Gospel Story Finder

Hung Hseng Chr sat on the grass by the edge of the river and watched the water lapping on the rocks. The sun felt hot against his skin, and the air was thick and humid. A tear ran down his cheek, and he brushed it quickly away with the back of his hand.
Hseng Chr’s ancestors had lived in Taiwan for many years. He was proud of his people, for they had once been great warriors, and he wanted to be strong and brave, as they had been.
But it was hard to be brave when his sister, Hung Mei Lin, was so sick. She was in the hospital in Tai Tung, and the doctors didn’t know what was wrong with her except that she had a terrible fever. They had said that there was nothing more that they could do. The last time Hseng Chr had seen her, she had looked as still and frail as a bundle of old rice straw.
“Hello,” said a voice.
Hseng Chr looked up and saw the dark eyes and smiling face of Aunt Hung. She was his father’s sister, and she had recently joined a new church. Hseng Chr remembered that she had been taught by two young men who were called Mormon missionaries. Since that time, his aunt hadn’t visited them so often; every time she did, she and his father got into an argument about religion.
“Hello,” Hseng Chr answered her now in a listless voice.
His aunt sat on the grass beside him and gave him a big hug. He suddenly felt better, as he always did when she came to visit. “I was thinking about Mei Lin,” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “So was I.”
“I don’t want her to die.”
His aunt gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “I’m going to ask your father to let my friends give Mei Lin a blessing.”
Hseng Chr stared at his aunt in surprise. “A blessing?” he asked. “What is a blessing?”
“Well,” said his aunt slowly, as if she was trying to explain something very difficult. “A blessing is a special prayer given by men who hold the priesthood.”
Hseng Chr was even more confused. “What is the priesthood?”
“It is the power and authority to act in the name of God. These men—these friends of mine—will pray for Mei Lin, and if God wants her to live and if we believe that God can save her, she will live.”
A strange feeling came over the boy. It was as though something frightened him and exhilarated him at the same time. He knew that he wanted Mei Lin to have a priesthood blessing so that she would get well.
He waited on the grass as Aunt Hung walked toward the house. He watched as she opened the door and called Father’s name. He saw the stern face and stooped shoulders of his father as the door swung open, but he was too far away to hear the words that his aunt spoke. Father shook his head and turned away.
Aunt Hung talked some more, her hand on Father’s arm, her face turned up to his. Father shrugged his shoulders and went back inside the house. Aunt Hung came partway back and waved for Hseng Chr to follow. “He gave his permission,” she called. “Let’s hurry!”
A little while later he stood at his sister’s bedside while two young missionaries laid their hands on her head. As they spoke, a warm feeling came into his chest. When the blessing was over, he and his aunt walked home silently, the hot sun beating down upon their backs.
At suppertime Hseng Chr’s whole family went to visit Mei Lin, as they had at every suppertime for the past week. The boy had grown used to his stomach growling at him all the way to the hospital and back. He didn’t mind the hunger anymore, for lately when he ate, the food seemed to get stuck partway down.
Hseng Chr couldn’t keep from hurrying. The closer his family got to the hospital, the faster his feet moved. Finally he just couldn’t hold them back. He left Father and Mother behind with the younger children and ran the last block by himself. He dashed up the steps and into the hospital. He ran down the hallway and burst into Mei Lin’s room. He stopped. The bed was empty.
He stood for a long moment and stared, not believing his eyes: Mei Lin was sitting in a chair beside her bed, looking at pictures in a book. Her dark eyes were clear, her skin was back to its normal healthy color, and her arms no longer hung limply at her sides. Suddenly he realized that Aunt Hung had been right. There really was such a thing as power from God. He would see his aunt again soon and ask her to explain more about the priesthood.
Mei Lin looked up at him and smiled. Hseng Chr ran forward, his hands reaching for hers.

I was baptized almost two years ago. At first the scriptures seemed boring to me, and I didn’t understand them. To remedy this situation, I did a number of things.
I organized and managed my time; I chose a certain time each day during which I would spend the entire time reading the scriptures. I set a goal to read the Book of Mormon within a certain time. I used my imagination to become a participant in the events recorded in the scriptures. I always asked my Heavenly Father for help in understanding what I was reading. Sometimes I would discuss a certain passage with my bishop or someone else to help with that understanding.
The scriptures have become my best friends, and I know that they are of God.
Yngrid M. Heining, 17San Lorenzo Ward, Fernando de la Mora StakeParaguay

Mamãe? I said something mean to my friend today. Now I feel terrible.
Wait, I know! I can just get baptized again! Then I will be all clean.
You don’t need to do that. You can repent right now and be forgiven. And when you take the sacrament, you can promise to do better!
Can we say a prayer together? I want to tell Heavenly Father I’m sorry. And I’ll tell my friend I’m sorry tomorrow.
Of course.
That Sunday …
I’ll try harder this week to be kind! I know Heavenly Father will help me.
Illustrations by Katie McDee

May I close by bearing you my personal testimony regarding home teaching. I can remember, as if it were yesterday, growing up as a young boy in Whitney, Idaho. We were a farm family, and when we boys were out working in the field, I remember Father calling to us in a shrill voice from the barnyard: “Tie up your teams, boys, and come on in. The ward teachers are here.” Regardless of what we were doing, that was the signal to assemble in the sitting room to hear the ward teachers.
These two faithful priesthood bearers would come each month either by foot or by horseback. We always knew they would come. I can’t remember one miss. And we would have a great visit. They would stand behind a chair and talk to the family. They would go around the circle and ask each child how he or she was doing and if we were doing our duty. Sometimes Mother and Father would prime us before the ward teachers came so we would have the right answers. But it was an important time for us as a family. They always had a message, and it was always a good one.
We have refined home teaching a lot since those early days in Whitney. But it is still basically the same. The same principles are involved: caring, reaching out, teaching by the Spirit, leaving an important message each month, and having a concern and love for each member of the family.

Now, you young men, let’s carefully consider some examples from the lives of our prophets as they have spiritually prepared for the priesthood. President Joseph Fielding Smith shares with us his feelings in these words: “‘When I was a small boy, too young to hold the Aaronic Priesthood, my father placed a copy of the Book of Mormon in my hands with the request that I read it. I received this Nephite record with thanksgiving and applied myself to the task which had been assigned to me. There are certain passages that have been stamped upon my mind and I have never forgotten them.’ By the time he was ten years old he had read the Book of Mormon through not just once but twice. His brothers remembered of his hurrying to get through his chores as quickly as possible, and sometimes even leaving a ball game early, and secluding himself in the hayloft or in the shade of a tree to get back to his reading of the book.” (Joseph Fielding Smith, Jr., and John J. Stewart, The Life of Joseph Fielding Smith, Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Co., 1972, p. 57.)

Ugh! I just don’t get this assignment. Why can’t I be more like Abby? She’s so smart. And everyone likes her.
Later …
Abby, are you OK?
I … It’s nothing. I’m fine.
You’re really lucky.
Me? Lucky? But you’re so smart, and you have lots of friends, and …
But not close friends like you do. And you always look so … happy. I wish I could be more like you.
Later, Mandy tells Mom about her day …
I wonder if it’s easier to see the good stuff in other people than in yourself. I think Abby and I both have a lot to be grateful for.

“What are you doing?” Nate asked his big sister, Jessica.
“Writing a thank-you to Grandma for my birthday present.”
“I want to write one too.”
“You don’t know how to write yet,” Jessica said. “Besides, you write thank-yous to someone who gives you a present, and it wasn’t your birthday.”
“Oh,” said Nate, rolling his tongue around in his cheek. Then he started to grin. “I know someone I can make a thank-you for. I’ll be right back.”
A minute later, Nate dumped crayons, markers, and a big sheet of plain white paper on the table.
“Now what are you doing?” Jessica sighed, moving over.
“Making a thank-you picture. I can’t write, but I can draw.”
“Who are you thanking?”
“It’s a surprise.” Nate picked up a yellow crayon, drew a round sun, and colored it in. Then he used markers to make a red house with two blue windows, and a door.
Jessica peered at it. “I know who that picture’s for. It’s for Dad.”
“No,” said Nate, smiling. He drew his black cat, Pepper, and the swing hanging from their big oak tree.
“I bet that picture’s for Mom,” Jessica said.
“Nope.” Nate picked up a blue crayon. He colored birds flying in the sky, and the pond next to their house.
“I’m done,” said Jessica, putting her note into an envelope. “Now I have to write Grandma’s address on it and send it.”
“I’m done, too,” said Nate, coloring a frog by the pond.
“I bet that picture’s for your kindergarten teacher,” Jessica said.
“No,” Nate said. “It’s for someone who gives me different things every day. It’s a thank-you picture for Heavenly Father.”
Jessica smiled. “You’re right, Nate. He does give us all kinds of presents.”
“Do you think He likes my thank-you picture?”
“Sure He does. Everyone likes it when you say thank you.”
Nate smiled. “Help me hang my picture up for Heavenly Father to see. Then I’ll help you mail yours.”

Hey, Sam!
What’s wrong?
I can’t find Floppy, my elephant from Great-Aunt Alice!
I’ll help you look.
We’ll never find him.
Let’s say a prayer for help.
Heavenly Father, please help us find Floppy.
Hmm …
Sam! Look!
You found him!
Let’s say a prayer to say thank you.
Heavenly Father, thank you for helping me find Floppy.
Now there’s one more thing we should do.
Can I play too?
Heavenly Father cares about what we care about! We can pray to Him anytime, anywhere, about anything.

One evening as night was falling, I was driving with my children when I noticed a boy walking along a lonely road. After passing him, I had a distinct impression I should go back and help him. But worried it could frighten him to have a stranger pull up beside him at night, I continued driving. The strong impression came again with the words in my mind: “Go help that boy!”
I drove back to him and asked, “Do you need some help? I had a feeling I should help you.”
He turned toward us and with tears streaming down his cheeks said, “Would you? I’ve been praying someone would help me.”
His prayer for help was answered with the inspiration that came to me. This experience of receiving such clear direction from the Spirit left an unforgettable imprint that is still in my heart.
And now after 25 years and through a tender mercy, I connected again with this boy for the first time just a few months ago. I discovered that the experience isn’t just my story—it is his story too. Deric Nance is now a father with a family of his own. He too has never forgotten this experience. It helped us lay a foundation of faith that God hears and answers our prayers. Both of us have used it to teach our children that God is watching over us. We are not alone.
On that night, Deric had stayed after school for an activity and had missed the last bus. As a young teenager, he felt confident he could make it home, so he started walking.
An hour and a half had passed as he walked the lonely road. Still miles from home and with no houses in sight, he was scared. In despair, he walked behind a pile of gravel, got on his knees, and asked Heavenly Father for help. Just minutes after Deric returned to the road, I stopped to provide the help he prayed for.
And now these many years later, Deric reflects: “The Lord was mindful of me, a skinny, shortsighted boy. And despite everything else going on in the world, He was aware of my situation and loved me enough to send help. The Lord has answered my prayers many times since that abandoned roadside. His answers aren’t always as immediate and clear, but His awareness of me is just as evident today as it was that lonely night. Whenever the dark shadows of life blanket my world, I know He always has a plan to see me safely home again.”

“Waste not, want not,” her mother always said, but Mary was tired of scrimping and scraping and going without. Ever since her family had arrived in this dry desert valley, life had been difficult for them. Blinking back snowflakes, she looked up at the foothills, now white, where she had stood just months ago when they first glimpsed the Salt Lake Valley. It will take a miracle to make this place “blossom as the rose,” she thought.
It wasn’t that Mary didn’t like the valley. She was happy here with her family. She loved the gospel and read the Book of Mormon every day. But she was worried that this year there would be no Christmas. There were no stores. There was no money. So many things had been left behind. Mary wished for a real Christmas celebration, more for her younger sister, Betsy, than for herself.
Mother jumped up as Mary and the snowy wind came through the cabin door. “You’re back early,” she said with a smile.
“It was too cold to be slow today,” Mary replied, noticing that Mother had quickly pulled her apron around her lap work, as if to hide it. A knitting needle had fallen to the dirt floor, and Mary handed it to Mother. As she did so, she saw a strand of brown crinkly yarn curling from beneath the apron. It looked as if it had been unraveled from something familiar. What was it?
Weeks passed, but the snow didn’t. It kept falling and drifting. Mother worked late and got up early. Mary caught glimpses of the brown yarn again and again. Mother was up to something—probably mittens for everyone. That was good, but Mary longed for a Christmas doll. She would be too old for one next year. … She could bear not getting one, though. She was old enough to understand about such things. But little Betsy was not. Maybe Mary could find a way to make a doll for Betsy’s Christmas surprise.
There wasn’t much to work with. Mary tied sticks and rags together for a body. When she approached Mother for quilt scraps to make doll clothes, she was also given three brown crinkly yarn scraps to use for hair, and buttons for eyes. It wasn’t a very beautiful doll, and Mary knew it. But, as Mother always said, “It’s the thought that counts.” Mary hoped the thought would count enough for Betsy to like her present.
It was hard to fall asleep Christmas Eve. Mary wasn’t excited, really, but she wasn’t tired, either. She lulled Betsy to sleep with Christmas stories, but her own mind was not ready to rest. Father was asleep—she could hear him snoring—but from her loft bed, she could see the flickering light of candles still burning below. “Mother,” she called in a whisper, “are you awake?”
“I am,” Mother answered, “but why are you?”
“I can’t fall asleep. I’ve tried and tried. Is there anything else I can do?”
In her nightgown, Mother started up the ladder steps. “Oh, Mary.” Her soft voice was excited. “I’ve had a fun idea, and I think you’re old enough for Christmas secrets. Do you want to come down and help me?”
The two of them whispered and giggled by candlelight deep into the night. Mother’s idea was perfect. She had tightly rolled a big rag (as long as a ruler) and tied the top part of it like a head. This was tucked into the top center of a pillowcase and tied again. Mary held a piece of lace in place around the face like a bonnet while mother tied that with a pretty ribbon. Then Mary held on to the corners of the pillowcase as Mother tied them into little hands. At the shoulders, they gathered the pillowcase into arms. Soon, trimmed with lace and stitched flowers, the pillowcase had become a soft baby doll with a long, fancy skirt. No face was added to the practical doll—someday it could be a pillowcase again. But for now it was a Christmas doll.
Christmas morning was glorious. There were three new dolls—two of them for Betsy. “Now my dolly has a doll!” she squealed. The third doll was a pillowcase doll for Mary. Mother smiled when Mary pretended surprise.
There were new brown mittens for everyone too. “These will match my old brown sweater,” Pa declared.
Mother blushed. “I wonder what happened to that old thing?” was all she said. Mary thought she knew.
The little family sang carols and talked about Jesus Christ. Mary knew that they were in the right place at the right time. She was happy as she and her new pillowcase doll climbed to the loft to take a nap.
Note: You can make a pillowcase doll too. See Christmas Workshop, pages 40–41.

The five-foot whitecaps smashed relentlessly against the sandy shores of Shoshone Lake. Sam Christiansen and Darrel Gibbons, both in their mid 30s, peered nervously from Moose Creek Campsite on the south beach to catch a glimpse of a little fleet of five brightly colored canoes. They had seen the small craft on the lake before the storm began. Now, although they were grateful to be planted firmly on the shore, their concern for those on the wind-ravaged waters grew with every passing moment.
Both men, teachers at South Fremont High School in St. Anthony, Idaho, and high priests in their respective wards, held a wary respect for Shoshone’s windy temper tantrums. They had learned that failure to clear the lake at first breeze was asking for trouble.
Shoshone Lake is an old volcanic crater measuring several hundred feet deep. Its seven-mile length and three-mile width nestle at the foot of pine-forested mountains in the south central portion of Yellowstone National Park. It is an area of primitive beauty that abounds in wildlife and spectacular mountain scenery. Warm, sandy beaches invite the adventurer to enjoy a true wilderness experience.
Motorized watercraft are not permitted on the lake, and access to it must be by backpacking or canoe. Being expert canoeists, Sam and Darrel looked forward each year to spending a few days in solitude and relaxation doing some real canoeing and fishing for the big wild trout that cruise the lake’s shores. Little did they realize that this trip would be different. Thursday, July 20, 1978, was to have an eternal impact on their lives and the lives of many others.
The day had been cloudy, with intermittent rain, too miserable to do any serious canoeing, or for that matter, even much fishing. Open campfire cooking, mixed generously with dozing and relaxing in the six-man tent, was the height of the day’s activity. Darrel’s father, Ray Gibbons, a Utah dairy farmer, and Sam’s two boys, Craig, 12, and David, 8, accompanied them. Ray Gibbons had commented that the upcoming night might be a long one due to the extra shut-eye.
Earlier that same day, eight explorers and two leaders from the Wilford Idaho Ward had set out for Shoshone Lake. The Wilford area was the first to be hit by the devastating Teton Flood on June 5, 1976. These young men who had lost their homes in that flood were once again to face a life-and-death crisis.
As the day began, their small craft, loaded to the gunnels with food and camping gear, had glided across Lewis Lake, then up the Lewis River four miles to Shoshone Lake. Each canoe was navigated by a team of two. The teams consisted of Kim Bischoff and Brant Kerbs; Van Hansen and Lane Potter; David Bischoff and Wade Singleton; Daren Dayton and Darris Williams; and their leaders, Lane Reynolds and John Bischoff, Kim’s father.
The previous year these boys had been students in Darrel’s seminary classes and Sam’s history and U.S. government classes at South Fremont, making them all more than mere acquaintances. But neither group knew the other was at the lake.
About 3:30 a giant black cloud appeared on the western horizon, soon covering the surrounding mountains like a shroud. When the front hit the lake, it was almost as if an atomic bomb had been detonated in its depths. In seconds the clear glassy surface was whipped into a frenzy. The fierceness of this explosive storm was like nothing Sam or Darrel had ever witnessed before. They knew the canoeists on the lake were in trouble and a lot of it. Even a cabin cruiser would find the going rough. Keeping a flimsy canoe afloat was next to impossible.
From the moment the devastating winds hit, the boys and their leaders fought gallantly to stay afloat, keeping their bows headed into the wind. However, within minutes Daren Dayton and Darris Williams swamped. Clothes provided little protection as the icy wetness rushed to their skin. Their life jackets were securely fastened, but the huge waves slapped and jostled them unceasingly. With only their sopping heads above water, they clung tenaciously to their overturned canoe. The shocking cold made breathing difficult. Already the icy water was beginning its deadly work.
Brant Kerbs and Kim Bischoff were closest to Daren and Darris as they capsized, but any rescue would be impossible in these rough waters. The two still afloat shouted encouragement and promised they would find help and return.
Being closest to the north shore, Brant and Kim decided their best bet was to continue toward it. Icy beads of near freezing water pelted their faces. Their destination seemed hopelessly remote, with progress painfully slow, but 30 minutes found them only a stone’s throw from shore. Just 30 yards away they saw a determined Van Hansen and Lane Potter also paddling toward shore.
At their Moose Creek campsite, Sam and Darrel watched intently.
“Can you see them?” Darrel shouted. Sam and the others a few feet away could barely hear above the rushing winds.
“They’re in that direction heading toward the north shore. I can only see one or maybe two.” Sam strained his eyes, but high waves had all but hidden them from view. “Why are they fighting it? They’d be ahead to turn around and come with the wind.” The campers’ frustration grew as the determined paddlers struggled to reach the north shore.
“Even with a life jacket there isn’t a soul who could last more than an hour or so in that water.” Darrel’s recent training in hypothermia had taught him that prolonged exposure to these 45-degree water temperatures would rob body warmth and eventually cause the vital organs to cease functioning. In the advanced stages of hypothermia, a victim’s limbs become stiff, he loses the ability to reason, and finally drifts into unconsciousness and death.
As hard as Kim and Brant paddled, they couldn’t reach land. A cross wind was driving them foot by foot back toward the middle of the lake. Their muscles ached from want of a moment’s relief, but every second was a fight to keep their frail craft from turning sideways into one of the large waves. It was evident that beaching on the north shore was impossible. Disheartened at being so close and yet so far, the boys decided that they must somehow turn their canoe back toward the south. It was a tricky maneuver, one that had to be done with precision or end in disaster. They noticed a rhythm in the swells that caused a brief lull after every fourth or fifth wave. With flawless timing they made the 180-degree turn. Their old bedraggled canoe, the only one without air ballasts and with a bottom you could step through, was still afloat. It plowed a watery furrow before a wind that pushed it like a giant hand.
Several hundred yards away, the food-and-equipment-laden canoe of the adult leaders, Lane Reynolds and John Bischoff, lost balance and spilled both men and supplies into the frothy coldness. Luckily, David Bischoff and Wade Singleton, the least experienced of the group, had stuck close to their leaders all day. When the leaders’ canoe flipped over, the boys maneuvered their craft so Lane Reynolds could, with counterbalancing by Wade and David, pull himself aboard.
Since the two adults weighed over 200 pounds each, taking them both aboard would swamp the canoe. So John picked up the end of a rope that had been used earlier as a tow line and trailed along behind as they also started for the south shore. The heaviness of the canoe and the drag of John’s weight slowed progress to a turtle’s pace.
On the south shore at Moose Creek Camp, the campers continued their vigil. They had lost sight of all the canoes among the mountainous waves but maintained hope that they had reached the safety of the north shore.
Then they spotted it—a bright yellow canoe a half mile out being propelled through the water like a battleship. It was heading straight for them. Sam and Darrel rushed to the water’s edge where in minutes the little canoe and its two occupants were literally thrown on Moose Creek Beach.
As the exhausted boys climbed out, Darrel and Sam stared in unbelief into the fatigue-lined faces of their former students. The boys, in shock from their ordeal, couldn’t believe their eyes as they stared into the friendly faces of their high school teachers. Sam and Darrel hurried the two boys to the warmth of the campfire where they listened intently to the painful news of Daren Dayton and Darris Williams. Already these two young men had been in the water over an hour. Undoubtedly hypothermia was taking its toll.
“There’s another canoe coming this way!” someone shouted. Sure enough, half a mile out a canoe with three occupants was making laborious progress, pitching and yawing amid the swells. They anxiously watched several minutes as it struggled to within a quarter mile of shore. Suddenly a huge wall of water caught the canoe broadside, spilling everyone and everything beneath the angry surface. One by one they popped up like toast in a toaster. David Bischoff, Wade Singleton, and Scout leader Lane Reynolds were all bobbing around the floundering canoe. But where was John Bischoff?
Amidst the shock and excitement, John had apparently lost his grip on the rope. An hour and a half in the water had made his whole body numb from the cold. As soon as he lost his grip on the rope, the lake’s undertow immediately began pulling him back toward the middle.
Sam and Darrel raced to the water’s edge for a better look. The urgency of the situation allowed little time to think. They must now consider a rescue attempt, knowing that such an attempt, especially in a canoe, would be extremely dangerous.
Sam was overwhelmed at the thought of it all—the unbelievably wild lake, the boys in a desperate situation fighting for their lives, his own wife and family so dependent on him. Was such a risk justified? Was it possible in a 16-foot canoe?
Darrel, who was bishop of his ward, had experienced the influence of the Lord through prayer many times. Now he felt an almost desperate need for guidance—a spiritual assurance that a rescue would be possible. Sam, whose past included many faith-promoting experiences, also needed this assurance more than anything he could remember. Humbled by the heaviness of the situation, they knelt together on the beach and prayed for those in the water, earnestly petitioning their Father in Heaven for guidance, strength, and protection. The warm, positive reassurance they were seeking came immediately. They knew unmistakably that the Lord was aware of their plight and would sustain them in their rescue efforts.
Somewhat startled by the quickness of the answer, Sam and Darrel looked at each other without speaking and ran toward their two beached canoes. Darrel’s father Ray then made what proved to be the most important suggestion of the day. “If you’re going out there, you’d better lash your canoes together for greater stability.”
Relieved at this welcome idea, the rescuers grabbed three oars, placed them across the two canoes, and tied them down securely with rope, making a more stable, double-hulled craft.
Within minutes, Sam and Darrel launched toward the nearest victims, praying that the others could hang on a little longer. The launch was rough. The rescue canoe lurched almost straight up at the first wave, throwing Sam backward into the water. Drenched from head to foot, he made a quick recovery and climbed into the canoe more determined than ever.
After 20 grueling minutes, their forward progress totaled no more than 20 yards. Incredibly frustrated at getting nowhere, they began shouting at each other to paddle harder. Then, noticing a short lull between every few waves, they started timing their strokes for greater results.
Twenty-five minutes more brought them within reach of Lane, David, and Wade. David and Wade thought they were seeing heaven as they recognized the high school teachers reaching out to them. The three, in a state of shock, could not have been more relieved had the rescue craft been an aircraft carrier. One of the most dangerous moments in a rescue of this kind comes with pulling a victim into the boat, especially when that boat resembles a bucking horse. Sam leaned over one side while Darrel grabbed Wade Singleton and lifted him over the other. David Bischoff followed; then came Lane Reynolds, a challenging 200 pounds. Lane, exposed to the water twice, was virtually helpless from advancing stages of hypothermia. Darrel pulled him partway out of the water, grabbed a leg, and lifted it over the side. Again Sam leaned out over the opposite side as a counterbalance. With all the might Darrel could muster, he pulled the leader aboard.
“Where is the other one?” Sam questioned.
“We don’t know. It’s John Bischoff,” came the reply. “We’re afraid he’s dead. He couldn’t hang on any longer.”
Lane Reynolds needed immediate attention, the kind that could only be properly administered by the warmth of a campfire. Determined to return and look for John, they headed for shore. A hundred yards away John Bischoff, barely conscious, saw the canoe leaving and felt all was lost.
A warm fire and muscle massage followed by hot chocolate and a dry sleeping bag soon brought Lane out of danger.
As Sam looked over the lake to catch a glimpse of John Bischoff or Daren and Darris, a faint cry for help came across the water from more than half a mile away. Almost as if a tunnel of vision had opened, his eyes fell on a tiny orange object bobbing among the swells. Could it be John? It was so far away from where they had just picked up the other victims. The two men rushed to their double canoe and were soon stroking rhythmically toward the distant speck of color.
Sure enough, it was John, incoherent and unable to recognize anyone, but alive. With muscles paralyzed from over two and a half hours in the water, he could offer no assistance. Although he also weighed over 200 pounds, he was pulled to safety like a water-soaked log.
With aching but still powerful strokes, the rescuers propelled the double-hulled canoe toward shore. As they fought their way back through the towering waves, they worried about the boys still on the lake. Over three hours had passed since Daren and Darris had tipped into the water. Lane Potter and Van Hansen were last seen approaching the north shore. The rescuers hoped these two were safe and enjoying the warmth of a crackling fire. But if Darris and Daren were to be found before dark, it had to be soon. Praying for those still to be rescued, Sam and Darrel paddled desperately for shore.
Arriving at last, they beached the canoe and helped John to the fire where they quickly administered treatment. Kim was elated to see his father alive. As John slowly began responding to treatment, the rescuers prepared to go out to find Darris and Daren.
As Darrel looked to the northwest across the lake, the waning rays of the sun reflected like a spotlight off two tiny objects one and a half miles out. Could it be Daren and Darris? Spotting someone so far out in twilight was miraculous, especially when earlier it had been difficult to see even 100 yards.
Again the little lifeboat was launched. This time Ray Gibbons and Kim Bischoff accompanied Sam and Darrel. The wind was beginning to subside, and with extra paddlers they soon pulled alongside Daren Dayton and Darris Williams, who, although unconscious, still held a death grip on their canoe. Their exposure covered an incredible four and a half hours. Suffering advanced hypothermia, the young men unconsciously fought to live. Daren was pulled to safety first, but Darris fought to hang onto the canoe as if it were life itself. Finally Darrel loosened Darris’s grip and lifted him into the boat. As the rescuers turned toward the beach, they began administering first aid immediately by rubbing the boys’ muscles.
Beside the warm fire the group worked over the two young men. Darris began to show signs of reviving while Daren, convulsing and foaming at the mouth, showed little. After 30 minutes, Darris regained consciousness, drank hot liquids, and was soon able to talk, but Daren fought their attempts to help. Two of them held him down while the others continued to administer warmth and massage. After several minutes Daren opened his eyes and said, “Brrr, it’s cold.” The whole group was elated.
“Those are the best words I have ever heard!” Sam exclaimed. They continued the process for another 15 minutes until Daren was fully conscious and somewhat limber.
The night was black except for the flickering fire on the beach as the group ate a tasty, soul-warming supper of hamburger, soup, fried potatoes, and hot chocolate. Each recounted his close brush with death.
Daren and Darris had miraculously escaped death’s grip. Even a few minutes longer in the water might have proved too many. They recounted that for the first hour or two they had talked of family and friends and encouraged each other to hang on. As the numbing cold spread throughout their bodies, they became more and more depressed, talking of death and expressing hope they would have a good funeral. Wise canoe instructors had ingrained in them the fact they should stay with their canoe no matter what. So they locked their arms under the end seats in a death grip, determined not to let go. After three hours they began passing in and out of consciousness, finally blacking out and remembering nothing until regaining their senses by the fire. After preparing for death, it was wonderful to be safely on the beach.
It was 11:30 P.M., and Sam lay in his sleeping bag. He couldn’t remember when anything had felt so good. He still wondered about Lane and Van but felt some reassurance since they had been seen close to shore. Then he remembered Ray Gibbons’s prediction that he wouldn’t be able to sleep that night. Sam smiled and drifted off to sleep.
The next morning Darrel and his father arose early and walked along the beach. The sky was still a little cloudy and the air chilly. Along the shoreline they discovered some of the supplies lost from the canoes in the storm. Then they saw it—the overturned green canoe of Van and Lane. They had never made it to the other side. The nightmare returned. Darrel stared at the canoe in utter disbelief, then pulled it ashore. Heartsick, they walked back to camp.
Sam was devastated by the news, but they refrained from telling the other boys just yet until they were sure. Maybe by some miracle the two had survived. The morning was solemn as they prepared breakfast, silently reflecting upon the unbelievable nightmare of yesterday.
As the sun began to peek above the distant mountain horizon, Sam and Darrel canoed to the east end of the lake to the temporary ranger station where they might find a radio, but the log cabin was locked up tight.
A backpacker passing through the area agreed to go for help by hiking to the ranger station at Grants Village several miles across the mountains to the east. By midmorning a helicopter appeared and circled the lake. It hovered for a moment at a spot near the outlet, then landed on the beach at Moose Creek Camp. The ranger stepped out and confirmed that a body had been found. It was later identified as Lane Potter. Van Hansen’s body was to be found the following day. Lane Reynolds, their leader, felt deeply responsible. He sat with his head in his hands, wondering how he could face their parents and what he could say.
The lake was still and smooth. It was hard to imagine that such a peaceful place could have been so ferocious. The group packed their gear in their canoes and headed for home. The serene quiet was interrupted only by an occasional trickle of water from a paddle as the canoes slid silently toward the outlet in single file.
Sam meditated upon the last 24 hours and with wonderment began to analyze the many unusual circumstances.
Could it be coincidence that Sam and Darrel, avid softball players, felt they should go on this camping trip rather than play in a stake championship game? Their two ward teams were playing each other the night they were camped on the Shoshone.
Was it coincidence that Darrel insisted his father come on this outing? It was Ray Gibbons who suggested that the canoes be lashed together. Any attempt to make a rescue in a single canoe would have been doomed to failure.
Was bringing an extra 100 feet of rope just coincidence when normally it would far exceed their needs? It was needed to lash the canoes together.
Was it only by chance that Kim and David managed to guide the only canoe without air balasts all the way to the north shore, then back across three miles of raging waves to land squarely on Moose Creek Beach, literally at the feet of the only two people who could help?
Could receiving a two-day permit to camp at the Moose Creek campsite rather than the normal one-day permit have been a coincidence? Moose Creek site is used as a staging area for incoming campers who move on to a more permanent camp the second day. A one-day permit would have forced a relocation to a spot around the lake where the canoes could have gone unnoticed.
Was it only chance that the two rescuers had been trained in the treatment of hypothermia, were in the best physical condition they had enjoyed for years, and were well rested for the almost superhuman effort?
Could it be coincidence that three of the victims were spotted nearly one and a half miles out when conditions made it difficult to see an object even 100 yards away?
A ranger shook his head in disbelief when told the young men survived four and a half hours in the frigid waters of Shoshone Lake. He said it was impossible.
For those involved in the rescue, the explanation is obvious. The Lord, in his divine wisdom, inspired two worthy priesthood holders to prepare for and perform a perilous rescue. Their sincere, humble prayer was heard and answered with divine assurance that they would be sustained in their efforts. Sam and Darrel had also exercised their priesthood and faith by administering to each hypothermia victim, all of whom recovered.
Everyone affected by this experience agrees it has built testimonies and added depth and meaning to many lives. Four years later, four of the young men who survived that day are serving missions. Another has been married in the temple, and one is serving in the armed forces.
As for the two young men who did not survive, it is a hurt that does not soon fade for family and friends. But the scriptures reveal that our Heavenly Father is aware of every sparrow that falls to the ground, and that every hair of our heads is numbered (Matt. 10:29–30). Surely he knows what is best for each of his children in his eternal plan.
Sam Christiansen and Darrel Gibbons continue enjoying dedicated Church service. They share a quiet gratitude to the Lord for their success and safety in the rescue, for had they failed, all would have perished.

A little over a year ago a couple came into my office carrying a little boy. The father said to me, “My wife and I have been fasting for two days, and we’ve brought our little boy up for a blessing. You are the one we’ve been sent to.” I said, “What’s the matter with him?” They said he was born blind, deaf and dumb, no coordination of his muscles, couldn’t even crawl at the age of five years. I said to myself, “This is it. ‘This kind cometh not out save by fasting and by prayer.’” I had implicit faith in the fasting and the prayers of those parents. I blessed that child, and a few weeks later I received a letter: “Brother Cowley, we wish you could see our little boy now. He’s crawling. When we throw a ball across the floor he races after it on his hands and knees. He can see. When we clap our hands over his head he jumps. He can hear.” Medical science had laid the burden down. God had taken over. The little boy was rapidly recovering or really getting what he’d never had.

On 8 October 2024, 31 young single adults from Papua New Guinea arrived in Tonga to attend the Nuku‘alofa Tonga Temple for the first time. The group included two full-time missionaries serving in the Papua New Guinea Lae Mission and most of the others have received or are waiting to receive mission calls.
They were warmly welcomed at the airport with traditional candy leis by former Lae mission leaders, Sitiveni and Kilisitina Fehoko (2016–2019), as well as several returned missionaries who served in Papua New Guinea.
After receiving their own endowments, the young adults lovingly performed proxy baptisms, initiatory, and endowments for their grandparents and other ancestors. They finished their temple service with a final sealing session, linking and uniting generations with eternal sealing power.
The young single adults had researched family names in anticipation of doing temple work for their deceased relatives.
In the evenings, they were met by Elder Sione Tuione, an Area Seventy as well as former mission leaders in New Guinea including Isileli and Milika Fatani, (Papua New Guinea Lae Mission 2019–2022), Mosese and Akanesi Naeata (Papua New Guinea Port Moresby Mission 1997–2000), and the Fehokos who offered powerful messages of faith in the Lord Jesus Christ and eternal families.
The Fatanis and Fehokos provided delicious Tongan feasts and local wards hosted dances each evening, which the young adults loved.
The young adults also enjoyed an afternoon of sightseeing and shopping. Several of them received dental care at the Church’s dental clinic at Liahona High School.
The hearts of the children turning to their fathers were evident in their words, which they recorded in journals given to each of them.
Channolyn George – “When I saw the temple, the tears dropped from my eyes. I felt heartbroken, thinking back to my country, my province, my ward, the members, my family, my loved ones, and all those not yet members. In my heart and my mind, I hope one day my family and all these people will be here as now I’m here.”
Sonia Maranghi – “I did the endowment for my father’s mother, and I realized that she was very excited that I performed her ordinances, which she longed for. I couldn’t hold my tears anymore and cried while sitting in the celestial glory of the living God.”
Delilah Kum – “The house of the Lord is the temple. When you enter . . . you will feel the Spirit. I know that families can be sealed together for eternity.”
Mathias Inum – “When I came to the temple, I knew that I was there to receive the light of Christ. When I return to Papua New Guinea, I am going to show this light to everyone and be a light to this world.”
Dodo Miul – “I am in Tonga for my temple endowment. I am very happy to be here to save my ancestors who have already passed. I know that they have been in the spirit world smiling away and waiting to receive this. I am so grateful for these temple experiences.”
These wonderful young single adults from Papua New Guinea are eagerly waiting to attending the temple again when the Port Moresby Papua New Guinea Temple construction will be complete.

Attending sacrament meeting for the first time was strange for Cesar. It wasn’t anything like the meetings he was accustomed to.
“There was a man carrying the sacrament trays. He was very busy fixing the microphone and saying hello to everyone. There were so many people there that I wondered if they would all fit in the church! It seemed funny that the man fixing the microphone was the bishop.
“It was also a change to be in church for three hours; that seemed like a long time. I still remember that first Sunday School class. We talked about the birth of Jesus Christ, and I asked a lot of questions. After class, Betty’s brother, Isaac, helped me find the missionaries. I didn’t go to priesthood meeting that day; instead, I had my first discussion with the missionaries.”

When Heber J. Grant was 10 years old, he took a singing class.
Teacher: You can’t carry a tune, Heber. You’ll never learn how to sing.
Years later Heber heard Horace S. Ensign sing.
Heber: I would give you three months of my spare time if I could learn to sing one or two hymns!
Horace: Anyone can learn to sing. Are you willing to practice?
After two weeks, Heber had learned to sing “O My Father.” Two months later he could sing four other hymns.

One day when they had very little to eat, Agnes’s mother sold a quilt and a bedspread and used the money to buy food. She often traded trinkets and gifts to the Native Americans for dried meat, which proved to be a great help, especially when the cold wind was blowing and they couldn’t build a fire to cook food. On such days, she would give each of her children a piece of dried meat and some bread. Sometimes she took a small piece of meat and made a stew, thickening it with a little flour and some salt. It tasted so good on a cold night!
Agnes marveled as she watched her mother find a way to bake food out on the prairie. Mother dug a hole in the ground, placed the food in a heavy iron kettle with a tight lid, then set it in the hole and covered it with burning buffalo chips or small pieces of wood. She prepared many meals in this way.

The talent concert gave them the perfect opportunity to prove that. Take Amy Ravsten, a 17-year-old from Garland Third Ward, for example. When she heard that the young women in her stake would be performing, she offered to teach the girls in her ward a jazz routine she’d learned at cheerleading camp. A real sense of camaraderie developed as six girls of varying aptitudes worked together to perfect the dance.

For gymnast Kim McCauley, a 14-year-old from the Rockwall Ward, “someday” began when she was a toddler. She was walking at six months, running at eight months, and by the time she hit three, her parents decided they’d better find a way to channel her energy, or they’d be exhausted in the chase. They enrolled her in gymnastics classes, and today, she not only is a top competitor on her high school team, but she also uses her talent in her spare time to teach gymnastics classes for small children.

Instead of waiting for “someday” to take time to really get to know and enjoy the rest of her family, 12-year-old Stephanie Smith of the Dallas Fourth Ward learned a family talent that would send them touring the state and the country. The family took up clogging, a misleading term for a high-energy form of tap dance. Through it, she learned all about keeping in step with the rest of the family. “It’s really helped us with our unity,” she says. “Although it’s sometimes hard to get everyone together to practice, we feel a real closeness when we perform.”

“Someday I’ll be a great piano player … when I have time to practice,” is a foreign phrase to Susanna Olsen, who proved that she already has mastered the instrument. She dashed off a Rachmaninoff opus as if she’d written it herself. Members of the Richardson First Ward know that they can come to Susanna whenever they need an accompanist. She’s more than willing to oblige them.

Sherry Blanpied, a 13-year-old from the Richardson Second Ward, had no intention of waiting for “someday, when I’m good enough,” to display her dramatic talents. She performed a monologue right after winning first place with the same piece in a school competition held earlier that day.

These girls and many more were able to shower the stake with their talents. And for those who had talents that were not easily displayed on stage, such as soccer finesse or computer programming, their “someday” in the limelight came when they performed in one of three song and dance routines choreographed to include every girl who wanted to join in.

The conference theme came to life as the girls prepared for the concert. The price they paid to realize their dream of a successful show was a lot of time and effort. They passed up parties and various other school activities to meet a grueling rehearsal schedule, and some even missed going to their high school football games. That’s practically unheard of in Texas, where school spirit is as high as a lone star in the sky.

The girls in Dallas are just like most young women everywhere. In their spare time, they like to get together to talk and watch video movies, they like to go to dances, eat Mexican food, and go horseback riding. They’re especially proud of their new temple, and they go to the visitors’ center frequently. But in preparation for the conference, they put most of their other activities on the back burner and concentrated on “paying the price” to make it a dream come true.

Michelle DeMarco, 13, of the Richardson First Ward, even gave up a part in a school play to participate in the conference. Michelle, who lives and breathes theater, insisted “it was worth missing the school play to come to this. I’ve really enjoyed being together with everyone here.”

Michelle’s mother was right there supporting her from the rehearsals through to the actual production. “My mom has helped me with everything,” said Michelle. “She’s always making me feel good about what I’m doing, and she’s always there to lift me up.” That’s the way it is with many of the mothers in the Richardson Stake.

“We just can’t stand by on the side of the river and watch these young women try to maneuver the rapids by themselves,” said Linda McCauley, who spearheaded the conference. Sister McCauley had three daughters involved in the day and feels that she needs to “jump on the raft with them … to share their experiences so they don’t float so far away and become strangers.”

Some mothers and daughters in the stake are so close it’s even hard to tell them apart. They share jokes, clothes, and friendships. They were more than willing to help with the other parts of the conference by spending long hours decorating for the elaborate luncheon and pulling together the programs, speakers, and handouts for the educational part of the day.

The informative portion’s purpose, according to Sister McCauley, was to “provide the girls with a positive, uplifting experience where they learned about their responsibilities to Heavenly Father, to themselves, and to others.”

These responsibilities were brought home to the girls during a multimedia presentation starring many familiar faces. Advisers had taken the time to interview some of the girls and discuss how they could pump the most from their talents.

A video clip was shown of Rebecca Duehring, a 15-year-old from the Rockwall Ward, gliding across the ice during one of her many intense ice skating competitions. Rebecca’s struggle to be a competitive skater hasn’t been easy. She was born with brain damage that limited her coordination and space perception. She could barely walk, was constantly falling, and had broken nearly every bone in her body. Then she took up ice skating, which, for some reason she can’t explain, helped her gain her coordination.

Although it takes more time and concentration for Rebecca to perfect her routines, she’s right up there with the best in town and dreams of one day going to the Olympics. “Sometimes I can feel that Heavenly Father is behind me, and I go for the top,” says Rebecca.

The girls were also treated to talks, workshops, and presentations by people who had paid the price to reach excellence. “Commitment is more than desire,” stake president Larry Gibbons told them in his speech. “Commitment implies action.” And in other workshops, the girls learned just what kind of actions they’d have to take to be successful in different aspects of their lives.

They were shown the literal prices they’ll have to pay when the time comes to support themselves. They shuddered as they saw just how far an average, 40-hour a week job paying $5 an hour would take them. After paying tithing, taxes, rent, food, gas, transportation, insurance, and utility bills, they’d be in the hole about $2,000 per year.

“This has really started me thinking about what I want to do,” said Ruth Vigil, 16, of the Richardson Third Ward. “I hadn’t really set any goals for my future occupation, but now I realize that I’ll have to.” Ruth is musically talented. She sings and plays the piano and is now thinking about ways to incorporate those talents in a future occupation.

“We wanted to help the girls change their lives and get moving into some sort of direction,” said Connie Riska, stake Young Women president. “They need to make some of their decisions now and not wait until they graduate from high school.”

The girls realize that not all of them will go on to become working women. “My ambition is to have ten kids. six cats, and five gerbils,” jokes 16-year-old Tami McCauley of the Rockwall Ward. Just in case her dream comes true, the conference helped her to realize that the experience she’s gaining now by helping her mother take care of her nine brothers and sisters is invaluable.

Tracy Rico, 17, of the Garland Third Ward, had her feeling reaffirmed that if she’s going to meet her goal of entering into the medical profession, it can’t hurt to start learning now. That’s why she’s working as a “sports medicine trainer” at her high school.

The girls were encouraged to think about their future goals in preparation for a very special fashion show that was also part of the conference. Each young woman either made or coordinated an outfit to wear, and as they were escorted down the runway, their achievements and dreams were capsulized by the emcee.

Amanda Wilson, 15, of the Richardson First Ward, was right in her element during this part of the day. Her mother began teaching her to sew when she was seven years old, and now you might wonder who is teaching whom. Not only did Amanda sew several outfits for the fashion show, but she designed them as well, making her own patterns.

Amanda is refining her talents now so that one day she can major in fashion merchandising and hopefully have her own designing business. But in the meantime, she uses her abilities by sewing for ward members.

Short-term goals were also met via the fashion show. “It was great because my mom and I worked together on my outfit,” said Jennifer Beckham, 15, of the Rockwall Ward. “We took a whole day to go pick out the material, and as we cut it out and worked on it, we just talked about all sorts of things. It was really nice.”

That feeling of unity and understanding seemed to characterize the day. Most people were a bit surprised when Melissa Lane, 13, modeled her outfit as it was announced that one of her major goals was to become a member of the Church.

Melissa later explained, “My aunt is a member of the Church and I live with her now. She lets me go to church, and it really makes me feel good. I’m starting to read the Book of Mormon, and my aunt is letting me subscribe to the New Era. My special friends here have helped me with my testimony, and this conference has too.”

Most of the girls agreed that the friendship they cultivated by sharing their talents with each other was one of the best parts of the conference. Many of the girls go to different schools and don’t have the opportunity to get together often. “I’ve grown so close to the people here,” said Tova Carter, 14, of the Garland Fourth Ward. “We learned that if we put our minds to something, we really can accomplish it.”

An elaborate luncheon, a fashion show presented by a local designer, and minimusical concerts performed by local professionals and local Suzuki violin students all added to the day as the young women struck it rich in Dallas.

The girls might not be able to buy expensive sports cars and luxurious wardrobes with the wealth they gained by tapping the well at their conference, but deep in the hearts of the young women in Texas, they know they struck something far more valuable.

I would like to say how much it is appreciated in my home when each of us takes our turn to read the New Era. When I first realized I was going to leave Primary soon and go into Young Women, it scared me a little. But then my parents subscribed to the Friend, New Era, and Ensign, and I couldn’t (and still can’t) wait to go to Young Women. When I first read the New Era, I knew Young Women was not something I should be scared of but something I should look forward to.DJ Crisanto, Fairgrounds Ward, Keizer Oregon Stake

1. Jonathan looked at the clock for the eighth time. “Is it time for family home evening?” he asked again.
2. “Yes, we can start now,” Dad said with a smile.
3. Jonathan and his sister, Michelle, were excited. They put paper, pencils, watercolors, and crayons on the table. Everyone sat down on their chairs and folded their arms.
4. After the prayer Dad picked up a letter and read it to them. It was from Uncle Eddie.
5. Uncle Eddie was a missionary in Central America. Jonathan liked to hear about the boys and girls there.
6. When Dad finished reading the letter, everyone began to draw a picture or write a letter to Uncle Eddie. Jonathan drew a picture of Uncle Eddie riding his bike. He drew a picture of him flying away in an airplane to Central America. Then he drew a picture of him teaching a family.
7. “When you are finished, fold your letters and drawings, and we’ll put them in this envelope,” Dad said.
8. Jonathan wrote an extra note before he folded his letter: “Please send more pictures!” Then he signed it,I love you,Jonathan

Learning not to judge was one of the most important lessons I learned in seminary. I saw people in every class who were there because they didn’t want to take a “real” class at school, and seminary was a great opportunity to catch up on some zzz’s. But then a guy would stand up and bear his testimony, and it would be the most beautiful thing. Never in a million years would I have expected some of these people to even know what the scriptures were, and they would stand up and tell you how true they are and how much they loved them and the Church. It was amazing.