Gospel Story Finder

Even before the Church was organized, Hyrum, Joseph’s older brother by five years, knew the truthfulness of what Joseph was teaching and reporting. He wanted to do his part and hoped and pled to be called as a missionary. I believe that you will want to study carefully the entire 11th section of the Doctrine and Covenants, which is the answer given by the Lord through Joseph Smith to Hyrum’s entreaty. A useful exercise is to count the number of times in these verses that Hyrum is told that his work is to “keep the commandments.” Let me just repeat part of the oft-quoted verse that must have been both a test and a trial for Hyrum.

“Seek not to declare my word, but first seek to obtain my word” (D&C 11:21). I suppose, had Hyrum been inclined, that he could have been just as offended as were Oliver and others when Joseph, acting in his role as president and prophet, had to tell them the hard truth as well. To Hyrum’s everlasting credit, in spite of his initial disappointment that he was not to be a missionary at that time, he stood by Joseph and received the blessings God reserves for those most loyal and trusted. These blessings included, less than a year later, the exact opportunity that Hyrum had initially sought (see D&C 23:3).

James Peter Fugal was an honest man! He herded sheep much of his life in the rolling hills of Idaho. On one bitterly cold winter night, he was herding sheep for another man when a blizzard set in. The sheep bunched together, as sheep do, in the corner of a fenced area, and many died.
Though the death of the sheep was no fault of his, James Fugal felt responsible and spent the next several years working and saving to repay the owner for his lost sheep.
This same desire to live Christian principles was evident in Aurelia Spencer Rogers, who founded the Primary organization of the Church. She had a concern for the moral character and social development of children. Leaders of the Primary since Aurelia Spencer Rogers continue to teach wholesomeness, virtue, and love for one another as well as to instill a desire to understand and live by traditional values.
Sister Haight and I attended a sacrament meeting some distance from our home. We found, to our delight, that the Primary would present the program, the theme being “We Believe in Being Honest.”
I marveled at the eagerness of these young children as they spoke about the fundamental principles they were learning of telling the truth, respecting the property of others, being trustworthy, and standing for the right.
I thought of James Fugal, the humble sheepherder, and how wonderful it was that these children were being taught the same values that made him a man of such noble character.

Nikolas and Sergey Chemezov and their parents are also helping the Church grow. And they have seen their own family become closer and closer since embracing the restored gospel in 1992.
Of course, like all brothers, they have similarities and differences. Sergey is 20, Nik, 12; but Nik is the taller of the two. Nik is quiet; Sergey is bolder. Both are athletic, lift weights, and love helicopters. Both are musicians: Nik plays piano; Sergey, violin. Both love the gospel and all it stands for. And both are fiercely loyal to each other and to their parents, Sergey Sr. and Valia.
That loyalty was tested when Valia and the boys returned from an extended visit with her parents and found that Sergey Sr. was investigating the Church. But he persuaded them to listen to the missionaries, to learn what he was learning, and to give it a fair chance.
“I can say the gospel saved our family,” Sergey Jr. says. “I decided to be baptized because of the example of my father. I saw a very big change in him when he joined the Church. He became so nice, so loving. It was a testimony for me.”
“Before,” Sister Chemezov explains, “the family didn’t come first. But now we understand we are an eternal family, and we appreciate one another on a whole new level.”
“I used to think because I was the big brother, I always had to lead the way,” Sergey says. “But now when I stand next to Nik, I see that he is taller than I am. I know that sometimes he teaches me, that when I need help I can count on him.”
Nik has been there not only for Sergey but for his parents as well. “From the time he was baptized, he’s been saying, ‘I want to pass the sacrament; when can I start?’” Brother Chemezov explains. “That kind of excitement has strengthened our own testimonies and our faith. Helping other people and helping his family—Nik understands that’s what the priesthood is all about. He was very happy when he turned 12 and I ordained him a deacon.”
Nik was also happy when the family was sealed in the Freiberg Germany Temple. “After finishing the sessions, we had free time,” Brother Chemezov says. “Other people went to the city and went shopping. I asked the family, ‘Do you want to go to the city?’ and Nik said of the temple, ‘This place is so good; I don’t want to go to another place.’”
“The priesthood has the highest position in my life,” Nik says. “It helps me live as Jesus Christ says we should. I know if we will honor it, God will help us and make us better.”
That’s a reminder Sergey thinks of every day, especially now that he is serving full time in the Japan Tokyo North Mission. Nik, of course, hopes to someday follow his example.

Here I am, I thought, three months away from my mission, and I don’t even know how to feel the Spirit.
The truth was that I had been a member of the Church for my entire life, and I could never recall a time when I was certain that I had felt the Spirit. I had a firm testimony of the Savior and the prophet, but somehow I didn’t know what the Spirit felt like.
So there I sat in Brother Durrant’s missionary preparation class, as confused as ever. “It’s the Spirit that counts,” he quoted President Ezra Taft Benson. Brother Durrant then began to speak of great missionaries like Alma and Ammon, who were successful in their work because they followed the Spirit.
How can I be a great missionary? I thought. I don’t even understand the Spirit. I continued to listen intently, desperately hoping that Brother Durrant could answer my question. I silently prayed that he could relate to me just one important piece of wisdom—how the Spirit felt.
Then my answer came, and not just from the teacher. It didn’t come like an electric shock, and it didn’t come like fire. But my answer did come, with its own gentle feeling only the Lord was capable of giving me. It came when my teacher stopped speaking about Alma and said softly, “I feel the Spirit so much. It makes me so happy. That’s when I know I feel the Spirit—when I’m happy and I know God loves me.”
As I thought about those simple words, I felt all of the confusion settle into a sense of understanding. My chest didn’t roar with fire and vigor, and my limbs didn’t sink without strength. Instead, I felt a calm peace, and I realized that whenever I had felt warm inside while singing a hymn in church, I had felt the Spirit. Whenever I felt good after a service project, I had felt the Spirit. And when I had walked out of a Church class feeling peaceful and happy, I had felt the Spirit. The feelings that I was searching for were often there, but I just didn’t know what they were. I had expected the Lord to present to me, in grand spectacle, an instant testimony of his power. Instead, he was gently guiding me to find out for myself.
I have learned that I must make an effort to understand the Spirit and invite that influence into my life. I do not doubt the stories of Alma the Younger or King Lamoni. I believe the Spirit had a dramatic influence on them. But I’ve learned that the Spirit manifests itself in many different ways. The feelings of the Spirit are always there if I am trying to live worthily and if I truly seek them.

by Kari Ellertson
At the beginning of the year, our Laurel class started planning an activity for the following summer. We wanted to go to Los Angeles and see some of the sights there. For some reason, we just couldn’t get excited until someone suggested that we make a service project part of our trip. We called Brother Bill Andrew, a member of the Los Angeles Ward for the Deaf, and asked if we could visit his ward and put together a library for them. The church library they usually used was under reconstruction. Teaching most deaf members is very difficult without using many pictures to portray all gospel concepts, so they were in great need.
When summertime came, we made a few more plans, borrowed a ward member’s motor home, and arranged for some chaperons. The morning of June 11, we were off to Los Angeles—nine Laurels, two chaperons, and a ton of excitement all crammed into one motor home. When we arrived, we worked all afternoon finding, cutting, numbering, and filing hundreds of pictures for the library. Our own ward library had donated pictures, cards, and a filing system for us to refer to, but we did all the rest of the work ourselves.
That evening we attended a stake dance in the Glendale Stake. Finally we were home and in bed after an exhausting day. We were so tired that nobody seemed to mind sleeping on the living room floor in Brother Andrews’s home.
The next morning was Sunday, and we were up and ready for stake conference in the Los Angeles California Stake. Afterwards we attended sacrament meeting at the ward for the deaf. It was very interesting to see everything done in sign language. Even though there was such a difference in procedures, the Spirit of the Lord was strong and very much the same as in all ward meetings everywhere. That evening we were taught some sign language by the Andrews family, and we learned “I Am a Child of God” well enough to do it for sacrament meeting in our own ward.
The next morning we woke up late. We had to go, but nobody wanted to be the first to say good-bye. Brother Andrews gave us each a necklace that said “I love you” in sign language on it. We said our good-byes, promised to keep in touch, and then left for home.
On the way home all of us reflected back on our project, how happy we felt, and how strong the spirit of brotherly love can be when we are in the service of our God.

I close with another example of a family relationship. At a stake conference in the Midwest about 10 years ago, I met a sister who told me that her nonmember husband had been accompanying her to church for 12 years but had never joined the Church. What should she do? she asked. I counseled her to keep doing all the right things and to be patient and kind with her husband.

About a month later she wrote me as follows: “Well, I thought that the 12 years was a good show of patience, but I didn’t know if I was being very kind about it. So, I practiced real hard for over a month, and he got baptized.”

Kindness is powerful, especially in a family setting. Her letter continued, “I am even trying to be kinder now because we are working on a temple sealing this year!”

Six years later she wrote me another letter: “My husband was [just] called and set apart as the bishop [of our ward].”

Lynne Hoet, co-founder of The Stables with her husband, Pastor Sonny, shared the history and mission of the centre with the volunteers.
The couple saw a need to provide a facility that would bring people together to develop strong families through skill training programs aimed at breaking the cycle of poverty.
They purchased the 37-acre property in 1993, renovated the horse stables, and held church for six years in the building. The current building opened in 2000. After Sonny’s stroke in 2016, running the property and programs has become more and more difficult.
“We appreciate that your Church has joined us in this clean-up,” Lynne said, “as the work is quite extensive. We are well on the way to restoring the site so that we can invite families, vulnerable people and people with disabilities to enjoy our unique property that we see as the Lord’s place and a place of blessing.”

I grew up in the Church—I went to the activities, and I participated in family prayer and scripture study. But I didn’t really have a testimony. I didn’t know if I believed in God or His Son. I didn’t know if the Book of Mormon was true.
I wanted a testimony, but I felt frustrated after praying many times without feeling like I had received an answer. I started wondering, “If God is real, why won’t He show me? Why does He let me sit here wondering?”
Looking back, I can see clearly why I wasn’t getting an answer: I wasn’t really putting in the effort. I would read my scriptures for five minutes once a week and expect some revelatory experience just because I asked for it.
I didn’t understand that faith is a principle of action.
Anyone looking from the outside would have called me “active” in the Church, but I still didn’t know if the Church was true. But I did want to know.
So I decided to serve a mission. I incorrectly assumed that as a missionary, I would automatically be more likely to get answers from God. I still wasn’t putting much effort into praying or studying, but soon I had my assignment.
At the start of my mission, I struggled to feel the Spirit while training online during the pandemic because of my half-hearted effort. But then I got to the missionary training center in person. And my time there was the most spiritual experience of my life. It was the first time I had a simple seed of faith that was real.
Finally entering the mission field was hard. I felt like the small testimony I had gained got lost.
One day I was crying, and then a memory popped into my head. My dad used to ask me how my day at school was, and I would always say it was boring. And he would say, “Well, that’s because you made it boring. If you want school to be fun, make it fun.” I realized that I could either make the most of my time on my mission through learning and growth or I could be miserable.
So I prayed with more sincerity than ever to tell Heavenly Father that I was going to try and change my attitude. After that, I was motivated to put in new effort. I started to truly study and pray and ponder, and over time that glimmer of testimony came back—and continued to grow. I was less frustrated, and I started finding joy in the gospel.
I was never going to strengthen my faith without changing my attitude, following this pattern, and putting my full heart into connecting with Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. When I made those changes, I started to receive answers and believe truths.
For onlookers, my level of activity in the Church probably looks the same as it always has. But I’ve changed my commitment to the gospel in my heart. And that has made all the difference.

I always wanted to share my testimony with those who aren’t Church members. I live in a small town where almost everyone is active in the Church, so I hadn’t had the chance. One day a girl new to my school noticed me sitting on a bench reading the New Era. She asked me if I was a Mormon. I replied, “Yes, I am.” I took her to meet our seminary teacher, and I am glad I finally had the chance to share my testimony with a friend.
Julie M., Idaho

Although we lived in a town (Logan, Utah), my father, L. Tom Perry, Sr., wanted his children to have the same kind of experiences that he’d had growing up on a farm. We had a large backyard, with an aunt living on one side of our house and my grandfather on the other side. The three backyards became our farm, which included a garden, a pasture, a barn, and alfalfa fields. We learned how to cut the alfalfa with a scythe, let it dry, then store it in the barn.
We planted a garden, weeded it, and irrigated it. Some of my choicest childhood experiences were irrigating with my father. Our turn began at 2:00 A.M., so Dad and I would pitch a tent in the yard and go to bed about 9:00 at night. We’d set the alarm clock and get up at 2:00 and turn the water in. Then we’d get up every half hour until 6:00 to change its flow. During all my growing-up years, Dad and I spent many nights irrigating side by side. It’s a great experience to be with your father like that.
I also have some great memories of taking care of the family cow with my dad. We cleaned the barn, fed the cow, and got her into her stall. Then I held her tail while Dad milked. There is great discipline in having a cow. It has to be milked every morning and every night. It has to be milked in the summer, winter, spring, and fall. I didn’t particularly like the cow sometimes, especially when caring for it interfered with something that I really wanted to do. But I developed a love for work and had some great conversations in the barn with Dad about baptism, priesthood ordinations, friends, and other important subjects when we were doing chores. I loved spending that time with my father. He is one of the men whom I most admire and respect.
Dad also taught us children at an early age to work for the Lord. I was six months old when he was called as the bishop, and he served as bishop for eighteen years. He involved us in his work at Church. I remember filling the stoker at the meetinghouse in the winter—shoveling snow too. Summers were spent cleaning the chapel ceilings and taking care of the yard.
When I was six or seven, Dad had me help my mother with some Church financial records. She would call out the numbers, and I’d punch them in on our old adding machine, pull the crank, and then proofread the figures back to her. I remember lugging that old machine back and forth between our home and the meetinghouse. In winter we hauled it on a sleigh; in the summer we used a wagon.
My father was not an emotional man. One of the few times that I ever saw him shed tears was when he was released as bishop. He loved serving the Lord, and he helped to develop in all his children a great satisfaction in helping other people. He made sure that his Church calling involved our whole family and brought us together.
Because of his example, I developed a great appreciation for working and for serving the Lord. I love my father and am deeply grateful for him and for the many things that he taught me through word and example.

One night a family watched a terrible storm from their home near a beach. Huge waves crashed against the shore, breaking apart the family’s wooden boat dock. The next morning the family found pieces of the dock along the shoreline. But their boat was floating unharmed in the water. It was held in place by a strong anchor. The anchor had kept the boat from crashing into the shore and being destroyed.

First, an honored and respected name. I will be eternally grateful to a father who thought enough of me to give me his name. It was a name of honor and respect in the community in which I grew up. It carried before it the title of bishop from the time I was six months old until just a few months before I left to go on my mission. How proud I was of his service. I was pleased that he had the patience to involve me in his responsibilities. Working on a welfare farm, cleaning the chapel, balancing ward financial records, carrying a sack of flour to a widow, etc., were a part of my early life. I was with him so much I received the nickname of “Bishop.” I attempted to wear it with pride and honor. It had the effect of making me reach a little higher. I wanted to try to be on the same plane as my father. Should not every child have the same opportunity?

Fathers, is it not your obligation to give your children an honored and respected name?
Second, every child needs a sense of security. I often think of the security of our old family home. It was a fortress against the adversary. Each morning and evening it was blessed by the priesthood as we would kneel in family prayer. That power was also manifest as my father blessed his family in time of need.
Fathers, is it not your obligation to give your children a home blessed with the power of the priesthood?
Third, an opportunity for development. My children taught me a great lesson one day. We had moved from California to New York where I had accepted an employment opportunity and we were in the process of finding a new home. We started close to the city, but each day that passed we would move further out to find a home more suited to our needs. In Connecticut we found just the one. It was a beautiful home nestled in New England’s radiant forests. We were all pleased with the selection. The final test before making an offer for purchase was to ride the train into New York to check out the commuting time. I made the trip and returned very discouraged. The trip required an hour and a half each way. I returned to the motel where my family was waiting for me and gave them the choice of having a father or this new home. Much to my surprise, they said, “We will take the home. You are not around much anyway.”
The shock of that statement was overwhelming to me. If that statement was true, I needed to repent fast. My children deserved a father. Is it not our obligation as fathers to spend as much time as possible with our children, to teach them honesty, industry, and morality?
Fourth, give your children the opportunity of having a joyful, happy childhood. The priesthood manual a few years ago quoted a story written in 1955 by Bryant S. Hinckley. It is as follows:
“‘Three hundred twenty-six school children of a district near Indianapolis were asked to write anonymously just what each thought of his father.
“‘The teacher hoped that the reading of the essays might attract the fathers to attend at least one meeting of the Parent-Teacher’s Association.
“‘It did.
“‘They came in $400 cars and $4,000 cars. Bank president, laborer, professional man, clerk, salesman, meter reader, farmer, utility magnate, merchant, baker, tailor, manufacturer, and contractor, every man with a definite estimate of himself in terms of money, skill, and righteousness. …
“‘The president picked at random from another stack of papers. “I like my daddy,” she read from each. The reasons were many: He built my doll house, took me coasting, taught me to shoot, helps me with my schoolwork, takes me to the park, gave me a pig to fatten and sell. Scores of essays could be reduced to “I like my daddy. He plays with me.”’
“Not one child mentioned his family house, car, neighborhood, food or clothing.
“The fathers went into the meeting from many walks of life. They came out in two classes: companions to their children or strangers to their children.
“No man is too rich or too poor to play with his children.” (The Savior the Priesthood and You, Melchizedek Priesthood Manual, 1973–74, p. 226.)
I am aware how concerned we each are with the leadership we find in the world today. To change the head of a nation, state, or community towards righteous leadership may require our earnest efforts for years. But there is something we can change today to make the world a better place in which to live. Husbands and fathers, the power is within you as bearers of the priesthood. Enjoy the inspiration of God, our Eternal Father, to lead, guide, and direct your families in righteousness. You stand at the head of the only organization I know of that can be eternal. Should not that charge and responsibility receive top priority in your life?
God bless you to understand your duties and responsibilities to be righteous husbands and fathers, I humbly pray in the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.

A few years ago while we were in Sydney, Australia, my wife and I received a letter from one of our grandchildren. He wrote: “Dear Grandma and Grandpa, I just turned twelve years of age, and the bishop called me into the office, and he said, ‘I have some questions to ask of you, Bruce. Bruce, you’re twelve years of age now, and so I need to know if you love the Lord.’ I told him I do. ‘Do you say bad words, Bruce?’ ‘No, bishop, I never say bad words.’ ‘Do you love your mother and dad?’ ‘Yes, bishop, I do.’ ‘Do you pay your tithing, Bruce?’ ‘Yes I do, bishop.’

“You know, Grandpa and Grandma, the bishop said that I could receive the Aaronic Priesthood because I was twelve years of age, and he asked me if I knew what the Aaronic Priesthood was. I told him that I knew a little bit and that I could be ordained a deacon. You know, the next week the bishop asked who I would like to be ordained by. I said I would like to be ordained by my dad. So my dad put his hands upon my head, and the bishop stood around and so did my uncles, and my dad conferred the Aaronic Priesthood upon me and ordained me a deacon.

“Now, Grandma and Grandpa, you’re a long way away, but I know that you’re a General Authority and some day you’ll come home. You know, I can’t wait until you come home because I know you’ll sit on the stand, and then Grandpa, I can pass the sacrament to you.”
I think that is the true meaning of love, of families.

Emily peered through a rain-lashed cottage window at the storm raging outside. Gigantic waves were crashing right over the dunes that protected their little fishing resort from the Atlantic Ocean.
“Mama!” she cried, “Don’t you think we ought to get out of here? It’s a terrible storm!”
“Get away from that window,” her mother whispered from the couch. “If it breaks, you’ll be hurt by flying glass. I just can’t think what to do. My head hurts, and I feel so sick and cold. Pile another blanket on me, will you, dear?”
Emily did, then tried to think of what else she could do. The cottage was perched on a narrow strip of barrier beach separating Cape Cod from the ocean by about five miles of normally calm water. It could only be reached by a boat or by driving twenty miles from a coastal town. There was no electricity, telephones, or running water. This late fall weekend, Emily and her parents had driven out for one last visit to catch some sun and to close up the cottage for the winter. Emily’s dad had gone fishing in their boat before Emily or her mother were awake and wasn’t back yet. If he’d known how sick Mother is, Emily thought, he never would have gone.
Emily’s mom looked white and weak. “We’re the only ones on the beach today,” she said, her teeth chattering. “If we drove out, we’d be stranding your dad. Besides, if the storm is going to be severe, the coast guard will raise the storm flag. Look out the back window and see if it’s flying.”
Emily ran to the window that faced the mainland. She steadied the powerful binoculars on the window sash, focusing on the lighthouse and the Coast Guard station beside it. But the storm-warning flagpole wasn’t there. It must have been broken off by the wind, she thought.
As she stared through the binoculars, an enormous wave crashed upon the bank under the lighthouse. Great chunks of paving tore away and fell into the rolling sea.
“Mama!” she cried, terrified. “The flagpole is down, and the lighthouse banking is crumbling. The waves are awful!”
“Try the radio again,” her mother whispered.
Emily turned the dials of the battery radio again and again, trying to reach a station, but all she heard was static. The cottage smelled of damp wood, and it shook in the wind. The roar of the storm was unrelenting. She clutched Clover, her tiny white kitten, and tried not to cry. Her dad was out in this storm. What if his boat capsized?
Suddenly, as she stared out the window, Emily saw their car tossed into the air by a gigantic wave. “Mama, get up, get up,” she screamed. “The car is gone. We have to get out of here somehow!”
Her mother’s eyes were glazed now, and her lips were cracked. She tried to talk, then lay back and closed her eyes, instead.
Emily looked out the window again and could see nothing but water. The waves had beaten down most of the dunes and were reaching higher and higher. The roof of the house next door went floating past, tumbling end over end and finally breaking into pieces. “The Jenkins house is gone!”
But her mother was either asleep or unconscious. Emily began weeping with fear—great tearing sobs that shook her small frame and left her gasping for breath. “Heavenly Father, please help us!” she prayed.
Feeling a little more calm, she said aloud, “There must be something you can do. Think, Emily, think!”
As she looked around her for ideas, a thought slipped quietly into her mind. The old ship’s lantern! Maybe I could signal with it.
She ran into the tiny kitchen, pulled the stepladder over to the cupboard, and climbed up to get the big kerosene lantern that had once hung in a captain’s cabin on a clipper ship. Dad always kept it filled and trimmed for emergencies. It was sturdy and swung from a gimbal that kept it steady even in a high wind.
With trembling fingers she lit the lantern. Then she ran out to the back porch and looked for a place to hang it. The beam with the hook, the one that usually held her dad’s fishing boots, was too high for her to reach, so she raced back to the kitchen and dragged the stepladder out to the porch. Climbing up, holding the lantern carefully so that the kerosene in it wouldn’t spill, she hung it on the hook.
If anyone could see the light from across the raging waves, it would be the lookout in the Coast Guard station. But as Emily peered through the drenching sheets of rain, she thought, It’s not good enough. No one will know what the light means. I need something to make a signal with.
Searching the woodpile by the stove she found a small sheet of plywood. Frantic with haste, she scrambled up the ladder again and started passing the plywood back and forth across the glow of the lantern, creating three short, three long, three short intervals of light—SOS—over and over again. She tried to count out loud to keep it regular. The rain whipped her long brown hair around, sometimes stinging her eyes. Three short, three long, three short—would anyone notice? Could anyone even see such a tiny light across the miles of turbulence?
Soaked to the skin, shivering, and miserable, she kept on. Her arms trembled with fatigue. Her legs ached from trying to keep her balance in the howling wind.
Suddenly she heard a shrieking and rending above the constant roar of the storm and almost lost her balance. A whole house came sweeping by the porch, breaking up in front of her eyes. A refrigerator was flung into the air and landed almost at her feet. A propane gas tank went sailing by like a kite. The waves were now as high as the ground the cottage was on and pounding higher each minute. She could feel its timbers shaking. Numb with fear, she felt like a mechanical doll. Don’t think. Just keep moving the plywood.
Listen—what’s that? Over the roar of the wind, she heard the thrum of a powerful engine. Then she saw a searchlight coming closer, sometimes hidden by the surf, then reappearing. The Coast Guard must have seen her signal.
“Over here!” she called but knew that they couldn’t hear her. She didn’t dare stop signalling. What if the house blew down before they arrived? On and on she worked. Three short, three long, three short.
Then, miraculously, the boat was there. Voices shouted through the howling wind. Strong arms lifted her from the ladder and set her in the bow of the boat. “Check the house,” she heard someone cry.
“Clover, Clover,” Emily screamed when a wet ball of white fur was thrust into her arms. Soon her mother was carried out and placed in the bow under a canvas shelter. Engines roaring, the boat backed away from the cottage.
“You were great to signal like that,” one man shouted to Emily over the wind, wrestling the boat around to face the mainland. “We didn’t know anyone was out here. You’d better get under cover. We’re not out of this mess yet.”
Emily curled up close to her mother, whose eyes had fluttered open for only a moment while she was being rescued. Clover was buried under Emily’s arm, shivering and still frightened. Emily prayed for the man steering the boat—and for her father out somewhere in the storm.
Mountainous waves rose all around them. The boat reared and bucked and plunged. Emily glimpsed debris sweeping by—a chair, a green cooler, a door.
“There goes your house,” one of the men called. “There’s nothing left now but ocean—not even sand. We got you off just in time.”
“We’re almost there,” the pilot shouted many minutes later.
Emily peered over the canvas and saw a sight that she would never forget. Most of the boats anchored in the harbor were thrown up on shore, smashed and broken by the storm. The pier had been swept away, and the fish house was dangling over the water, swaying crazily in the wind, half its foundation gone.
Emily later remembered little of landing, thanking her rescuers, or riding to the hospital in a wailing ambulance. Sometime later, Uncle George gently shook her. “Wake up,” he said. “It’s time to go home.”
“Where’s Mom?” she asked sleepily. “Where’s Clover? Has Dad come back?”
“Your kitten’s in the car. Your mother’s in intensive care, and the doctor says that she’ll be fine. Your dad …” He shrugged and looked away. “He’s a good seaman. He’ll be OK.”
For five days and nights the storm raged. Emily’s mother finally came to stay with her at Uncle George’s, shaken and weak but a lot better.
On the fifth day, Emily’s father chugged into the harbor. He was starving, cold, and exhausted; his boat was badly damaged. He had thrown out sea anchors, he explained, and had miraculously ridden out the storm.
“You were so brave!” he told Emily, hugging her. “To think of signaling like that and staying with it so long! You must have been frightened.”
“I was,” she said, stroking Clover, “but I prayed.”
He held her close. “So did I.”

Well before his 19th birthday, Elder Duncan happened to meet a General Authority serving in the Missionary Department who challenged him to memorize the missionary discussions. He met that challenge and was later called to the Chile Santiago South Mission. His time as a missionary reconfirmed his love for serving the Lord. “I knew I wanted to be a missionary every day of the rest of my life,” says Elder Duncan.

I previously have shared how I first met Barbara and how that experience taught me to use the skill of “following up” that I had learned on my mission. I had to follow up quickly with her after we first met because she was beautiful, popular, and had a very busy social calendar. I was smitten early because she was approachable and friendly. I admired her goodness. I felt that she and I belonged together. It seemed that simple in my mind.
Barbara and I dated, and our relationship began to grow, but she was uncertain that marriage to me was right for her.
It wasn’t enough for me to know; Barbara needed to know for herself. I knew if we spent time fasting and praying about the matter, Barbara could receive a confirmation from heaven.
We spent a weekend without dating so we could fast and pray individually to know for ourselves. Fortunately for me, she received the same confirmation that I did. The rest, as they say, is history.

Some years ago, Sister Sorensen and I had the privilege of visiting India. At one airport I remember walking across the landing strip and seeing some men sitting in front of wicker baskets, playing flutes. As they started to play the music, they would take the top off the basket and a cobra would appear! As the music continued, the snake would rise higher and higher, nearly reaching its full length until the cobra would collapse back into the basket. Once I noticed a cobra fall outside the basket. The man playing the flute reached over, petted the cobra, and carefully put it back into the basket. I was amazed that a man could handle such a dangerous creature, apparently without being harmed. But our guide quickly told me that this was very risky and told us that a major cause of death in this province was indeed poisonous snakebite.

For many years I felt alone and abandoned. I struggled with unrighteous desires that led me to sin, which eventually placed me in a cycle of guilt and shame. Thankfully, a loving bishop taught me about the role of the Savior’s Atonement to cover weakness, pain, and sorrow as well as sin. My bishop rejoiced when I progressed and comforted me when I slipped.
I learned that having a conceptual knowledge of the Savior was not enough—I needed to pray to Heavenly Father and actively repent through the Atonement of Jesus Christ. As I did, I grew more obedient to God’s commandments and closer to the Savior.
While I still struggle with temptation, I have learned that I can rely fully on my Savior and His Atonement. While I stand on the rock of my Redeemer, my weakness can be strength. With Paul I can say, “Most gladly therefore will I rather glory in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me … : for when I am weak, then am I strong” (2 Corinthians 12:9–10).
Jacob H. Taylor, Idaho, USA

In 1941 the Gila River overflowed and flooded the Duncan Valley in Arizona. A young stake president by the name of Spencer W. Kimball met with his counselors, assessed the damage, and sent a telegram to Salt Lake City asking for a large sum of money.

Instead of sending money, President Heber J. Grant sent three men: Henry D. Moyle, Marion G. Romney, and Harold B. Lee. They visited with President Kimball and taught him an important lesson: “This isn’t a program of ‘give me,’” they said. “This is a program of ‘self-help.’”

Many years later, President Kimball said: “It would have been an easy thing, I think, for the Brethren to have sent us [the money,] and it wouldn’t have been too hard to sit in my office and distribute it; but what a lot of good came to us as we had hundreds of [our own] go to Duncan and build fences and haul the hay and level the ground and do all the things that needed doing. That is self-help.”10

By following the Lord’s way, the members of President Kimball’s stake not only had their immediate needs met, but they also developed self-reliance, alleviated suffering, and grew in love and unity as they served each other.

After completing PathwayConnect, I decided to enroll in the public health program at Brigham Young University-Idaho. I completed a certification in public health planning and implementation, health method evaluation and epidemiology. I have learned to support the world in disease prevention and developed a pandemic health program. I was very happy to support my country during the COVID-19 breakout in Kinshasa. People were amazing. I learned more skills about how to control this disease in my community.