Gospel Story Finder

One day when I was home alone with my youngest son, I slipped on a step and fell. Resulting abdominal pain persisted for several days, so I went to see a doctor.

I was pregnant at the time, and tests indicated that my placenta had become detached. This condition required complete rest, or I could lose the baby.

I was worried because we had three little children and could not afford to pay for help. The sisters in my branch, however, found out about my condition and, without being asked, came to my aid. They organized themselves into three groups that helped me in the morning, afternoon, and evening.

They came to wash, iron, cook, clean, and help my children with their homework. A sister named Rute, who was baptized into the Church while I was confined to bed, became well-known in our home. Rute, a nurse, helped at night and administered necessary injections.

I didn’t need to ask for anything; these sisters anticipated my needs and took care of everything. When they had more help than they needed, one sister would sit and visit with me. They did this for three months.

These sisters gave me strength, love, and dedication. They gave of their time and talents. They made sacrifices to be there. They never asked for anything in return. They loved and they served, following the example of the Lord, who taught us, “Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me” (Matthew 25:40).

Enilze do Rocio Ferreira da Silva, Paraná, Brazil

A mission had been a great desire of mine since I was a child. But since I married young, I put the dream aside while we raised our children, hoping that my husband, Ben, and I might be called later in our lives.
That lifelong hope appeared to be crushed when Ben suffered a stroke at the age of fifty-four which took away his ability to speak, write, or read and paralyzed his left side. In spite of a miraculous recovery through the power of the priesthood, he was still handicapped in many ways when our bishop called us in twelve years later to interview us for a mission. The stroke had left Ben unable to speak properly, so that he had difficulty communicating with anyone except family members. Words just did not come out right, and he had not been able to pray vocally or even ask a blessing on our meals. His left arm had been amputated; his right leg was swollen and painful much of the time; and he was likely to get a heart attack when under tension.
Furthermore, our financial income was small—about as small and inadequate as we felt. But we had no misgivings about accepting the call. Ben felt that if the Lord needed him or wanted him, that was it.
Our stake president was not too sure about submitting the application to Church headquarters. However, the Missionary Department’s advice was, “Send in the papers, and we’ll let the Brethren make the decision.” I prayed fervently that there might be a place suited to us where we could help in building up the kingdom. A few weeks later, when our call came to serve in the southeastern United States, my joy was full. I knew without a doubt that my prayers had been answered.

Butch and Diana Alder, from Sandy, Utah, are serving as senior missionaries in the Australia Melbourne Mission. Warrnambool holds a special place in Elder Alder’s heart, as his great-great-grandparents, John and Charlotte Nye, joined the Church there.
The Nyes were introduced to the Church of Jesus Christ in 1856 by George Thomas Wilson, the local veterinarian, when he came to their home to treat their prized horse. Conversation turned to the gospel of Jesus Christ, and Brother Wilson invited the couple to learn more. At the time of their baptism, the nearest established congregation of the Church was in Sydney.
Elder Meurs told the story of his parents, who lived in the area, joining The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in 1958.
Fred and Lois Meurs, strong Christians from different faiths were actively searching for someone to answer their gospel questions. After carefully studying the New Testament, they began to search for a church that had teachings that were consistent with Jesus’s teachings.
They had questions about the purpose of life, priesthood authority, what happens when we die, ordinances like baptism, and the role of prophets and apostles. They had spoken to the religious leaders of the community, but no one could give them the answers they were searching for. They began to earnestly pray for someone to answer their questions.
That same week, two full-time missionaries, Elder Jones and Elder Erikson, knocked on their door and said they had a message about Jesus Christ to share with them. Fred and Lois asked them all their questions, and the missionaries answered every one. Three weeks later the Meurs were baptised and confirmed. Some other families joined soon after, and the first Warrnambool Branch was formed.
As the Church grew, new members moved in, and others moved out.
“Many wonderful people, over the years, have been touched by the wonderful association with the Warrnambool Branch and have very fond memories,” Elder Meurs said. “Faith has been strengthened, and people have become part of the Church of Jesus Christ here on the earth. They have felt the Saviour’s teachings and His presence in their lives.”
Elder Meurs, quoting President Russell M. Nelson’s remarks from the October 2024 general conference said, “My dear brothers and sisters, in a coming day, Jesus Christ will return to the earth as the millennial Messiah. So today I call upon you to rededicate your lives to Jesus Christ. I call upon you to help gather scattered Israel and to prepare the world for the Second Coming of the Lord. I call upon you to talk of Christ, testify of Christ, have faith in Christ, and rejoice in Christ!” (“The Lord Jesus Christ Will Come Again,” Liahona, Nov. 2024).
Elder Meurs concluded his remarks by saying, “I testify that Jesus Christ lives. He knows each of us. Dedicate yourselves to living the gospel of Jesus Christ.”
Also in attendance was Damon Page, Area Seventy. Speaking to the branch members, he said:
“What will we raise here in the Warrnambool Branch? By following our faith and the promptings of the Spirit, we will touch those around us. We will raise up strong sons and daughters that will become more like our Father in Heaven and His Son, Jesus Christ.”
“How do we become who we want to be? Work is the secret. We must be willing to work for those things that will bring us closer to Jesus Christ.”
Karen Jones, a branch member since 1990, said, “The members lift and strengthen each other. Many members have passed away, but the remaining members have put their shoulder to the wheel and have helped the branch to push along. Warrnambool has given me strength, love, and hope.”
President Suringa said, “What is happening today is a manifestation of the Lord’s power. There are so many great things ahead.”

Darcey closed the door behind her. Her mother was sitting at the kitchen table reading. She looked up and said, “You were supposed to be home by twelve.”
Darcey nodded mutely. The expression on her mother’s face told her she was in more trouble than she had been in years. Yet at that moment she felt only an overpowering sense of relief that made her want to run to her and tell her how good it was to be home.
But she could only stand there, her hair and clothes reeking of cigarette smoke and beer. She felt like a dead skunk.
They said nothing more. Her mother got up and turned off the kitchen light. Darcey went up to her room. She undressed, climbed into bed, and stared at the ceiling, wondering how she could have been so gullible. How could Wendy be like that, she thought.
When she woke up the next morning she was still exhausted, but she couldn’t go back to sleep. So she showered and dressed, then slipped out the front door and walked up the street to Wendy’s house. Wendy’s parents were on a trip to Seattle, so Darcey went around to the deck. Wendy inevitably forgot to lock the sliding glass doors when she got home. As she stepped inside the house, Darcey found Wendy slumped over the kitchen counter.
“Morning,” said Darcey.
Wendy stared and peered around at her, slowly bringing her hands up to her ears. “Not so loud,” she whispered, hoarsely.
“You look awful,” said Darcey.
“Just a hangover.”
Darcey took the car keys out of her pocket and placed them carefully on the counter.
“Thanks,” said Wendy. Her eyes narrowed. “You didn’t tell, did you?”
Darcey shook her head.
“Yeah, my dad would kill me if he found out. You know, you tell your parents; they tell my parents; everybody gets into trouble over nothing.”
“Me, tell? I’m the one who got the ticket.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Wendy, this is serious. I’ve got to go to court. What am I supposed to say?”
“That we were in my crummy old Escort, and no harm done. Okay?”
Her voice had taken on a scolding tone. Darcey looked past her, at the design of the wallpaper on the far wall. When she looked back, Wendy had fallen asleep.
Darcey left her and went home, heading for her room. The car was all Wendy cared about now, and that had been the first really stupid lie of the whole evening. How could she have thought that Wendy really had permission to drive her father’s sports car. But make one lie believable and the rest fall right in line. Darcey had been told they were going to a party at Steve Margerson’s, but somehow they ended up in Schenectady at Union College.
“It’ll be great,” Wendy had insisted, over Darcey’s objections. “Besides, you’re in my car. So you’re stuck. Anyway, nobody’s going to make you do anything, and it’s about time you went to a real party, one that’s not for little kids. Besides, Glenn says they’re all really smart. You can talk about intelligent stuff with them.”
Yeah, Darcey thought bitterly, intelligent stuff. Wendy had told everybody that her brother Glenn—a Union College junior—had invited them. She had told them she was two years older than she was. She told lies the whole evening, while Darcey hid in a dark corner of the living room, losing her hearing to the blast of the stereo, nibbling on potato chips, and not daring to touch anything liquid.
Then in the momentary lull between songs, someone complained to Wendy, “I thought you said she’d be fun.”
“Oh.” Wendy had replied. “She’s the designated driver.”
At least they stopped trying to get her to drink after that. But by the time she had convinced Wendy to go home, she found herself with the responsibility of taxiing inebriated party-goers around uptown Schenectady.
She had finally headed home across the I-890 business loop, thankful that none of her passengers had thrown up on her. In fact, now, on a bright Saturday morning, with an empty stomach and a headache, she could have written the whole episode off as a learning experience—if only she hadn’t taken the Broadway exit.
Darcey sighed. Whatever was going to happen would happen. The one redeeming consequence of really messing up was that her parents would take a good long time figuring out a proper punishment.
At school on Monday, Mary McMacken rushed up to Darcey and said breathlessly, “You really went to a party at Union and got stopped for drunk driving?”
“I didn’t get stopped for drunk driving,” Darcey gasped. “Who told you that?”
Mary was taken aback. “Wendy,” she said. “Anyway, how was it? I mean, the party. Were there any neat guys there?”
“No!” Darcey replied, with a vehemence that stunned Mary into silence. And then she couldn’t think of anything to say, so she turned around and walked away.
But Darcey couldn’t get away from it. All of her friends were just as inquisitive—or for reasons Darcey could not understand—just as impressed. The day was almost over before she caught up with Wendy. “Hi, Darcey,” Wendy said, pleasantly.
“You said you weren’t going to tell,” Darcey burst out. “Everybody thinks I got stopped for drunk driving.”
Wendy shrugged. “It was a drunk-driving checkpoint, Darcey.”
“I wasn’t drunk!”
“So what? For once in your life you’re actually an interesting person. I was only doing you a favor.”
“I don’t want to be an interesting person,” said Darcey, biting her lip, knowing she hadn’t said what she meant.
“Darcey,” Wendy said in an exasperated, condescending tone of voice, “I mean, sometimes you can be a real, uh, oh, forget it.” Wendy briskly walked away.
Wendy’s words stung all the more because Darcey knew that for a brief moment the party had sounded daring and exciting. But all she wanted now was to be her uninteresting old self.
Darcey threw her books on her bed. Then suddenly she caught her breath. The room was clean, too clean. Of course, it was wash day. She quickly rushed downstairs, into the kitchen, around the corner, down to the basement. She stopped before reaching the last step.
Her mother glanced over her shoulder at her while folding towels. “How was school today, Darcey?”
Instead of answering, she sort of nodded. She turned around and went back to her room.
When her mother came in Darcey didn’t look up. Her mother sat on the bed next to her. She took a folded slip of paper out of her pocket and handed it to her.
Darcey took the ticket glumly.
“Darcey,” said her mother, choosing her words very carefully, “I know it must seem like your father and I go to great lengths thinking up reasons to discipline you. But we have very vivid imaginations, and we inevitably imagine the worst that could have happened. What we really want to know is that you’re all right.”
Darcey turned to her mother, and the tears came. She explained what had happened, about driving home, the checkpoint at the Broadway exit, and the police. She’d had to do all those things she’d only seen before on TV—walking along a line on the pavement, touching her nose with her fingertips, trying to convince the police she wasn’t drunk. And she hadn’t had her purse with her, so she didn’t have her driver’s license.
After what had seemed an interminable conversation with his sergeant, the officer handed her the ticket and said, “Driving without a license. Court date’s in two weeks. Bring a parent or guardian.”
The whole time Wendy had staggered about shouting, “Darcey, c’mon. Let’s go home. Darcey, I wanna go.” The officer had escorted Wendy to the car, buckled her in and said, “Don’t let her have the keys.”
This episode would have to go down in Darcey’s life as an unapproachable low in her definition of personal humiliation.
Two weeks later she was in court as the bailiff called her name. Darcey and her father approached the bench. The judge examined her file briefly and then turned to his clerk and said, “Mel, there’s an attachment here.”
The clerk shuffled through his papers and came up with a torn, half-sheet from a legal pad. He handed it to the judge, who read it and said, “Well, young lady. It seems we have some extenuating circumstances here. Let me see. The car belonged to your friend and she had driven you both to the party where a bit of drinking was going on—against the law for someone of your age, I might add.”
“Yes, sir,” said Darcey, wondering how he had known all that.
The judge saw her expression and held up the paper. “Note from the officer on the scene. Well, next time you might consider a taxi. The court appreciates the reasons you drove without a license, but ends don’t justify the means. Nevertheless, I don’t think we have an actionable offense here. Though I might suggest to your father here that a month or two wouldn’t be too long a time for your driving privileges, being what they may, to be suspended. And if you haven’t taken your defensive driving course yet, I will have the court require it.” He banged his gavel on the table and said, “Case dismissed. Next case.”
“Well, let’s go,” Darcey’s father said simply.
To her dismay, Darcey’s father took the judge’s advice seriously. She went six weeks without driving.
As for Wendy, no one told. Not Darcey, not her parents. But a week after the incident Wendy’s father found a crushed beer can under the front seat of his car, and it was a brand he never touched. The cat pretty much worked its way out of the bag after that and Wendy ended up being grounded for a million years.
And everybody agreed that it didn’t make her a more interesting person at all.

It’s worth doing, not only because you have life ahead but because you have eternity ahead, as well. Here is one report that suggests your reward for investing your inheritance well here will be to get to do it forever. President Wilford Woodruff gave this report in general conference in 1896.
“Joseph Smith continued visiting myself and others up to a certain time, and then it stopped. The last time I saw him was in heaven. In the night vision I saw him at the door of the temple in heaven. He came to me and spoke to me. He said he could not stop to talk with me because he was in a hurry. The next man I met was Father Smith; he could not talk with me because he was in a hurry. I met half a dozen brethren who had held high positions on earth, and none of them could stop to talk with me because they were in a hurry. I was much astonished. By and by I saw the Prophet again and I got the privilege of asking him a question.
“‘Now,’ said I, ‘I want to know why you are in a hurry? I have been in a hurry all my life; but I expected my hurry would be over when I got into the kingdom of heaven, if I ever did.’
“Joseph said: ‘I will tell you, Brother Woodruff. Every dispensation that has had the priesthood on the earth and has gone into the celestial kingdom has had a certain amount of work to do to prepare to go to the earth with the Savior when he goes to reign on the earth. Each dispensation has had ample time to do this work. We have not. We are the last dispensation, and so much work has to be done, and we need to be in a hurry in order to accomplish it.’
“Of course, that was satisfactory, but it was new doctrine to me” (Discourses of Wilford Woodruff, sel. G. Homer Durham, Salt Lake City: Bookcraft, 1946, pp. 288–89).

Our love can expand from a close circle of family to encompass not only our friends but ultimately our neighbors—and even enemies. One Church member serving in the American military in post–World War II Japan told of his struggle with bitterness toward the Japanese people. After being welcomed into a shrine of worship by Japanese townspeople, however, he found that “their spirits touched mine, and I felt an amazing change in my feelings toward them. My bitterness melted. … I thought about what had happened in that shrine and the amazing transformation I felt toward the people there.”11

I remember attending a meeting near Bancroft, Idaho, years ago. It was sponsored in part by the extension service of the University. We’d had a wonderful meeting, and after it was over, I was greeting some of the wonderful farmers who were there, and among them was a man by the name of Brother Yost, and I said, “Brother Yost, how are things out on the farm?” Brother Yost said, “Oh, things are fine, Brother Benson, but I’m about 20 thousand dollars worse off than I was three days ago.” I said, “What’s the matter—another frost?” He said, “Yes, it hit the wheat just in the dough stage, and you know what that means.” He said, “We’re starting the mowing machines in the morning, but everything’s all right. We’ve still got a little wheat in the bin, and we’ve got at least part of our year’s supply laid away. We’re not going to starve, and there’ll be another crop.” As we left him, I said to my wife, “What a wonderful spirit.”

We drove on down to Logan. We had our children with us, and we stopped on Main Street to go into a grocery store to pick up a few cookies for the kiddies. And who should I meet on the sidewalk but Brother Yost. I said, “Well, what are you doing way down here?” He said, “Brother Benson, it’s our day to go to the temple.” And I said, “Well, reverses don’t dampen your spirits any, do they?” Then he taught me a lesson. He said, “Brother Benson, when reverses come we need the temple all the more.”

From Ruth Manu:
"Although there are countless sacrifices from others that have blessed my life over the years, this one stands out the most. I was in a horrific car accident a few years ago that resulted in my mother's death and me being life-flighted in critical condition. My sweet, selfless grandmother sat in the hospital and rehab centers with me every day for just over a month. I did become frustrated with her at times; however, it was one of the biggest blessings ever to have her with me at that time when I felt so utterly abandoned and alone."

When I was growing up, each summer our family would drive to Provo Canyon, about 45 miles (72 km) south and a little east of Salt Lake City, where we would stay in the family cabin for several weeks. We boys were always anxious to get on the fishing stream or into the swimming hole, and we would try to push the car a little faster. In those days, the automobile my father drove was a 1928 Oldsmobile. If he went over 35 miles (56 km) an hour, my mother would say, “Keep it down! Keep it down!” I would say, “Put the accelerator down, Dad! Put it down!”

Dad would drive about 35 miles an hour all the way up to Provo Canyon or until we would come around a bend in the road and our journey would be halted by a herd of sheep. We would watch as hundreds of sheep filed past us, seemingly without a shepherd, a few dogs yapping at their heels as they moved along. Way back in the rear we could see the sheepherder on his horse—not a bridle on it but a halter. He was occasionally slouched down in the saddle dozing, since the horse knew which way to go and the yapping dogs did the work.

Pocahontas, the beautiful Indian princess, was excited as she waited for her carriage. She and her husband, John Rolfe, were in England. It was Christmas, and they were going to a Christmas party at Windsor Castle. Pocahontas wondered if the lords and ladies would like her.
She was dressed in a red silk dress covered with a velvet cape. The freshwater pearls that her father had given her when she was married in Virginia circled her neck. “Do I look all right?” she asked her husband.
“You are the most beautiful princess in the world!” he told her. His smile was tender.
“But will the lords and ladies like me?” she asked.
“Don’t forget,” he reminded her, “that you, too, are a lady, now that His Majesty has given you the title Lady Rebecca. You, too, are of the court, and they will respect you for that. And they will like you because you are a dear person.”
The carriage stopped, and the gates of Windsor Castle were flung open. The carriage went on a short distance, then rocked to another stop. The footman opened the carriage door and held out his hand to assist Lady Rebecca.
Inside the castle the rooms glowed with thousands of candle flames in crystal chandeliers. Everyone was dressed in silks and laces.
As Pocahontas stood in the entryway with John, she heard two ladies whispering behind their fans. Perhaps they do not realize that their voices carry in this great hall as voices sometimes carry in my beloved forest in Virginia, thought Pocahontas. She heard the lady in lavender ask, “Who is she?”
“She’s an Indian princess from Virginia,” answered the lady in blue, “and her father is Powhatan, chief of the confederation of Algonquin tribes.”
“She is beautiful! So delicately formed!” remarked the first lady.
“She saved Captain John Smith’s life when he was founding the Jamestown colony back in 1607,” continued the lady in blue.
“Oh, she’s the Indian maiden who brought food to the starving settlers,” said the lady in lavender, nodding her head. “We’ve heard all about that and are thankful to her.”
“She learned to read and write English and was converted to Christianity,” added the lady in blue.
“Yes, indeed!” said the lady in lavender. “I’ve heard that she has a fine mind. Why she can even read complicated maps!”
At that moment John Rolfe nodded to Pocahontas that they were about to enter the throne room to bow to and greet the royal couple.
As Pocahontas took her husband’s arm, she said in a low-pitched voice, “I am happy tonight, John. People say kind things of me.”
John Rolfe smiled back at the beautiful Indian princess at his side as they walked together toward the throne of King James and Queen Anne of England.

No one else should have noticed it. That I was aware of it was odd. In the midst of a crowded church foyer filled with lively Japanese members hurrying to Sunday School, the tiny spider was truly insignificant. Having arrived at the church a few minutes early with my missionary companion, I was sitting on a flight of stairs observing the members as they arrived. The spider had first appeared from under a wall heater, a tiny brown speck slowly progressing toward the middle of the hall. By the time its painstaking progress had lengthened to three feet, most of the members had arrived and were socializing in the hall before meetings.
My first impulse had been to brush it back under the heater. This idea was followed by the more childish notion of stepping on it. Fortunately for the spider, cruelty was quickly substituted by curiosity. The spider’s remaining lifetime appeared to be limited, increasingly so as it continued in a determined course toward the center of the crowded foyer. I was fascinated into inaction, watching and wondering how it would end—that inevitable, accidental footfall.
I will never understand how Brother Tashiro, the district president, saw it. He was obviously late as he hurried through the outside door to yet another meeting, briefcase in one hand, cassette recorder and slide projector precariously positioned under the opposite arm. His mind was surely filled with the endless responsibilities of running a mission district; yet he, too, somehow saw the tiny spider among the crowd. Immediately stopping, he set aside his load and, excusing himself, parted the crowd, stooped down and gently scooped the spider into his palm, then released it outside to a more hospitable environment. As though hardly aware of the interruption, he hurried to the waiting meeting.
It was so simple, such a natural act for that humble servant of the Lord. Then a wonderful analogy unfolded before me. I saw in my mind’s eye the Savior, stooping down from the complex business of creating worlds without number, to personally teach, exhort, and sacrifice for the sake of an uncomprehending human race, a seemingly insignificant speck in the endless corridors of eternity. With Godly devotion, he lifted man from certain doom, transporting him to an environment of freedom and opportunity wherein he could live and grow.
I thought of all the thousands of Japanese people yet unaware of the Savior’s great love, people I had been sent to teach. A new resolve filled my breast as I hurried into Sunday School class. Next time, I resolved, I would save the spider.

Now let me share a few quick experiences that show how doors will be opened if we do our part.
Everything I’m going to show you has been written and discovered in the last several weeks.
Recently I received an email from a complete stranger about someone on my wife’s line. When you post your family history on the Internet – and that’s one of the first things you need to do - you can get a lot of email if you do it right. The writer was responding to one of many postings I had placed on the Internet. His email said basically, is your Henry Wright born in 1782 the same person as my Henry Wright also born in 1782. Such exploratory emails are very common in the genealogical world.

When we affirmed the right dates, places and other names, he proceeded to deliver 1,100 names back to the 1500s, well researched, with documented sources. That led to much more, including old photographs and missing information to fill in stories. It even led to my wife rediscovering the best friend of her youth – a second cousin with whom we had lost contact 20 years ago.

My wife, Cathy, whose interest in actually doing family history, to put it diplomatically, has been… intermittent… over the years, mentioned to me after receiving this flood of names that she had been praying for help in finding her ancestors. I looked at her in surprise because she hadn’t mentioned it. ‘How long have you been praying about it?” I asked. “About three weeks,” she said. “But I prayed really sincerely.” I’m not sure what that says about my prayers for 40 years, but it does show that help may be closer than you think.

As a direct result of that one email, we added four pages to our family history website.

“Doing what’s required” has been Jo’s guideline for the last five years. Before that, his legs were the same as most people’s—active. Then came a blood clot in his spine. Only one in a million people ever suffer from this problem. Usually they are middle-aged, and they suffer brain damage—or death.
Jo survived, perfectly normal except for his legs.
Despite frequent hospitalization, he has become more and more cheerful. And as he has relied on priesthood blessings, he has developed a testimony that now makes him a powerful missionary.
Looking back, Jo has a clear picture of that critical moment in his life. “I was prepared, through promptings of the Spirit, for the information that my legs would always be paralysed,” he says. “So when the doctor solemnly said, ‘I have something to tell you,’ I thought it must be, ‘Sorry, there’s no hope. You’re going to die.’ When he said, ‘You’ll never walk again,’ it was a relief. I could accept that.”
That was the easy part. But adapting and learning to do everything differently has not been so easy. So Jo developed ways of dealing with setbacks. His favourite saying when things get tough is, “You can either laugh or cry. But if you laugh, people like you better.”
Jo did progress, becoming more and more independent and mobile.

Kathy and I first met Beatrice Magré in France 30 years ago. Beatrice recently told me of an experience that impacted her spiritual life shortly after her baptism as a teenager. Here are her words:
“The youth of our branch had traveled with their leaders to Lacanau Beach, an hour and a half from Bordeaux.
“Before returning home, one of the leaders decided to take a last swim and dove into the waves with his glasses. When he resurfaced, his glasses had disappeared. … They were lost in the ocean.
“The loss of his glasses would prevent him from driving his car. We would be stranded far from home.
“A sister filled with faith suggested that we pray.
“I murmured that praying would avail us absolutely nothing, and I uneasily joined the group to pray publicly as we stood waist-deep in the murky water.
“Once the prayer was over, I stretched my arms to splash everyone. As I was sweeping the ocean’s surface, his pair of glasses rested in my hand. A powerful feeling pierced my soul that God does actually hear and answer our prayers.”
Forty-five years later, she recalled it as if it had happened yesterday. Beatrice had been blessed, and she knew that God knew that she knew that she had been blessed.

Even though Father was deaf, he understood his daughter Alice. She pronounced her words carefully and looked right at him so he could read her lips easily. So Father kept her with him whenever he could. When he was doing business, she helped him understand what other people said. When he was working on the farm, Alice was good company.
Alice and Father tended grapevines and peach orchards, harvested honey from beehives, and cut ice from the pond. Alice gathered eggs from their chickens. Whatever they cut or gathered or harvested, Father and Alice took one-tenth to the tithing office.
They didn’t pay their tithing with money, most of the time. If they harvested thirty bushels of peaches, three bushels went to the Church. If ten jars of honey came from the beehives, one jar went for tithing. It was the same with grapes and eggs and whatever else they had. Even chickens and cows sometimes went along to the tithing office in the farm wagon!
One Monday morning early in the summer, Alice and Father were mending a fence where the farm bordered the roadside. Alice heard the thudding sound of horses’ hooves on the dirt road and the rumbling of a farm wagon. She looked up and saw Brother Johnson driving with children in the back. Father looked up too.
“Good morning, Brother Ashdown!” Brother Johnson called. “My peas are ready for harvest. I’m paying the children twenty-five cents a bushel to pick them. Does Alice want to come?”
Father looked down at Alice.
“He wants me to pick peas for a quarter a bushel,” Alice repeated. “May I go?”
Father nodded. Alice climbed into Brother Johnson’s wagon. Father waved and smiled as she rode away.
Alice worked hard all day long and picked two full bushels of peas. Before she left at the end of the day, Brother Johnson dropped two shiny quarters into her hand. Fifty cents could easily buy enough candy to last a month, or ribbons in every color of the rainbow for Alice’s hair, or maybe even a toy! She ran all the way home and bounded into the kitchen where the family was just sitting down around the table for supper.
“Look!” she said. “Fifty cents of my very own!”
“Those are good earnings for a day, Alice, for a girl your size,” Mother said. “Now please wash up before you sit down and eat.” Alice obeyed, then settled in for a plate of stew, new potatoes, and sweet green peas from the family’s garden.
“I’m pleased you’re a hard worker, Alice,” Father said from across the table. “Do you want to pay your tithing on that money?”
Alice nodded yes.
“You’ll owe five cents tithing then. Should I give you change?”
Alice looked at the two coins next to her plate. Five cents less and she wouldn’t have two quarters anymore—only one quarter and two dimes. Five cents suddenly seemed like a lot of money.
“Maybe you’ll make some more money in a day or two,” Father said. “I believe Doctor Stringham has a field of peas that needs picking.”
“Think about it overnight, Alice,” Mother suggested. “You need to decide if you want to pay tithing.”
Lying in bed that night, Alice tossed and turned. She wanted to do the right thing. But it seemed so hard to let go of five whole cents. She thought about her last trip to the tithing office with Father. On their way home, Alice and Father had met a man Father knew, Mr. Singer, who wasn’t a member of the Church.
“Alice, ask your father for me where he’s been today,” Mr. Singer instructed. Alice did.
“We’ve been down to the tithing office,” Father said.
“Well, William,” Mr. Singer said, “you’re surely devoted to that Church. I’m always amazed to see you going by my place on your way to meeting every Sunday. Especially when you can’t even hear what’s being said.”
Alice gulped and repeated Mr. Singer’s words slowly to Father. She worried that his feelings would be hurt, but she knew it was important to let him know exactly what was being said.
Father straightened his back and looked hard at Mr. Singer. “Well, I do sometimes understand what’s said, but even if I don’t, I get the spirit of the meeting by being there. And I teach my children that we’re a Latter-day Saint family that goes to our meetings every Sunday. Same with taking Alice down to the tithing office. You have to teach children by example.”
Mr. Singer nodded. “You’re a good man, William Ashdown,” he said. “You take care now!”
As Alice lay in bed and remembered what Father had told Mr. Singer, she thought about all the other times she’d gone to the tithing office with Father. She always felt warm inside when she heard him say, “That’s a full tithe.” She knew it was one way he showed how much he believed in the gospel. She remembered Mother telling her that if they paid tithing, the Lord would open the windows of heaven and send down more blessings than they had room to receive. She thought about how the grapes and peaches and eggs all went to help people who needed food. And she knew her own five cents would help someone too.
Alice crept out of bed quietly and made her way downstairs where Father and Mother were sitting.
“Father, I want to pay my tithing. Will you figure the change for me?” Alice asked.
“I certainly will, Alice,” Father said.
Alice traded Father one quarter for two dimes and a nickel. She put the nickel in the pocket of her pinafore that she would wear on Sunday so she could give it to the bishop. But before then, she picked peas for Doctor Stringham. Alice earned forty-five more cents to keep—and another nickel for her tithing!

A number of years ago a young man who is an excellent skier went with friends to the wilds of the Yukon to experience the ultimate in deep-powder skiing. A helicopter took them high into the mountains, far away from safety, ski patrols, and hospitals. They were virtually hundreds of miles from anywhere with nothing but 8,000 feet of vertical drop before them. Their guide was a 70-year-old man, small and seemingly fragile. He told them to stay directly behind him and he would get them down safely, but if they veered off to the right or left, chances were they would fall into a crevice or onto the sharp rocks at the bottom of unseen cliffs.
Suddenly my friend realized that his life was in the hands of this old gentleman whom he hardly knew and who certainly didn’t look like a man who could ski long miles through heavy powder to safety. The young man felt his stomach knot up. But suddenly the old man dropped over the edge, and one by one his friends followed. There was no other way down, and he quickly forced his muscles to move him over the edge and onto the path of the guide now moving quickly away from him.
The descent was awesome. His doubts about the guide were dispelled as he followed a path that led him past sheer cliffs he would not have seen until it was too late. As he noticed these death traps out of the corners of his eyes, he clung even more desperately to the path his guide was making some distance in front of him.
His confidence in the old gentleman was complete when he suddenly stopped them from crossing a seemingly wide-open snowfield. It looked like some of the finest powder he had ever seen, but his first impulse to reject his guide’s words was replaced by the realization that his guide had brought him this far in safety and now was no time to stop trusting him. So he followed as they labored through heavy snow to climb up and around the snowfield, finally arriving below it. Stopping, they turned and looked behind them. What they saw made him take a deep breath. The snowfield wasn’t a snowfield at all, but a crevice several hundred feet deep with a snow bridge two or three feet thick. Had they attempted to cross it they would have surely broken through and plummeted to their deaths on the jagged rocks and ice below.
By the time they had reached the bottom, my friend was humbled by the ability of his “fragile” guide. Through years of preparation, the guide had gained a knowledge that went much deeper than the eye could see. His life was dedicated to keeping people like my friend from serious harm. Over the next few days they would ski some of the most beautiful country in the world, dangerous country with disaster hidden in its deep snow. But their guide was ever vigilant in protecting them, and they were able to relax and really enjoy the marvelous, once-in-a-lifetime experience.

Tears filled my eyes as I ran down the steps of the ballet studio. I had just told my teacher that I would not be in the Cinderella production because of our upcoming family vacation. My teacher told me that if I wasn’t in the Cinderella production it might ruin my chances of being in the Nutcracker, the production that followed.
I was so discouraged when I got home that I went straight to my room and cried. I thought about ballet and all that it meant to me, but I considered quitting because of the many long hours and dedication it required. Then I started thinking about a recent Sunday School lesson. The teacher encouraged us to go to the scriptures when we are in need of comfort. So I got out my triple combination and looked in the index for gospel themes I thought could be related to ballet. “Talent” seemed to stand out the most. I looked up Doctrine and Covenants 82:3, which says: “For of him unto whom much is given much is required.” [D&C 82:3]
After thinking about the meaning of those words, I decided to continue to dedicate time to ballet. I felt comforted, for I knew I had made the right decision.
The following morning I called my ballet teacher and asked if I could still be in the Cinderella production. He said I could, even though I would miss a few rehearsals during my family vacation.
At age 13, I have learned that the scriptures really can help when you seek comfort.

Starting in the middle of the week by cleaning all the salt and pepper shakers in the kitchen, the girls of the San Jose First Ward also washed walls and cleaned the cupboards. Then they joined the boys in digging weeds from a patch of ground near the chapel that is used for an herb garden.

“I didn’t even know we had an herb garden,” Paula Rudy, 18, said as she carried a pile of weeds to a trash can.

The San Jose Second Ward Scouts and Venturers rejuvenated the outside of their chapel by painting the eaves above outside entrances. Laurels and Mia Maids cleaned all the filters and grills for the heating and air-conditioning system. Then they painted the bathrooms and locker rooms, filling in and repairing joints and cracks. Everyone planned to return later in the week to finish the interior painting when the patches had dried.

“Work first, play later is pretty much what it was,” said Mike Black, 16. “That was neat because we worked on the service project first and that was altogether togetherness.”

The San Jose 18th Ward was in charge of the decorations for the dance. Jeanne Meeks, the Laurel adviser, said a month of planning was involved in the decorations. “The kids did it all. That’s one thing that made it so much fun for them,” she said, noting that several nonmembers helped in designing bow ties, eyes, and a hat that were attached to the Volkswagen.

A late-model Beetle had originally been chosen as the car to be brought into the gym. But when the dance committee tried to get it in the door, it was two inches too wide! Someone commented that older cars were smaller. The committee contacted Brother Bert Smith, a science teacher at one of the local schools, and they were able to squeeze his older car through the opening.

The dance committee also asked Brother Smith to use test tubes to set up a “mad scientist” booth at which he brewed root beer. With a wig on his head, surrounded by a cloud of dry ice “steam,” and dressed in a white lab coat, he served thirsty dancers throughout the evening.

Sister Carolyn Wright, the stake Young Women president, said she felt all the stake members involved in the service projects and in the planning of the other activities had learned some important lessons:
—That the young people of the stake were capable of generating ideas and following through on assignments, checking up on themselves to make sure everything was prepared.
—That cooperation between adults and youth is not only necessary, but fun as well.
—That guidelines provided to youth leaders, including suggestions on how to get ideas from bishopric youth committees and from Laurel, Mia Maid, Scout, and priest classes, are indeed helpful.

Sister Wright said, “We just followed the outlines given to us.” She added that youth leaders decided for themselves what activities they would like to have, drew up a list, and then narrowed down the possibilities until they felt they had a reasonable proposal. For example, Frank Taylor, a college student who is stake secretary of the Young Men, originated the chariot race idea.

Many of the service project participants agreed that their time had been well-spent.

“It was fun. I learned a lot from doing it, and I felt good afterwards. I’ve been happy all day,” said Steve Payton, a 16-year-old from the 18th Ward. David Booher, from the 13th Ward, said he felt the service projects were better organized than any he had participated in before.

Judy Nunn, 16, a First Ward member, said holding the service project and the games on the same day was beneficial. “Having it all in one day got a lot more people to come to the service project,” she said.

“I feel good about it,” said Hank Loy, 16, of the 13th Ward. “You feel just as good about a service project as the people you do it for.”

Even as the service projects were continuing, chariot construction was in the polishing stages. In the First Ward, the bishop filled in at the service project in place of Dave Holcomb, who had been working on the chariot since 6:00 A.M. At 1:00 P.M., when the vehicle was finally done, the team rolled it down the street to the high school.

“We put a stereo in it, and Brother Charles McClellan, the priests quorum adviser, helped with the wiring and balanced the weight,” Ron Fowler, a priest in the ward, explained. With the stereo playing the racing theme from the movie Ben Hur, the black chariot with gold trim attracted a lot of attention on its way to the stadium. Some people, when they heard there would be a chariot race, followed along out of curiosity.

One of the chariot builders in another ward gave up his bike for a week so he could use its wheels on the chariot. The 23rd Ward modeled a horse’s head out of aluminum foil to mount on the front of its entry.

Younger brothers and sisters were recruited as riders because of their light weight. In the 13th Ward the chariot construction was a family effort, as Phil Dold and his father designed and built their version of a Roman race car. Throughout the stake, Relief Society sisters sewed capes and fabricated helmets for the riders, including remodeled football helmets.

One ward installed carpeting and a CB radio in its chariot. And the Scouts in another ward spent several activity nights learning to weld as they built their entry.

As the racers, fans, and chariots arrived at the high school, the conversation sounded like one between automotive designers. Amateur engineers extolled the virtues of a low center of gravity, discussed pulling handle alignment, and debated the sturdiness of wheel and axle attachment to the frame.

“I thought nobody would be that interested in building the chariots because it would take a lot of time and effort,” said Dave Davis, 17, of the Second Ward. “But everybody really came through.”

Before the actual chariot race, several hours of games, designed for individual and group participation, offered a chance for recreation following a morning of hard work. To allow all of the young people to participate, adults were asked to be in charge of the different events. Colored tickets were used to limit the number of participants in a given activity at a given time.

The first contest was a balloon toss, with partners facing each other in two long lines down the center of the football field. Water-filled balloons were gently thrown between partners until only one couple remained with an unbroken balloon.

Following the balloon toss, ten other games were offered for individual competition. They included: (1) Duffle bag stuffing. With boxing gloves on, the contestant stuffed foam-rubber strips into a duffle bag, racing against the clock. (2) Spray bottle target practice. With a laundry spray bottle, each participant had to knock off a Ping-Pong ball perched atop a soda bottle. (3) Punch-drinking race. Slurping through a rubber tubing “straw” several feet long, the first person to empty a 32-ounce cup was the winner. (4) A gelatin-eating contest, with hands tied behind the back. (5) Marshmallow munching. Without the use of his hands, each contestant tried to be the one who could get the most marshmallows inside his mouth—and then close his lips. (6) Flying marshmallows. While riding a bicycle, the contestant attempted to catch a marshmallow—hung from the goal post on a piece of string—in his mouth. (7) Tricycle races (limited to those too big to ride a tricycle). (8) Blindfolded cotton-picker. A scarf was tied over the participants’ eyes. The object of the game was to spoon the greatest number of cotton balls into a bowl in 30 seconds. A stiff breeze made this a difficult project. (9) An obstacle course, including old tires, hurdles, and barrels to roll in. (10) Chocolate pudding pals. Teams were composed of three people. Two were blindfolded. One of them fed the other the pudding by following the directions of the third, who was not wearing a blindfold.

Each person was free to compete in as many individual events as he desired. These were followed by group games, which included a tug-of-war; a car-stuffing contest (28 crammed themselves into a Volkswagen); a battle over a huge, canvas ball, which could only be tossed over the goal-post by several people working together; and a contest to see how many people would fit in a four-foot circle.

A final contest before the chariot race also served to clean up the field. Each ward was given a large plastic sack, and the team with the most pieces of garbage in the bag at the end of the day was honored at the dance.

At last, the chariots were wheeled into position at the starting line. Two elimination heats of 220 yards apiece narrowed the field of six down to the three fastest teams.

“On your mark, get set, go!” the starter screamed. The speed was as fast as a 50-yard dash. Noise from the audience was so loud that Little League baseball players and their parents rushed from the other side of the school to see what was going on.

About halfway around the track, the all-girl 23rd Ward team fell behind. The other two teams were in a dead heat coming around the final turn.

On both chariots, the sprinters were nearly exhausted. Some, too tired to continue pulling, released the handles and dropped to the side of the track. The 13th Ward had only two men left, plus the rider, as the low-slung chariot pulled ahead of the First Ward’s team by four feet at the finish line.

A large banner with the number 13 on it was thrown into the air. The winners’ friends and families surrounded them, smiling, shaking hands, hugging each other, and saying, “I knew we could do it!”

Then, through the middle of the throng, President “Caesar” Brockbank pressed forward, bearing the trophy with him. He called for Kendall Hansen and Corian Taylor, who had pulled the winning chariot across the finish line. The crowd parted to let them pass, and the trophy was in their hands.

After the race, the youth of the stake were enthusiastic about the success of the day.

Karen Maury, 16, the 18th Ward Laurel president, said, “I feel the youth of the stake are beginning to gain a testimony of who we are. This whole weekend I’ve spent so much time with the Church that I know it’s going to really build me, to help me to do other things.”

Kathy Ricks, a 16-year-old 13th Warder, said, “I think the best part about it was the closeness everyone felt. I’ve never been to an event like that before, where I’ve made so many friends. You realized how much the youth are able to plan things, that they are capable.”

Mike Standard, 15, of the 13th Ward, added that “a lot of us brought friends who weren’t Mormons, and they really enjoyed it, because they saw what youth, working together, can do. They didn’t know people could just get together and do something and it could work like this did. It was a great missionary tool.”

The Second Ward’s Christan Linebarger, 16, summarized: “I’ve never seen the wards so close before. The spirit that was put across in the enthusiasm was really spectacular. I think that was the most special part of the day. It wasn’t important who won the chariot race or the tug-of-war, but it was important that the whole ward was together in whatever we were doing. That was the most special thing.”

Slowly the stadium emptied. The competitors and the fans went home to clean up and get ready for the dance. On Sunday the lessons learned in the race were emphasized during priesthood and Sunday School. At the fireside, members of the stake presidency drew analogies between pulling together as teams both in church work and in life, as well as stressing the ability of youth to engage in good, clean fun.

The lessons had meaning, because the day had been complete. Service to others was the lesson of the morning, and the need to work with others was evident in the games and in the stampede of chariots Saturday afternoon.

And as for fun, it was a good thing President Brockbank announced the Ben Hur Memorial Traveling Award as a traveling trophy, because it was obvious this would not be the last chariot race in the San Jose California Stake.

Kim Ho Jik took a deep breath. It was his first day studying and teaching at a university in the United States.
Learning was important to Ho Jik. He wanted to learn as much as he could about nutrition. Then he could make life better for people in South Korea, where he was from.
Ho Jik carried a box of books up some steps to his new office.
“Hello,” said a man from the office next door. “I’m Oliver. I’m studying here too.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” Ho Jik said.
Weeks passed. Ho Jik and Oliver became friends. They talked about what they were learning. Ho Jik noticed that Oliver never drank or smoked. He didn’t work on Sundays either. I wonder why, Ho Jik thought.
One day Oliver gave Ho Jik a book. It was about the Articles of Faith. “This book tells about what I believe,” Oliver said. “Let me know if you want to learn more.”
Ho Jik finished the book in less than a week. Oliver gave him another book called the Book of Mormon. Ho Jik read it quickly too. He started going to church with Oliver. But he wasn’t sure he wanted to be baptized.
Soon it was Oliver’s last day at the university. Ho Jik saw him in the hallway. “I believe God brought you here for a special reason,” Oliver said. “But not just so you can teach your people about nutrition. You need to teach them about the gospel too.”
Ho Jik thought about Oliver’s words for a long time. Finally he decided to be baptized. He was baptized in the same river where Joseph Smith was baptized 122 years earlier!

Photograph courtesy of Women’s cougar rugby (BYU)
When my rugby coach told our team that our quarterfinal game in the national championship tournament was scheduled for a Sunday, all I could think was, “Why now?”
My team, the 2010 Brigham Young University women’s rugby team, had been preparing for the championship all season. We were looking forward to playing the team that had defeated us in the tournament the year before. I was confident we could win—we had some of the best players in the nation. We wanted to prove ourselves to the rugby world by winning a national championship, but it turned out that Heavenly Father had a different path for us.
Tournament officials had assured us that our games would be scheduled on Friday and Saturday, but because of a mistake, the games were instead set for Saturday and Sunday. We did not find out about the mistake until five days before the tournament, which was being held in Sanford, Florida, USA. Since women’s rugby was not an official BYU team at the time, the decision of whether to play or not was ours to make. We chose not to. It was a unanimous decision, and no one complained.
Playing on Sunday was not even an option. For me, it never had been. My parents taught me to keep the Sabbath day holy, and I honored that commandment my whole life. Obeying Heavenly Father’s commandments was more important than a rugby game.
But knowing that we were doing the right thing did not make it any easier. We were disheartened as we flew to Florida knowing that whether we won or lost, Saturday would be our last game.
After arriving in Florida, we received a call from a New York Times reporter who wanted to cover our story. We were stunned. We never expected anyone to care about our choice to honor the Sabbath, much less a national newspaper.
On Friday, at the time we would have been playing if the scheduling mistake hadn’t happened, we went to the Orlando Florida Temple to do baptisms for the dead. After we performed the ordinances, the temple president spoke to us. He pulled out an article that had been written about us and read some of the comments readers had posted online supporting our decision.
Later our coach read us more comments he had received. Latter-day Saints and others thanked us for our example and told us that it was refreshing to see people sticking to their standards. Their words lifted our spirits. That is when we began to realize the impact that we could have even without becoming national champions.
I knew that Heavenly Father was aware of us, but I never thought anyone else was watching. The response to our decision gave us a new purpose for being in Florida: we weren’t there to win, but to stick up for our standards.
Saturday came, and we won our game 46 to 7. Afterward we walked up to the officials and told them we forfeited the game we were scheduled to play on Sunday—which happened to be against the team that defeated us the year before. I was disappointed that our season ended this way. I wish we could have played this team, but I don’t wish we played them, or anyone, on the Sabbath.
Dozens of articles were written about us, and we continued to get supportive letters and emails. By sticking up for our standards, we reached more people than we ever could have if we had won the championship.
I have learned to trust Heavenly Father to lead me to a better path than I have in mind for myself. My team wanted to prove ourselves by becoming champions, but now I realize that Heavenly Father wanted us to make a different point entirely. He led us to the opportunity to be examples when we thought no one was watching, and He was able to use us for good because we chose to obey.