. A small sack containing cookies from the bakery was in danger of being torn apart by the quarreling girls. Suddenly Willie had an idea.
“Wait a minute! Just hold the sack still,” he told them.
The girls stopped their tug-of-war and watched Willie reach in his “good for something” bag.
“What’s in there?” Kerry asked.
“You’ll see.” Willie smiled at her. Pulling his hand out of the green velvet bag, he showed the girls the brown lunch sack. “This will make things easier.” He took the treat bag from Kerry, put one of the cookies from it into the brown lunch sack, then handed a sack to each girl. Both smiled happily.
“Thank you, Willie,” Mrs. Johnson said gratefully. “That was a good idea!”
“Well, you never know when something will come in handy from my ‘good for something’ bag.”
Hurrying into the store, Willie quickly found the thread and paid for it. When he was almost home, he heard a familiar sound.
“Here, Sam!” Willie called to his barking dog. “Here, boy!” Sam bounded across the lawn and jumped up on Willie, his tail wagging furiously.
“Hold on, boy. I have a surprise for you.” Willie set his nearly empty green velvet bag down, reached in, and grasped the lopsided tennis ball and the stick.
“Here, boy!” Willie said, showing Sam the ball. “Go get it!” Willie threw the ball across the lawn. Sam immediately bounded away and trotted back with it.
“Good boy!” Willie patted his pet’s head. “Now try this!” He threw the stick across the lawn. Sam ran after it, picked it up, and ran with it back to Willie.
“Good ol’ Sam!” Willie said, petting the dog before he went into the house. He found his mother and gave her the thread.
“Thank you, Willie. I’m glad you could help me. Did you find any more treasures on the way to the store?”
“Nope—but I got rid of a few!” He told his mother what he’d done with the wire, the blue shoelace with only one plastic tip missing, the brown lunch sack, the lopsided tennis ball, and the stick.
“That really is a ‘good for something’ bag!” Willie’s mother exclaimed.
“I’m going to look for more ‘good for something’ things to put in my ‘good for something’ bag,” Willie told her.
“Well”—she handed Willie an empty thread spool, then winked at him—“will you drop this into the garbage on your way out?”
“I have a better idea, Mom,” Willie said happily as he put the spool into his green velvet bag with the gold drawstring. “You just never know when it might be good for something!”

The formal dance hosted by one Southern California stake in 2011 expanded to two stakes in 2012. Both stakes had youth who helped plan and carry out the event.
Evan S. was part of the planning committee and was also given a charge to get other youth excited about the dance. “I did all I could to try and make sure people knew it was going to be a fun event and that fun people would be there to make it the best it could possibly be,” he says.
The event was held on the estate of a stake member and gathered more than 300 youth. They loved the music, the modest dress, and the appropriate dancing. In addition to the dance, other activities included a photo booth, table tennis, and even a ball pit. And this was all provided at no cost to the youth. One nonmember who was invited to the dance exclaimed, “Your Church provides all this?!”
Darby C. loved going to the prom and sums up why most youth enjoy going to these dances. “It is wonderful,” she says. “I don’t have to worry about being uncomfortable about lyrics, dance moves, or inappropriate clothing.”

Years ago when I was in business, I learned a very expensive lesson because I did not listen carefully to the counsel of my father, nor did I heed the promptings of the Spirit giving me guidance from my Heavenly Father. My father and I were in the automobile business, and the Ford Motor Company was looking for dealers to sell their new line of cars. Ford executives invited my father and me to a preview showing of what they thought would be a spectacularly successful product. When we saw the cars, my father, who had over 35 years experience in the business, cautioned me about becoming a dealer. However, the Ford sales personnel were very persuasive, and I chose to become Salt Lake City’s first—and actually last—Edsel dealer. And if you don’t know what an Edsel is, ask your grandpa. He will tell you that the Edsel was a spectacular failure.

May I share with you something of a personal and sacred testimony?
Nearly forty years ago I was on a mission in England. I had been called to labor in the European Mission office in London under President Joseph F. Merrill of the Council of the Twelve, then president of the European Mission. One day three or four of the London papers carried reviews of a reprint of an old book, snide and ugly in tone, indicating that the book was a history of the Mormons. President Merrill said to me, “I want you to go down to the publisher and protest this.” I looked at him and was about to say, “Surely not me.” But I meekly said, “Yes, sir.”
I do not hesitate to say that I was frightened. I went to my room and felt something as I think Moses must have felt when the Lord asked him to go and see Pharaoh. I offered a prayer. My stomach was churning as I walked over to the Goodge Street station to get the underground train to Fleet Street. I found the office of the president and presented my card to the receptionist. She took it and went into the inner office and soon returned to say that Mr. Skeffington was too busy to see me. I replied that I had come five thousand miles and that I would wait. During the next hour she made two or three trips to his office, then finally invited me in. I shall never forget the picture when I entered. He was smoking a long cigar with a look that seemed to say, “Don’t bother me.”
I held in my hand the reviews. I do not know what I said after that. Another power seemed to be speaking through me. At first he was defensive and even belligerent. Then he began to soften. He concluded by promising to do something. Within an hour word went out to every book dealer in England to return the books to the publisher. At great expense he printed and tipped in the front of each volume a statement to the effect that the book was not to be considered as history, but only as fiction, and that no offense was intended against the respected Mormon people. Years later he granted another favor of substantial worth to the Church, and each year until the time of his death I received a Christmas card from him.
I came to know that when we try in faith to walk in obedience to the requests of the priesthood, the Lord opens the way, even when there appears to be no way.