Gospel Story Finder

“He started it!” Robbie wailed.
“I did not,” Robbie’s big brother, Will, protested. “He took my stuff without asking. I was just getting it back.”
“I don’t care who started it,” Mom said. “What I care about is who stops it. And I wish it didn’t always have to be me. You are both confined to your rooms until you can work this out peacefully. And here”—she handed each of them a piece of paper—“maybe you should write down some things you can do to avoid fights in the future.”
Glumly the boys walked down the hallway to their bedrooms. Just before Will went into his room, he waved his paper at Robbie and sneered, “I’m going to write down all the reasons I can’t stand you!”
“Oh, yeah? Well, my list will be twice as long as yours.” Robbie’s response was cut off by Will’s slamming the door.
Robbie shut his own door and plopped down on his bed. What a jerk! He thought. Just because he’s bigger than I am, he thinks he can push me around. Robbie found a pencil and wrote on his paper: Reasons I can’t stand Will. Then he skipped a few lines and wrote, “1. He’s bigger than me.”
Robbie tapped his pencil on his chin and tried hard to think of another reason. He looked around his bedroom. His eyes caught sight of the model airplane that hung from his overhead light. Will had hung that model for him because Robbie wasn’t big enough to reach the light, even if he stood on a chair. Sometimes Robbie was glad that Will was bigger. It wasn’t a bad thing.
Robbie needed to write down something else. He noticed the baseball mitt hanging on the footboard of his bed. It was Will’s old mitt. Robbie hardly ever got anything new. He usually got Will’s hand-me-down stuff, including his clothes and sports equipment. Robbie wrote, “2. I always get his old stuff.”
Of course, that wasn’t always a bad thing, either. Will usually took good care of his things, and he bought a lot of them with his own money. As a result, Robbie ended up with some pretty good stuff that he didn’t have to pay for. And Will always taught him how to use the equipment, so he got free lessons, too.
Robbie knew that he was going to have to think harder to come up with a reason why he hated Will. He noticed a candy wrapper on the floor. That gave him an idea. “3. He eats a lot of food.”
That was true. Will ate at least two bowls of cereal at breakfast, and he always seemed to have a snack in his pocket. Mom said that he was an active, growing boy, and she always made sure there was a lot of good food in the house. Of course, that wasn’t a bad thing. That meant more food for Robbie to eat, too. And Will often had some little treat in his pocket to share with Robbie.
Robbie frowned. He was never going to get his list done. Will must have dozens of things written by now.
Just then there was a knock on Robbie’s door. Through the door Will quietly said, “Are you ready to see my list, short stuff?”
Robbie sighed. I might as well get this over with, he thought. Then he got up and opened his door to let Will in. Will didn’t seem angry anymore. He almost seemed happy. He’s happy his list is so long, Robbie thought. Will walked in and sat down at the desk, his list folded carefully in his hand.
“You go first,” Will said.
Robbie sat down on the bed and picked up his list. “I could only think of three reasons,” he admitted. “And they aren’t really reasons why I can’t stand you—they’re reasons why I like you.” Robbie crumpled up the paper. “Guess it’s your turn now. How many reasons did you come up with—a million?”
Will unfolded his paper and showed it to Robbie. It was blank.
“I couldn’t think of even one reason why I can’t stand you,” Will said.
Robbie’s eyes got wide.
“Really?”
“Yeah, really. You’re all right, for a little brother.” Will pulled a package of pretzels from his pocket and offered some to Robbie. “So now I guess we’d better do what Mom asked and figure out how we can stop fighting so much.”
“I think we just figured it out.” Robbie popped a pretzel into his mouth. “We just have to remember how much we like each other.”
Will nodded. “I guess you’re right. OK, we’re done here. Let’s go play some ball.”
Robbie grabbed the old mitt off the bed and followed his big brother down the stairs.

It was the week before Christmas, and Billy Otter lay in bed wishing for a pair of snowshoes. He brushed the tumble of straight black hair back from his brown face as he listened to the snip snip of his mother’s scissors. She was at work, cutting out moccasins from a deerskin.
Father had died of a lung disease three years ago, and since then Mother added to a meager pension by making beaded articles to sell to tourists who came to the Cree reservation. Her soft cough as she worked deepened the worried creases on Billy’s forehead. I must get some snowshoes so I can do the trapping for her, he resolved. It is too cold in the bush, especially when she’s sick.
“Your breakfast is on the warming shelf of the stove, son,” Mother called when she heard him stirring. Billy stretched and yawned widely. He got up and crossed the small, one-room cabin to warm himself by the wood stove while he dressed. When he had finished pulling on his clothes, Billy took his bannock biscuits (of unleavened oat or barley flour) and herb tea to the table. As he munched, his dark eyes watched the flash of his mother’s needle. “Mother,” he said, breaking the silence, “I’m going to help you.”
“How is that, dear?” she asked.
“By snaring the rabbits for the fur trim on the mittens and moccasins.”
“I appreciate that, Billy, but there’s no money to buy snowshoes for you, and mine are too big. You can’t get through the deep snow in the bush without them.”
While his mother sewed the bright beads to the deerskin, Billy sat thinking. Finally he said, “Old Joe Carver is the wisest Indian on the reservation. I’ll ask him what to do.”
When Billy arrived at Joe’s cabin, he found the old man sitting in his rocking chair, carving. A growling bear was taking shape from the birch block held between his knees.
“What brings you to visit, young man?” Joe asked pleasantly.
“How can I get a pair of snowshoes without any money? I need them to snare rabbits for my mother.”
Joe’s wrinkled copper face, framed by gray braids, creased even deeper as he thought. Then his gravelly voice intoned, “There is one way. Make them like our fathers did.”
“But I don’t know how.”
“I need a new pair myself. I’ll make them and show you how. We’ll start this afternoon.”
After lunch the two friends walked down a packed trail into the woods. The cold snow crunched under their feet as they strode along. Joe swung his axe in rhythm with his strides, stopping occasionally to examine the trees.
“What are you looking for?” Billy asked.
“A straight young birch.”
Soon they found a tree just the right size, and Joe cut it down and limbed it. Then Billy helped him drag it back to his cabin.
“What do we do next, Joe?” Billy asked excitedly.
“First we must cut this birch tree into three-foot lengths.”
“Can I do it?” Billy asked.
The old man handed the boy a large saw. Billy’s arms ached as he pulled and pushed it. Then the sawteeth caught and wouldn’t move in either direction.
“Here, let me help you,” offered Joe. “You must saw at a right angle or the teeth will bind.”
After Billy finished cutting the first length, and then two more, the old man ripsawed the curved sides away, leaving long square pieces. These he divided down the length into four sticks, each one about an inch thick.
By this time the sun was low. “Come back after supper,” the old man suggested, “and we’ll start the next step.”
After a supper of rabbit stew, Billy arrived at the old man’s cabin and saw a big tub had been placed on the stove. Now Joe was carrying pails of water from a hole chopped in the lake ice to fill it.
“Let me do that, Joe,” Billy offered. After he had lugged four more pailsful of water, Joe laid the long sticks of wood across the steaming tub.
“Why do you put them there, Joe?” Billy asked.
“We must soften the wood by steaming, so it will bend without breaking,” the old man answered. “While we wait, help me cut this moose hide into strips.”
As Joe slit the skin in a circular pattern with his knife, Billy gathered the thick velvet rope into a pile. Then the old man put the strips into the boiling water to soak.
Joe selected a golden strip of wood from a pile by the door and sawed it in half. Next he nailed the short pieces between two long slats from the tub.
“That looks like a ladder,” Billy said.
“Wait and see,” replied the old man.
Patiently the Indian curved the tips together, and Billy held them while Joe secured them with moose hide. The procedure was repeated on the other end.
“They have a snowshoe shape now, but how will you keep them on?” Billy asked.
“Tomorrow you will find out, when our moose hide babiche (pliable rawhide thongs) has soaked enough.”
The next morning when Billy arrived, the old man was weaving the babiche between the sides of the snowshoe. He showed Billy how to wrap the babiche around the frame and pull it tight. Finally a firm, flat net stretched between both frames.
When they had finished, Joe steamed the front tips again. Then he tied them around a log to form a curl. “Let them dry,” he said. “Tomorrow they will be ready.”
The next day, there lay two golden ovals with curved tips. The moose hide mesh had dried taut as a strung bow. Billy handled them longingly.
Suddenly his face fell, and he turned to Joe. “I’ll never be able to make a pair myself.”
“But with my help you can,” Joe said encouragingly.
“Not in time for Christmas, though,” Billy sighed. “I guess it’s sort of silly, but I’d really counted on getting some then.”
“Maybe Santa Claus will find the reservation this year,” Joe said, and they both laughed.
But on Christmas morning only boots and a shirt lay under the tree. Even the oranges and candy did not ease Billy’s disappointment.
That afternoon there was a knock on the door. When his mother opened it, Joe greeted her with a shy Merry Christmas.
“Come in,” Mother invited.
“Thank you,” Joe answered. “And how is your Christmas?” the old man asked, turning to Billy.
“No snowshoes,” Billy said sadly.
“Well then, maybe you’d better look outside.”
Billy opened the door. There leaning against the cabin was a pair of golden snowshoes with red tassels!
“They’re just my size! Where did you get them?” cried Billy excitedly.
“Each night after you left, I worked on them,” Joe explained. “I knew your heart was set on having them for Christmas. Now we can run the traplines together.”
Billy’s eyes were bright with anticipation. “Well, what are we waiting for?” he laughed and reached down to strap on one of the snowshoes.

True conversion changes lives. One young woman wrote how unhappy her home life had been when she was a little girl. She wrote, “I felt it keenly when my mother and younger brothers and sisters suffered from the savage temper of a drunken father.” When she was 14, someone told her that one of God’s commandments was to honor her parents. In pondering how she could do this, she was impressed to study, to become a good student, and to be the best daughter in town.

Nothing much changed in the home, but she still felt to continue with her objectives and at age 18 left home to undertake some special studies. Three weeks later she went home to visit, and she recalled:

“My mother met me crying. I thought something terrible had happened, but she hugged me and said, ‘Since you went away to study, your father hasn’t had anything to drink.’

“… My mother said that the night I left, some Mormon missionaries had come. …

“My father became like a little child. I could see repentance and humility in his eyes. He had changed completely. He had given up smoking and drinking all at once, and tried to keep the commandments the missionaries taught him. He treated me like a queen, and he treated my mother and my brothers and sisters like royalty.

“… Our whole family was baptized. … My father, at age 40, became the best father in the world.”

When I would attempt to walk half a block in my neighborhood, I often experienced shortness of breath, light-headedness, and joint pain. I had been a runner previous to contracting the virus, and now I could only walk slowly. Many times I would fall on my knees to pray that I could get up and feel up. The fatigue got worse every time I tried to get up and do too much. One day I got up and my back went out. I fell to the floor in tears and pain. I cried out to Heavenly Father, “I can’t take it anymore!” He knew I was down and helped me up once again. I would often tell myself, “Just hold on.” There was not much else I could do. By choosing to hold on to hope in Christ and continually calling upon the Lord, I was able to press on.

One of the choicest experiences this man related to me was about a horse. Because he was a commanding officer in the Canadian Cavalry, a horse was very important to him:
“I looked around for the best horse in the area to buy. I loved horses—I always had. I finally found just the right one. I paid seventy-five dollars for this horse, which was a lot of money in those days. I quickly picked an excellent horseman who was an expert in horse training. He worked and worked with Steamboat, as I called him, and before long, he was not only the best-looking horse in the Canadian Cavalry, but also the best trained. I could tell him to lie down, to roll over, or to come to me, and this horse immediately obeyed. I was so very pleased.
“We were in Cardston at the time and I had enjoyed riding Steamboat for a couple of years when one day a Colonel Walker from Winnipeg visited our headquarters there. His main mission was to buy a fine horse for the general. He didn’t tell me this at first, but just said:
“‘I hear you have a fine horse.’
“‘He’s a dandy!’ I answered.
“Then he asked to take a ride on Steamboat and I said, ‘All right.’
“When he returned from a short ride, he dismounted and asked, ‘How much would you take for this horse?’
“I was sure he was joking with me, so I quickly replied, in jest, ‘Oh, five hundred dollars.’ This was an outrageous sum.
“‘Sold,’ he said.
“I was stunned! ‘But I was just joking, this horse is my pride and joy,’ I stammered.
“Colonel Walker stood straight and tall and said, ‘You told me the price, I will pay it, so we have just made a deal.’
“I was brokenhearted for a long time at the loss of my joy, Steamboat, my friend.
“About a year later,” he concluded, “while I was in England visiting our headquarters there, I was invited to inspect their horse stables. As I was walking down a row of stalls, I saw my great friend in one of them. ‘Steamer,’ I shouted.
“The horse jumped like he’d been shot. I climbed into the stall, threw my arms around that horse and cried and cried. An old friend is hard to forget.”
As I personally met with this great man, I asked him to tell me what he remembered about his boyhood. Some of the childhood experiences he related were humorous.
“My brother Bud and I had a lot of fun as children. He liked to tease and play jokes on me. One day we chased a weasel down a hole. We used a shovel and tried to dig him out, but with no luck. Bud told me that if I put my hand down the hole, maybe I could grab the animal and pull it out. I believed him, and thrust my hand as far down the hole as I could. But the weasel bit my finger so hard that it almost took the end of it off. After that I decided to be a little more careful whenever Bud told me to do something.
“My brother pestered me with jokes all through our childhood. I did get back at him once, though. I remember we were sleeping in the basement of a barn at the time. Bud had been reading a book about ghosts and ghost stories. One day I got the idea to ask my cousin to put an old sheet over himself and hide down in the basement of the barn until Bud came home. I then hid outside and watched and waited. Sure enough, Bud came along and went in through the barn door and started down the basement. When he saw my cousin, he came screaming out of the barn, running as fast as he could. It was a long time after that before Bud would sleep down there again.”

Andrea Fawson thought she was hearing things when she was introduced to Andrea Fawson at a Young Women conference in northern California. But after checking out their well-mapped family histories, the two girls discovered that they not only shared names, but bloodlines too.

Andrea Fawson, 15, from Fairfield, California, and Andrea Fawson, 16, from Ukiah, California, noted in their conversation at the conference that they both had 13-year-old brothers named Richard [will the two Richard Fawsons meet up at a Scout camp some day?] and first cousins named Angela and Christy. Once they got home, they looked at their family charts and found that they were actually distant cousins. You never know who will turn up in your family history.

I was assigned to home teach with Brother Erickson, an older member of my ward who was a dedicated home teacher. He had me do the scheduling, which I didn’t mind.
One of our families, the Wrights (name has been changed), was not actively involved with the Church. When I called the home, Brother Wright said, “Don’t ever call my home again.”
I told Brother Erickson what had happened. The following month, when he asked me to call the Wrights again, I reminded him that Brother Wright didn’t want us to call. Brother Erickson insisted that I call anyway, so I did. When Brother Wright answered the phone, I asked him not to hang up on me and told him that my home teaching companion had insisted I call. I asked if we could home teach him just by calling each month. He agreed.
From that point on, I called the Wrights each month. Every time I called, Brother Wright would say, “You’ve made your call.” Then he would hang up. I didn’t have a problem with that, and Brother Erickson didn’t ask for more.
But after several months had passed, Brother Erickson suggested that we fast for the Wrights. I agreed, so one Sunday we prayed and fasted to find a way to reach Brother Wright. The next morning as I passed the Wright home on my way to work, Brother Wright was coming out of the house. I could see a toy truck under one of the rear tires of his car, so I stopped and pointed it out. He thanked me.
“By the way,” I said, “I’m your home teacher.”
He thanked me again as I headed off to work.
I called Brother Erickson to tell him what had happened. He asked me to call Brother Wright to set up a home teaching appointment for the next evening, which I did. Brother Wright was both congenial and accepting. We had a great visit with the family and set up another appointment. I left their home with a greater testimony of fasting and prayer and of the importance of being a home teacher.
Later that week we learned that Brother Wright had allowed the full-time missionaries to start teaching his 15-year-old daughter. She had been praying for months that her father would soften his heart and let her be baptized. Over time the family began attending church, and Brother Wright eventually consented to his daughter’s baptism. In fact, he was the one who baptized her.
I’m grateful that Brother Erickson was in tune with the Spirit. His insights during this experience helped me gain a greater testimony of the power and potential of dedicated home teaching.

While competing in a national beauty pageant a few years ago, I saw how much the gospel helps me in many aspects of my life. During the pageant, I refrained from negative talking or backbiting. I knew that everyone there was a child of Heavenly Father and that participating in such activities would not be uplifting.
After a few weeks, the other contestants and I found out that there was an undercover judge—our makeup artist. She had always been in the dressing rooms and at photo shoots and appearances, and she heard everything we were saying. Some girls worried the judge had heard the bad things that they were saying, and I was thankful I didn’t have that burden on my mind and that I could be at peace. I was able to make a good impression by keeping my standards and not participating in any gossip or foul language.
After the pageant, a judge came to me and thanked me for my mature conduct. All the judges had recognized that I acted different from some of the other girls.

In the Philippines, there are science high schools for academically gifted students. Students in these schools take more subjects, spend more hours in class, and devote more effort to schoolwork.
This kind of environment was toxic for me. I gave up so many things upon entering this school. I stopped learning how to play instruments. I almost never attended Church activities, and I would occasionally miss Church services on Sundays for inter-school competitions. I struggled attending seminary, although the classes were conveniently offered during weekends.
One Saturday, my seminary teacher told us about how busy she was in high school, and yet she managed to still do her seminary assignments and study the scripture mastery scriptures. She challenged us to do the same.
Challenges enliven me, so I took this one. I carried my scripture mastery cards with me everywhere. I prayed for help to manage it with my school demands. I used every window of time I had. I memorized scriptures while commuting to school. I chatted less and would take the cards out of my pocket. My friends noticed; shuffling the scripture cards became our new activity during breaks and lunchtime. They enjoyed quizzing me. Some started to bring their scriptures—even those who belonged to other denominations. They shared about activities at their own churches. I felt the atmosphere around me change, and school felt lighter and better.
My three younger sisters followed that lead, and now my family reaps the blessings of the scriptures in our relationships at home. It was more than just memorizing words; my seminary teacher taught me the difference the scriptures would make in me and in the people around me. I know that whatever challenge or trial comes to my family and friends, we will always find strength, guidance, and repose in the words of our loving Savior.

Jamie closed the shed door quietly and carried the heavy pail down the snow-covered trail to the deer feeding station. Carefully, he made three small piles of corn about six feet apart. Then, looking around, Jamie smiled and started up the trail to the warm cabin. He knew the deer had been watching him.
Jamie knocked the snow from his boots and, looking once more toward the white birch forest, slipped inside the cabin.
High in the loft where Jamie slept was a wide window close to the floor where he could watch the deer come to feed.
Jamie had named the doe and her fawns Mama, Flag, and Stomper. He had watched the fawns grow since spring when they were tiny, wobbly creatures no taller than the brush where they bedded down at night.
Ever since Jamie had named them, he had waited for the day when he would be able to feed them by hand and play with them and call them by name. But Jamie’s father had said it couldn’t be. “Animals in the wild must protect themselves from danger, and humans are a very great danger,” he explained. “If Flag and Stomper became your friends, they might not fear a hunter. We can feed the deer during the winter, but we must not make pets of them. They need to feel fear to survive.”
Jamie understood. He wanted his forest friends to survive. But he felt that somehow, someway, he could show the deer that he alone was their friend.
Later, as he watched from his window in the loft, the deer came out of the forest. First came Mama, slowly sniffing the wind and moving her ears to catch every sound. Then Flag bounced into the clearing and went straight to the corn. Stomper, Jamie knew, would wait out of sight in the brush. Then, when Flag and Mama were eating, he would appear at the far corn pile and stomp his feet—THUMP, THUMP, THUMP—while he ate.
All afternoon a fine snow fell, and by evening three more inches of it were added to the snow already on the ground.
After supper Jamie slipped on his heavy woolen jacket and his warm boots and stepped out into the cold winter night. The bright white light of the February moon cast long shadows as he walked down the wooded trail. He stopped and looked back at the cabin. The yellow orange light from the windows shone brightly on the white birches, on the snow-covered woodpile, and on the more distant snow-covered lake.
CRUNCH!
Jamie turned his head and listened. He pulled his hood back and listened again … THUMP, THUMP.
Jamie held his breath. Can it be? he wondered. It sounds like …
THUMP, THUMP. It was louder now, and Jamie’s heart beat faster as he tried to catch his breath. He knew what it was—who it was. Not moving a muscle, Jamie waited for it to come closer.
THUMP, THUMP.
“Stomper?” Jamie breathed quietly the name of his favorite deer. “Stomper?” He turned ever so slowly and waited, holding his breath. “Stomper?” he whispered again.
Then, as though he had been there all the while, as though he were a part of the frozen ground and snow-covered trees, Stomper appeared not ten feet away.
“Stomper,” Jamie whispered once more, letting his breath out slowly.
Stomper stood erect and tall, his eyes fixed on Jamie. The deer picked up his right leg, bent it, and—THUMP—stomped his foot hard on the frozen ground. Jamie dared not move, though he desperately wanted to touch the deer, just once.
Stomper moved one step toward Jamie! And then another! The deer stretched out its neck so close to Jamie that Jamie could hear him breathe. Jamie reached out slowly. Stomper didn’t move.
All of a sudden there was a terrific snort, a whistling snort, and Stomper wheeled about. “Mama!” Jamie gasped as the doe rushed toward Stomper, kicking her front feet and rearing up at the young deer.
“Jamie!” It was his father’s voice. “Come here, Son.” His father was crouched by the side of the trail.
Stomper and his mother bounded through the forest and stopped some distance away.
“Dad! You knew! And Stomper’s mother knew too!”
“Jamie,” his father said, “I guess both of us parents knew what would happen if you two had an encounter,” he said sympathetically. Putting his arm around Jamie’s shoulder, his father walked with him back to the cabin.
High up on the hill, the deer stood and watched the man and his son walking back to the lighted cabin. The doe licked the face of her little buck, and they turned and walked slowly into the winter forest.

Last year, I decided to make a goal of saying my prayers every night. For a couple of nights, it was hard to remember to do it. Then I decided that I needed help to remember to say my prayers. So I prayed to Heavenly Father and told Him about my goal. I asked if He would help me remember to do it each night. And it worked! If I forgot and got into bed without praying, I felt like something was wrong or something was missing. The Holy Ghost helped me every night to reach my goal. My mom and dad were surprised and happy to find out about what I had accomplished. We had a family home evening about goals, and now everyone in my family is working on something!Jackson Barney, age 9Orem, Utah

The smell of freshly cooked bacon filled the cabin where the sisters of our young single adult ward had gathered for a Relief Society overnighter. As I lay in bed trying to wake up from a short night’s sleep, I heard the sisters begin to gather in the kitchen for breakfast. I heard their familiar voices laughing, talking, and then laughing some more. As I listened to the happy noise, I felt a surge of love for these amazing women. I smiled as I thought to myself, “This is the sound of Relief Society.”
I then reflected on all the other wonderful sounds that remind me of Relief Society: a sister sharing her heartfelt testimony of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ, the voices of many sisters blending as we sing hymns together, a tender visiting teaching lesson, the hum of a sewing machine as we participate together in a service project, and the tears we shed as we share one another’s sorrows. These are just some of the many wonderful sounds that remind me of the Lord’s organization for women.
But that morning in the cabin, as I lay there listening to my sisters laughing and talking, I realized what was my favorite sound of all: the sound of righteous women rejoicing together, loving each other, and celebrating our common sisterhood as daughters of a loving Heavenly Father. To me, that is truly the sound of Relief Society.

President Spencer W. Kimball has recommitted us as a church to reach out to our Father’s other children.
We have been asked to lengthen our stride in two general areas. First is the need for every member of the Church to let his light so shine that others will see the gospel of Jesus Christ by example. The Lord tells us in the Doctrine and Covenants:
“And again, I say unto you, I give unto you a commandment, that every man, both elder, priest, teacher, and also member, go to with his might, with the labor of his hands, to prepare and accomplish the things which I have commanded.
“And let your preaching be the warning voice, every man to his neighbor, in mildness and in meekness.” (D&C 38:40–41.)
Every family in the Church is asked to friendship a nonmember family on a family-to-family basis.
Second, every able young man has been asked to prepare himself to serve a full-time mission. And again from the Doctrine and Covenants:
“Wherefore lay to with your might and call faithful laborers into my vineyard, that it may be pruned for the last time.
“And inasmuch as they do repent and receive the fulness of my gospel, and become sanctified, I will stay mine hand in judgment.
“Wherefore, go forth, crying with a loud voice, saying: The kingdom of heaven is at hand; crying: Hosanna! blessed be the name of the Most High God.
“Go forth baptizing with water, preparing the way before my face for the time of my coming;
“For the time is at hand; the day or the hour no man knoweth; but it surely shall come.” (D&C 39:17–21. Italics added.)
It is this last point I would like to enlarge upon. I had the honor recently of being assigned to visit the Samoa Apia Mission and attend some stake conferences in that country. I found the missionaries all well and the work progressing. One afternoon following our meeting, the mission president, Patrick Peters—who is a native Samoan—said, “Elder Dunn, there is something I’d like to show you.” We drove a few miles from the mission home and climbed the brow of a small hill to a place that was isolated by palm trees and other tropical vegetation. I suddenly realized that we were in a very old graveyard.
At the center of this graveyard was a plot that was surrounded by a cement wall low enough to step over. President and Sister Peters told me this was where some of the first missionaries in Samoa were buried. There were eight graves.
The thing that struck my interest was that out of the eight graves, four represented children under the age of two and one was a 21-year-old wife and mother. What role could these have possibly played in missionary work in Samoa?
During the next two days, when time would permit, I searched the history of the mission for an answer. While I was unable to gather information on all of the eight, I did discover the following.
In the early days of the Church it was common for young married couples to be called on missions, and some of these young couples were called to Samoa. The first person to be buried in that plot was Sister Katie Eliza Hale Merrill. She and her husband had only been on a mission for three months when she took sick and gave birth to a premature child. The child died the next day. The history says the following:
“An hour after the death of the child, the mother called Sister Lee (wife of the mission president) to her bedside and, after thanking her for waiting on her during the sickness, said that she was ‘going to die,’ that she ‘could not stay because they had come for her.’ She then talked with her husband, kissed him good-bye, and all was over. The mother and baby boy were buried in one coffin.” After his mission, Brother Merrill took the remains of his wife and infant son back to Utah for burial.
Elder Thomas H. Hilton and Sister Sarah M. Hilton were serving on a mission in Samoa where they lost three of their children between 1891 and 1894. Little Jeanette lived less than a year, George Emmett for only seven days, and Thomas Harold for a year and a half.
Of the death of Thomas Harold the record says: “On Sunday the 11th, he was not feeling very well. … For two days following he appeared to be improving, but on the morning of the 14th, his mother again became concerned about his welfare. From then until his death, on March 17, 1894, everything that loving hands could do was done for his recovery, but he grew rapidly worse. …
“Oh how loath we all were to believe that it was so! How sad to see our dear sister again bereft, and her so far from dear parents and friends who she has left for the gospel’s sake.
“Thomas Harold Hilton was about one and a half years old, a beautiful little boy and very dearly beloved by all the missionaries, as well as the natives who knew him. Much sympathy is felt for the bereaved parents and the blessings of the Lord are invoked upon them.”
At 29, Ransom Stevens was president of the Samoa Mission when stricken with typhoid fever, which was complicated by a heart problem. He died on April 23, 1894.
His widow, Sister Annie D. Stevens, started for home by steamer on May 23. She reached Ogden on Sunday, June 10, where she was met by President Joseph F. Smith and Elder Franklin D. Richards. On June 11, she had an interview with the First Presidency in Salt Lake City and then went on to her home in Fairview, Sanpete County, arriving at 6:00 P.M.
The history states, “The greetings by her friends were necessarily brief for Sister Stevens was ill and had to retire to bed early, and at 11 P.M., five hours after her arrival home, she gave birth to a nice boy.” She had gone through the whole ordeal in the advanced stages of pregnancy.
Another entry was Friday, March 2, 1900: “Little Loi Roberts was given up to die by Dr. Stuttaford at the sanatorium [in Apia]. The patient little sufferer was administered to daily, and each time he would get relief. …
His parents [Elder and Sister E. T. Roberts] were untiring in their efforts to allay pain and sufferings.”
Saturday, March 3: “Little Loi died at the sanatorium in Apia in the morning, making another sad day in the history of the mission.” Small wonder that the tombstone contained the words, “Rest sweet Loi, rest.” He was one and a half years old.
And that brings us to Elder William A. Moody and his bride, Adelia Moody. They were called on a mission from Thatcher, Graham County, Arizona, arriving in Samoa in November 1894. They must have had the same hopes and aspirations of any young couple just starting out. She gave birth to an eight-pound daughter on May 3, 1895. Three weeks later she passed away. The daughter, little Hazel Moody, was taken care of by local Saints while her father continued his mission. Finally, one year later we read the following about a steamer leaving for the United States, whose passengers included four returning elders and “also Elder Moody’s daughter, Hazel, one-year-old, who will be delivered to loving relatives in Zion.”
A price has been paid for the establishment of the gospel of Jesus Christ in the land of Samoa. It is interesting to note that much of that price was paid by little children. I suspect that there are many obscure cemeteries in many of the nations of the world similar to that little plot in Samoa. They are a mute witness to the trials and suffering that went into the beginnings of missionary work in this dispensation.
Because of advancements in the standard of living and medical technology, these kinds of trials are almost a thing of the past. In Samoa, for instance, I found the missionaries well. There are even health missionaries, including a young couple and their two children who are helping to improve the health standards of the members and looking after the health of the missionaries where needed.
The sacrifice today is mostly a sacrifice of time and money. A sacrifice of 24 months is asked of worthy young men to help move the cause of the Lord forward. Others gave their lives to get the work started, but the Lord only requires that we sacrifice some time and our means to keep his work moving throughout the world.
The story is told that toward the end of World War II an allied general came to the front lines one night to inspect his troops. As he walked along he would point out into no-man’s-land and say “Can you see them? Can you see them?”
Finally, someone said, “General, we can see nothing. What do you mean?” He said, “Can’t you see them? They’re your buddies; they are the ones who gave their lives today, yesterday, and the day before. They’re out there alright, watching you, wondering what you are going to do; wondering if they have died in vain.”
As members of this church we can ask ourselves the same question, “Can you see them?” They are the ones who paid, and some with their lives, that the gospel of the kingdom might be established in these, the last, days. They are the Hiltons, and the Robertses, and the Stevens, and the Moodys, and many others—people like you and me, who answered a call from God. I am sure they are allowed to look in on us from time to time to see how the work is going, to see what we are doing with their spiritual heritage, to see if they have died in vain.
I wonder, young man, how successful you would be in convincing a young father who had buried three of his babies in an obscure graveyard halfway around the world because of the gospel of Jesus Christ, that a mission is too much of a sacrifice because you want to buy that car or that stereo, or you don’t want to interrupt your schooling, or for some other reason.
As members of the Church, I wonder how convincing we would be in telling someone that we are just too busy and maybe just a little embarrassed to share the gospel with our neighbor, especially if that someone were a young father who had buried his bride while on his mission and sent his little girl home to be taken care of by relatives while he finished his service to the Lord.
Is it not time that we listen to a prophet’s voice? Is it not time that we lengthen our stride? Is it not time that we teach the gospel of the kingdom to the world, to our neighbor?

When my mom and I were shopping, she said I could buy something with my own money. I had 10 dimes. I found a bottle of bubbles and was excited to buy it. When we got to the checkout my mom paid for everything, even the bubbles. I didn’t give the dimes to my mom, and she didn’t ask for them. Later that week my mom asked me to do some extra chores. I did them, and my mom gave me two quarters for doing a good job. When I went to put away my new quarters, I saw the 10 dimes. I took them out of my bank and gave them to my mom. I told her they were for my bubbles she bought at the store. I felt good inside for choosing the right by being honest, and doing what Jesus would want me to do.

Perhaps you are aware that my family were refugees from Mexico. During the years that followed our arrival in the United States, Father had a difficult time getting enough food to feed his family. I remember the time about two years after we came out of Mexico (that would be about 1914) when Father got a job in Oakley, Idaho, teaching in the Cassia Academy for $80 a month.
When Father and his brother left Mexico, they both had large families. Knowing that they would have a difficult time making a living (they brought nothing out of Mexico except what they could bring in one trunk), they joined together and pooled their earnings. After a short stay in El Paso, Texas, they went together to Los Angeles, California, where they worked as carpenters. Later they moved to Oakley, Idaho, where they could raise their families in a Latter-day Saint environment. When one of them was out of work, they divided the income of the other and thus eked out an existence for both families. My uncle was out of work one winter in Idaho. That left them the $80 my father received for teaching with which to support about seventeen people. They had to pay rent; they had to buy everything they ate; and they would have had to buy fuel, except I went out on the hillside and dug the sagebrush from under the snow for fuel. I kept warm digging, and Mother kept warm poking it into the stove.
The question came up in the family council—should father pay tithing on that $80? If he didn’t he would have $40 a month to care for the family; if he did, it would be cut down by $4, and he would have $36 a month. I remember that council, and I remember that they decided they would pay their tithing; and I remember they sent me with the tithing to the bishop. It was cold, and I didn’t have warm clothes; I really wondered what had gone wrong with Father. But I learned from that—the training of my parents—I learned there is truth in the Lord’s promises.

“I love the Personal Progress program. I have learned to do things I never knew I could,” says Mindy Sutton of the Twenty Wells Ward. Mindy believed a choir experience would help the youth in her Grantsville Utah Stake feel the Spirit in their lives, and Mindy needed a Laurel project. So she organized and directed a choir for stake Standards Night.
But the task wasn’t easy. Mindy says although she loves music, she has no natural ability. In fact, she was very discouraged after the first practice. “It was so hard to be in front of my peers trying to tell them what to do. But my stake leaders encouraged me to pray for help and promised the Lord would bless me.”
She went home and fasted and prayed. Her prayers were answered when the choir’s outstanding performance two months later not only brought the Spirit into the choir members’ lives but inspired those in attendance.
“I feel a lot closer to my Heavenly Father and know He has helped me so much,” Mindy says.

Feeling the Christmas Spirit after a Hurricane
Photograph by Raul Sandoval
After Hurricane Maria, there was no light, no water, no phone service, and no Wi-Fi across much of Puerto Rico. Many power lines had been knocked down, and parts of the island were flooded. Recovery was slow and took months. Two brothers, Diego, 14, and Isaac, 12, share how they kept the Christmas spirit while living through the aftereffects of the hurricane.
Isaac says, “I felt the Spirit by praying that the light would come back on, that water and phone service would come back—everything.”
Diego adds, “We also sang to feel the Spirit. We sang Church hymns and Christmas songs. And we prayed that everything would turn out OK.”
At Diego and Isaac’s house, floodwaters skirted the family’s windows, but water didn’t go inside. That was a blessing. But a tree had fallen and blocked the only road to and from their home. This meant the family couldn’t drive to get supplies. They had to either walk to the tree and find someone to give them a ride or rely on others to bring them supplies. Fortunately, the family was prepared with food storage, including water. The tree was moved a few weeks later, but there was still a lot of work to do and there were still a lot of people in need.
As Elder Martinez pointed out, Hurricane Maria brought out the best in many people. Diego and Isaac’s family spread the Christmas spirit by helping others. Isaac says, “We passed out food that was donated to people who really needed it. We also passed out clothes, games, and school supplies.”
“Christmas was different,” Diego says. “Before Hurricane Maria there was more money to buy presents, but after there was little money to buy essential items like water, food, and gasoline.”
Even though Diego and Isaac couldn’t celebrate Christmas the way they were used to, they noticed something positive: “We spent more time together as a family. We were more united than before. This is a blessing we appreciate because we love our family.”
Diego says, “We didn’t feel upset that there weren’t as many gifts or that we couldn’t celebrate Christmas like we normally do. We knew that gifts aren’t Christmas. Christmas is the birth of Christ. That’s what’s important.”

When I told my bishop about my pregnancy, he was so helpful. It was a blessing to meet with him regularly. As I talked with him about my options for the baby, he wanted me to know that he was there to represent the Lord in my repentance process but would not tell me what decision to make about raising or placing my baby. As we were studying Doctrine and Covenants 9:8–9, my bishop asked me to pray and tell Heavenly Father what I really wanted—he encouraged me to make a decision and seek confirmation from the Lord.
So I went home and prayed. I told Heavenly Father all the amazing reasons why I would be the best mom for this baby, and I asked to know if that decision was right. The next day, everything in life felt like it was falling apart. For instance, I lost my medical insurance, and my car broke down.
At church the following Sunday, I told my bishop how life seemed to fall apart after I prayed about my decision. Because of what had happened after my prayer, my bishop suggested that I consider a different decision and seek confirmation about it instead.
While working with my bishop, I had considered placing the baby for adoption and had narrowed down the potential adoptive families to two couples. The bishop suggested that I select one of the two couples and pray about that decision to ask if this little guy needed to go with them.
I went home and reluctantly prayed, asking Heavenly Father if the couple I had chosen were the ones my child needed. The next morning, a connection my sister made led to a miracle solution for my insurance. I felt this was a confirmation that adoption was the right path for me, and I remember thinking this child could have so much more with a different family.
I knew that Heavenly Father would help me with this decision. Part of me hoped this choice would be like the story of Abraham and Isaac (see Genesis 22)—that when it came time for me to place my son for adoption, God would tell me I didn’t need to do it anymore. But He didn’t. I needed to place my son with a wonderful family.

It must be difficult living in a place where one of life’s greatest temptations is going to the beach on Sunday. “Sunday always has the perfect beach weather,” says Tami Ting Mei Lim of Honolulu, Hawaii, “but I want to be in church.”
Tami loves her home state and takes advantage of every opportunity to spread the gospel across it. She once spent two hours driving through the busy streets of Honolulu telling her captive driving instructor about the gospel. “I was surprised about the interest he took in hearing about Joseph Smith and the Book of Mormon,” she said.
Tami also takes advantage of opportunities to keep her state beautiful. She’s constantly involved in community cleanup projects. Her experience in church and school leadership positions helps her with this. All this, and an avid interest in violin and piano music? No wonder it’s tempting to think of relaxing at the beach.

Not long ago I attended a dance at a stake that was not my own. The friend who invited me began introducing me to a group of girls standing near the door as we entered. Since I didn’t know anyone, I was anxious to make some points with the ladies, so I said, “Wow. There sure are a lot of beautiful girls in your stake.” My friend looked around the group and, trying to be funny, said loudly, “Where? Where? I don’t see any.” Needless to say, we were not the most popular guys at the dance that night.
If the above experience had been a scene on a TV show, my friend’s “clever” comment would have been followed by laughter. In real life, the girls were offended and avoided us the rest of the evening. What many don’t realize is that those producing TV shows use a laugh track—prerecorded laughter that can be turned on and off at the touch of a button. That’s why laughter always follows sarcastic put-downs or mean jokes. It sounds like everyone enjoys the negative humor. In real life, there is no laugh track. People might put up with put-downs and manage a chuckle for the sake of saving face, but deep down, negative humor hurts. No matter how perfect the timing or how smoothly executed the joke, usually the only ones laughing are those who are afraid they may be your next targets.