Gospel Story Finder

As identical twins, we’ve always had a lot in common. Growing up, we both loved swimming and joined a competitive swim team at six years old. The heart-racing feeling before each race was exhilarating. Unfortunately, that exciting feeling quickly turned to fear about how we looked in our swimsuits. For both of us, our appearance started to creep to the forefront of our every thought.
In middle school, we each filled journals with weight-loss goals, food logs, and our most beauty-obsessed thoughts—stacked on shelves next to teen magazines promoting the latest fashion and beauty fixes.
At age 15, we both quit swimming—not because we hated to swim but because we hated the way we looked in our swimsuits. Our years of relentlessly trying to “fix” our bodies simply hadn’t worked.
What we didn’t realize then is that our bodies were never the problem. The problem was our body image, or the way we viewed and thought about our bodies. It had been skewed by all kinds of influences, including movies, TV, magazines, and even friends and family who learned from all of these same sources.
After years of struggling, things changed. We even started swimming again. But it wasn’t dieting or makeovers that did the trick—it was learning how our skewed views of our bodies had held us back in every way. Our research has showed us that developing positive body image—or feeling good about your body from the inside, not just how it looks—is a key to health, happiness, and seeing ourselves as God sees us.

In February 1958, at age 17, I entered the United States Navy. I was assigned to an aircraft carrier, where I met Raymond Covington from Provo, Utah.
I thought Raymond was a bit strange—no smoking, no drinking, no cursing, no nothing. I asked him what he did for enjoyment. He said he did a lot of things, but mostly what he enjoyed was either starting or ending his day with one or two big milk shakes. So Raymond was given the nickname “Milkshake.”
At night, Raymond would tell me about his church, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I was really quite interested, until he told me that if I joined his church, I could not hold the priesthood. That did not go over well with me. Seeing my agitation, Raymond expressed his feeling that perhaps one day the priesthood would be available to me.
As time went by I began to favor Raymond above all my friends because of the way he lived. After a while I found I had ceased to live the kind of life I had been living, and I wanted to do the right thing. He made me realize I didn’t have to curse or drink alcohol. I could make the choice to live a righteous life.
One day several of the guys were sitting on the deck gambling. One of them looked up at Raymond and said, “Milkshake! Say this curse word and you can have all the money in the pot.” I quickly counted the money and found the total to be two months’ pay. I figured since he and I were buddies, Raymond would give me half. But to my dismay, he would not curse. I pleaded with him, but he didn’t believe in that kind of talk. I knew then that to be a true Latter-day Saint was a sacred responsibility.
Raymond was discharged in June 1961, and I was discharged later that year. I often wondered what had happened to my old friend.
One day many years later, in 1990, while looking out the window of my home in the state of Washington in the United States, I spotted two nicely dressed young men. They were missionaries for the Church, and I invited them in. After talking with them a little while, I found out that Raymond’s hopes had come true: President Spencer W. Kimball had received a revelation in 1978 directing that all worthy males could receive the priesthood. I was elated. After receiving the missionary lessons, I agreed to be baptized.
About this time I told a neighbor, also a member of the Church, about my friendship with Raymond. I had no idea the neighbor would go to Utah and actually find Raymond. Two weeks later my old friend “Milkshake” drove more than 1,000 miles (1,600 kilometers) to speak at my baptism. He said he always knew I would join the Church.
In December 1997, I got a call from Raymond’s daughter, telling me he had passed away. I was saddened by the news, but I smile when I think of the reunion Rocky and his friend Milkshake will someday have on the other side of the veil.

Sister Kasimbe shares her experience: “I grew in the gospel due to studying the scriptures. I remember before my mission I was given a calling to serve as Relief Society secretary. I love getting a calling but later realized that it was not an easy task for a 19-year-old who had just joined the Church. Surrounded by my own afflictions, I was supposed to minister—this was not easy for me. I remember being assigned to a Relief Society sister who had just lost her sister due to brain cancer. She was grieving and in pain. As I was with her, I felt her sorrow immediately. In my mind I felt the love of God towards her as I shared with her from the scriptures about life after death and that death is temporary. We were able to share from the scriptures and find joy.”

It’s tough making the right choices when you’re 15 years old. But when your decisions affect the lives of hundreds of thousands of people, the pressure gets a little greater. That was the situation facing Amy Arreátegui Pozo when she was selected from 123 students to be the mayor of Trujillo, Peru, the third largest city in the country. Mayor for a day, that is.
When Amy was a Mia Maid in the Mousserat Ward, Trujillo Perú Laureles Stake, she attended a secondary school called the Academy of Engineering. “One of my goals,” says Amy, “was to become the student mayor [like a student-body president] from this school, and I did. That was my dream. My next goal was to win the ‘Mayor for a Day’ contest, and here I am. I finally made it. What helped me win was my confidence in myself.”
Of course, showing that she had a lot of great ideas about improving schools and neighborhoods in the city also helped. Coming up with these ideas for the contest was a lot of work, but deciding which ones to include was pretty easy. To decide, Amy used a method she’s come to depend on—a method that has given her the confidence she talks about. It’s the process of asking and receiving answers through prayer.
“Always go to Heavenly Father when you’re making a decision, and you will always make the right choice,” Amy says. That’s one reason she could handle the responsibility so well when the city of Trujillo issued the resolution recognizing her as “mayor for a day.” The city council acted to accept her activities during her 24 hours as mayor. All contracts, decisions, and authorizations would be legally binding.
Amy arrived at the city hall at 7:30 a.m., even before Mayor José Murgia Zannier, Trujillo’s mayor for more than 10 years. After being officially installed in her post, she met with Mayor Murgia to go over the day’s schedule and coordinate some details. Thus began her busy day as mayor.
In the mayor’s official vehicle, Amy made a visit to inspect a park where the city plans to build a sports and recreation center. She then visited a public school, where she met with the principal and surveyed the progress on the construction of two classrooms.
Back at city hall, Amy met with an official from the public defenders office and with the director of the San José Children’s Home. Amy quickly decided to send a group of workers to the children’s home to make some needed repairs. She also received visits from several other schools seeking funding.
At a press conference, Amy launched her teen leadership program, titled “A Challenge for the Future.” Since her program started, teen leaders from more than 100 schools in the city have met monthly with government officials to discuss the needs of education.
Then Amy presided over the city council meeting, opening the session and calling roll. She also planted a tree at the opening of a newly renovated city park and listened to the requests of neighbors living in the area. That evening, she attended a cultural event in one of the town plazas.
It was a busy day for Amy, a young woman one of the local newspapers described as “outstanding in intellect, sobriety, eloquence, and leadership abilities, but most of all in her great goals and objectives.”
The experience Amy had while serving as mayor for a day opened her eyes to the many needs within her community. One of those needs—education—was already a primary focus of Amy’s plans and programs. But Amy realizes that while school is important, there are other aspects of our lives that should take precedence over a secular education.
“I feel that here in Trujillo, which is considered the culture capital of Peru, many put the Church aside and put more focus on their studies,” Amy says. “There are many youth within the Church who don’t go on missions so they can continue with their schooling at the university or who stop going to institute classes and Church meetings.”
So while Amy studies hard in school and plans to become a psychologist, she also works hard in her calling as a Sunday School teacher and on her personal spiritual progression. She understands that there is a time for everything: a time for study, a time for church, and a time for friends, family, and fun.
It’s a question of perspective and priority. Amy explains: “The prophet wants the youth to get as much schooling as possible, and the Lord will always prepare the way for us to do it, so we don’t have to leave the Church to do something that is secular. Even though it’s important to get an education, it’s more important to do what our Heavenly Father commands.”
The youth in Peru face many of the same challenges youth face all over the world. The temptations to follow the ways of the world call loudly: pornography, immorality, and dishonesty.
“Fashion and all the trends like music are also a problem because most of us are surrounded by nonmembers, so at times it’s easy to be led by our peers and not our principles,” Amy says. She warns that we should not give in to pressure from those who would have us relax our standards. “Another problem,” she says, “is that when a young person joins the Church, he or she sometimes loses friends.”
Amy feels blessed that she has found friends and strength among her family, ward members, and fellow seminary students. They have been there to support and encourage her to follow the Lord.
Now that Amy has had a taste of what it’s like to be mayor of Trujillo, what are her plans for the future? “I will start out as a student mayor,” Amy explains, “and then perhaps become mayor of a local unit, and then mayor of a district, and then become the first woman president of Peru.”
Amy says that many young people lack the confidence to set goals and reach them because they don’t understand why they’re here on earth and what they should do in their lives. By building her life around the gospel, Amy has gained the confidence to succeed in whatever she righteously desires.
“I’ve grown closer to my Heavenly Father by praying and asking for His confirmation in whatever decision I have to make,” she says. “It is very special for me to feel His Spirit and know He approves of my choices. By having His approval, I feel that things will always, always turn out well.”

On April 30, 1844, the ship Timoleon came in sight of the small Pacific island of Tubuai, 640 kilometers (400 miles) south of Tahiti. Canoes filled with men paddled out to greet the passengers. When they met Elders Addison Pratt, Noah Rogers, and Benjamin Grouard, the first Latter-day Saint missionaries to arrive in the region, they greeted them happily. For nearly 50 years, Tubuaians had received Christian missionaries—most from the London Missionary Society—and embraced Christian teachings. Previous missionaries had occasionally visited the island’s two villages, Mahu and Mataura, but they usually stayed only a short time. Telii,1 a local woman from Mataura, was also excited when she learned that new gospel teachers were on the island. The island’s kings and chiefs attempted to convince one of the missionaries to remain as their teacher, and Telii and her husband, Nabota, offered their home as a place for the missionaries to stay.2
The missionaries initially declined these invitations. The people, anxious to have them stay, persisted. “I took the subject into prayerful consideration,” Elder Pratt said, “and was soon convinced that should I leave this island, I should be running away from duty.”3 Elders Grouard and Rogers sailed on to Tahiti while Elder Pratt remained and accepted the invitation to live with Telii and Nabota. The couple immediately began helping Elder Pratt study the local language, and they learned the gospel as visitors asked Elder Pratt to interpret scripture, offer spiritual guidance, and provide healing blessings.4 As Telii and Nabota listened to Elder Pratt preach, the fire of a growing testimony was kindled in their hearts. In late July 1844, Telii and Nabota were the first natives of Tubuai to be baptized. Many others soon followed.

Over the following days, the entire family of the deceased boy attended the chapel, while it was open, where they displayed incredible faith and were extremely grateful for the ward’s response.

A two-minute silence was also held for both boys during sacrament service that following Sunday, to which all members, family and the community were invited.

The next day, President Shorland was contacted directly by the family asking if they could attend to grieve collectively without the public or media representatives being present. He made the necessary arrangements. Time was spent in the chapel reading the messages and in a prayerful reflection. President Shorland said it had an “extremely spiritual impact” on him.

Armed with cleaning rags, needed supplies, and lots of heart, more than 400 youth in Nampa, Idaho, set out to do some good in their community. In a citywide effort that included 20 wards and 1 branch in the 2 Nampa stakes, the youth committed a Saturday to serving. But they also spent weeks in preparation: making quilts, practicing programs, and organizing food, clothing, and toy drives. On the day of the project they did everything from stacking firewood for the elderly in their wards to filling the supply closets at shelters. Following all their service the youth got a much-deserved rest, including a testimony meeting, dinner, and a dance.

Students at the Vernal, Utah, seminaries had a chance to get up close and personal with the Uintah Tabernacle. Youth from the seminaries scrubbed, polished, and shined the tabernacle from top to bottom, preparing the building for visits from the public. The building is now closed, undergoing renovation to become a temple.

“For the more than 200 youth that attended the cleanup, it will be an experience they will never forget,” says one of their teachers, Brother Durrant. The building has not been used for church meetings since 1984, so this was the first time many of the participants had seen the inside of the building.

As I began to investigate the Church, I was given several issues of the Liahona (Spanish). The articles in these issues helped resolve some of my questions, and, as a result, I accepted the missionary discussions and was baptized 27 June 1987.
Since then, I have served a mission in Guayaquil, Ecuador, been sealed to a former missionary, and become a mother. I am very grateful to the good person who had the inspiration to give me the magazines. My testimony is strengthened continually as I read the Liahona.
Ruth Elena de GuaycalLas Palmas Ward, Santo Domingo Ecuador Stake

Telicia, David’s 12-year-old sister, played a child in the multitude, but she’s also a gymnast, so she was worried about the time commitment. “I love gymnastics,” she says. “And I knew if I got a part, I wouldn’t be able to work out [in the gym] for a whole month.” But Telicia says she doesn’t feel bad about her choice to miss gymnastics because she gained a stronger testimony of the Savior and His sacrifice.
“I invited my gymnastics coach and several of my teammates to come to the Easter pageant,” she adds. “They’re not members, but they said they would come. I was so excited!”

Without safety ropes, harnesses, or climbing gear of any kind, two brothers—Jimmy, age 14, and John, age 19 (though those aren’t their real names)—attempted to scale a sheer canyon wall in Snow Canyon State Park in my native southern Utah. Near the top of their laborious climb, they discovered that a protruding ledge denied them their final few feet of ascent. They could not get over it, but neither could they now retreat from it. They were stranded. After careful maneuvering, John found enough footing to boost his younger brother to safety on top of the ledge. But there was no way to lift himself. The more he strained to find finger or foot leverage, the more his muscles began to cramp. Panic started to sweep over him, and he began to fear for his life.
Unable to hold on much longer, John decided his only option was to try to jump vertically in an effort to grab the top of the overhanging ledge. If successful, he might, by his considerable arm strength, pull himself to safety.
In his own words, he said:
“Prior to my jump I told Jimmy to go search for a tree branch strong enough to extend down to me, although I knew there was nothing of the kind on this rocky summit. It was only a desperate ruse. If my jump failed, the least I could do was make certain my little brother did not see me falling to my death.
“Giving him enough time to be out of sight, I said my last prayer—that I wanted my family to know I loved them and that Jimmy could make it home safely on his own—then I leapt. There was enough adrenaline in my spring that the jump extended my arms above the ledge almost to my elbows. But as I slapped my hands down on the surface, I felt nothing but loose sand on flat stone. I can still remember the gritty sensation of hanging there with nothing to hold on to—no lip, no ridge, nothing to grab or grasp. I felt my fingers begin to recede slowly over the sandy surface. I knew my life was over.
“But then suddenly, like a lightning strike in a summer storm, two hands shot out from somewhere above the edge of the cliff, grabbing my wrists with a strength and determination that belied their size. My faithful little brother had not gone looking for any fictitious tree branch. Guessing exactly what I was planning to do, he had never moved an inch. He had simply waited—silently, almost breathlessly—knowing full well I would be foolish enough to try to make that jump. When I did, he grabbed me, held me, and refused to let me fall. Those strong brotherly arms saved my life that day as I dangled helplessly above what would surely have been certain death.”1

One son bought a small home in a distant state. He showed me bricks on a corner of the foundation that were eroding away. He asked what he should do.
I did not know, but I asked, “Is there an older couple that lives close to you?”
“Yes,” he said, “across the street and down a few houses is a retired couple.”
“Why don’t you ask him to come over and look at that. He knows your climate.”
That was done, and he got the advice of an older man who had seen problems like that and many others. That is what adopted grandpas can do.

Some may say, “But I don’t have time for daily scripture study amid all my other duties in life.” This statement is somewhat reminiscent of the story of two axmen who held a contest to determine who could cut down more trees in a day. At sunrise the contest commenced. Every hour the smaller man wandered off into the forest for 10 minutes or so. Each time he did this, his opponent smiled and nodded, assured that he was forging ahead. The larger man never left his post, never stopped cutting, never took a break.

When the day ended, the larger man was shocked to learn that his opponent, who seemingly wasted so much time, had cut many more trees than he. “How did you do it when you took so many breaks?” he asked.

The winner replied, “Oh, I was sharpening my ax.”

Illustrations by Scott Peck
Go past my house again, and I’ll hose you down!
What’s he mad about?
We weren’t even doing anything!
Let’s play basketball instead.
If that ball goes in my yard, you’ll never see it again!
Uh … I think I’m gonna head home.
Me too. See ya!
The next day, Dad and Carter go on a hike.
Whew, I’m tired! Let’s take a break.
You OK?
Mr. Maurice is really mean.
Well, his wife just died. Maybe he needs a friend. Try to be kind, OK? Jesus taught us to love everyone.
It’s easier to love some people than others.
Maybe. But everyone needs love.
Later …
Jesus would be nice to Mr. Maurice. Maybe I can try.
I want to help him. …But what if he gets mad?
Um … do you need some help?
Oh. Thank you. I’m planting my wife’s favorite flowers. You could help bring the rest from the garage.
If you want, we can try to get it running later..
Cool! I love trains.
How’s it going?
Great! Mr. Maurice showed me his electric train. We’re going to fix it later.
Later that day …
How about we build the track tomorrow?
Want to give it a try?
Whoa!
You know … Mr. Maurice isn’t so hard to love after all.

Even though Elder David O. McKay’s daughter Lou Jean was very ill, he had to travel out of state for a stake conference.
Elder McKay: I’ll be back as soon as I can.
Not long after he left, Elder McKay received a telegram saying that he needed to come home right away. When he stepped off the train at home, his father was there to greet him.
Elder McKay: Is Lou Jean still alive?
Father: Yes, but she’s worse than when you left.
A doctor and a nurse stayed at Elder McKay’s house all night. Other family members came to help for several days, but Lou Jean grew only worse.
On Sunday, Elder McKay sent his sons Lawrence and Llewelyn to church while he and his wife, Emma Ray, stayed home to care for Lou Jean.
Elder McKay: Son, will you ask the Sunday School president to have the Sunday School classes pray for Lou Jean today?
Son: Yes, Father.
Elder McKay’s son obeyed. He noticed that at 11:00 the requested prayer was given.
When Elder McKay’s sons returned home, they received good news.
Elder McKay: Well, boys, Lou Jean is going to be all right! At 11:00 this morning she finally relaxed and fell into a calm sleep.
Son: Father, that’s when the Sunday School prayed for her!
Elder McKay: Heavenly Father has rewarded the faithful prayers of many people who love us. We must show Him our gratitude.

I remember reading several years ago of a man who had gone into the wilderness area of the state of Montana with a companion on a big game hunt. The hunters came upon a grizzly bear at rather close range, and one of the men fired at the bear and wounded it. In a rage the huge animal charged the hunters. One of them, in panic and in a desperate attempt to save himself, climbed into the lower branches of a small tree close by. The tree was not large enough to support the man’s weight and hold him beyond the reach of the bear’s powerful claws and jaws. Before his companion could destroy the bear, it had inflicted such serious injuries on the hunter that it was necessary to amputate both his legs in order to save his life.

Some years ago I had the opportunity to address a business convention in Dallas, Texas, sometimes called “the city of churches.” After the convention, I took a sightseeing bus ride about the city’s suburbs. Our driver would comment, “On the left you see the Methodist church,” or “There on the right is the Catholic cathedral.”
As we passed a beautiful red brick building situated upon a hill, the driver exclaimed, “That building is where the Mormons meet.” A lady from the rear of the bus asked, “Driver, can you tell us something more about the Mormons?” The driver steered the bus to the side of the road, turned about in his seat, and replied, “Lady, all I know about the Mormons is that they meet in that red brick building. Is there anyone on this bus who knows anything about the Mormons?”
I gazed at the expression on each person’s face for some sign of recognition, some desire to comment. I found nothing—not a sign. Then I realized the truth of the statement, “When the time for decision arrives, the time for preparation is past.” For the next fifteen minutes I had the privilege of sharing with others my testimony concerning The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

As the mourning doves cooed, most of her tribe awakened happy for this day. But Little Twist’s lips trembled as she leaned against the wall and pulled at the bark and grass thatching that layered the dome-shaped hut.

“I won’t go today,” she muttered defiantly to herself. “I’d rather be alone, even though it is a feast.” She reached down and tried to rub the ache out of her twisted foot.

Squanto, the Pilgrims’ friend, had brought the message: All Wampanoag Indians were invited to the Plymouth village for a big feast. Chief Massasoit had accepted the invitation for the tribe. She especially remembered that day because her father, one of the tribal leaders, had stroked her loose black hair as he said, “Even you, Little Twist, she who hides from strangers, shall go. We shall show our friendship for our white friends.”

The morning sun warmed her skin, but even the colorful autumn beauty failed to warm her spirits. Standing, Little Twist briskly brushed the dust from her soft deerskin skirt, causing the bottom fringes to dance and swing about her legs.

Looking up, she saw Spotted Fawn walking past the red maples toward the creek. Spotted Fawn was small and graceful, the image of her name. Oh, how Little Twist hated her own name! It never let her forget her deformity for a minute. It was bad enough that she could never join the other children in their games—they weren’t unkind about it, but they ignored her and left her alone.

Why can’t I have a new name, she wondered, one that describes something good about me instead of calling attention to my foot? She tugged at her wampum belt. The touch of the polished beads made her feel better as her fingers traced the intricate pattern. With great patience she had carved the white and purple shells into beads, then strung them carefully under Grandmother’s instruction. When the belt was finished, she was proud of it, and Grandmother had even said that it was the best wampum belt in the village.

In the distance the men of the tribe had gathered. As Little Twist watched them, she noticed that Running Fox, her brother, was helping prepare for the feast with the Pilgrims. She smiled as she saw her father dressed in his new deerskin clothes for the occasion. He truly looked like a tribal leader, and Little Twist was proud as she remembered how she had helped her mother prepare the skins and stitch them together.

“Daughter, why aren’t you helping Grandmother?” Little Twist’s mother interrupted her happier thoughts. “Must I always coax you?”

Her mother’s reprimand hurt, adding to the hurt that she already felt. She could not hold it inside any longer. “I will stay here,” Little Twist told her mother. “I cannot endure the stares that will come when they hear my name and see that I am crippled. It is hard enough to bear the stares of my own people.” With desperation in her eyes, she asked, “Cannot I have a new name? Then maybe people won’t stare at me so.”

“A new name must be earned,” Mother chided her gently. “We will talk about it later. Right now we must think of other things. Please go and help your grandmother.”

Little Twist limped over to where Grandmother stood waiting. Baskets of multicolored Indian maize, green beans, and golden squash lay on the ground next to her feet. “Ah, little one,” she said, “it is time to carry the three sisters to the feast.”

Little Twist couldn’t help but smile back as she gave her usual reply: “Corn, beans, and squash are funny sisters.”

Grandmother’s eyes twinkled, but she just nodded and slowly bent to pick up one basket. “It will be good to give thanks for them and for all the harvest with our new friends.” She squinted against the glaring sun, then walked toward the white man’s village.

Reluctantly Little Twist picked up the other two baskets and shuffled after her. Upon reaching the feast site, she put down her burden where it was sure to be found, then returned to the edge of the clearing and let the dimness of the forest hide her. Resting against a cool boulder, she massaged her tired foot.

The crisp breezes brought her fragrant odors of roasted wild turkey, duck, venison, and other succulent dishes, and hunger rose inside her. Even so, she would rather be hungry than join the feast.

Suddenly Running Fox was standing next to the boulder. Little Twist smiled, always surprised at how her brother found her secret places.

“Our hunters shot five deer for the feast,” he bragged, kneeling next to her and massaging her still-throbbing foot. “Come, little sister. It is time to eat. Afterward you can watch me win the race.”

“I want to stay here,” she told Running Fox. “And races are no fun for me. But I wish you luck.”

“Thank you for your kind wish, Little Twist. But you must come. Father sent me for you. He says that it would be rude for you to stay away.” Standing, Running Fox carefully helped his sister to her feet and steered her to a place where she could feel relatively unnoticed. She flashed him a grateful smile when he brought her a plate of food before leaving to compete in his race.

As the hours passed, Little Twist watched many games and competitions. Finally she began searching for her mother. Approaching the Pilgrims’ cabins, she found her among the women who were laughing together while putting away the leftover food. Their happiness sounded like a flock of songbirds clustering in a berry bush, and Little Twist forgot her foot for a while as she enjoyed their gaiety.

Soon a number of women gathered in a circle at one side of the clearing. Grandmother and Mother and Little Twist went over to see what was happening.

Within the circle, a white woman stood holding an iron kettle. Several fur pieces, moccasins, and shelled necklaces had been placed before her in offering for a trade. The white woman examined them carefully but seemed dissatisfied.

Seeing how long her mother gazed at the iron kettle, Little Twist pulled closer to her and whispered, “A kettle like that would be useful.”

Her mother nodded, then shrugged. “I brought nothing to trade. To interest the white woman one must present something of value, for surely that kettle will not go cheaply.”

Little Twist had only one thing of real value—her wampum belt. But how could she give up her treasured work? And even if she were to offer it in trade, she’d have to walk into the circle, exposing her limp. Pressing her lips firmly together, she unconsciously tried to hide her bad foot behind her good one as she waited to see if anyone’s offer would be accepted.

Unexpectedly Spotted Fawn stepped forward. She carefully stretched her own wampum belt across the grass, displaying her beaded artwork for appraisal.

While everyone else admired the white and purple beads glistening in the sunlight, Little Twist saw that the beading was not as evenly tied as hers. The pattern was a bit unbalanced, and the beads were irregular because the seashells hadn’t been carved small and round enough.

“Ah, little one, what do you think?” Grandmother whispered in her ear.

Little Twist turned and saw Grandmother’s eyes dancing and sparkling as they challenged her. Drawing in her breath for courage, the girl’s fingers shook as she untied her belt, hobbled forward, and placed it next to Spotted Fawn’s.

Silently the white woman studied Little Twist’s belt. Then she reexamined all the trade offers one by one. Finally she made up her mind. With a warm smile she extended the iron kettle to Little Twist and picked up her beautiful wampum belt to complete the trade.

Little Twist was proud and happy as she turned to give the kettle to her mother.

Her mother was equally proud and happy. She stepped into the circle and announced, “My daughter has earned a new name. No more shall she be called Little Twist. Now she shall be known as Seashell.”

For three days the Wampanoags stayed and feasted with the Pilgrims. And during that time the people forgot Little Twist and her crippled foot. Instead, they spoke to and about Seashell, the tribe’s best wampum maker.

Long years ago, when I served as a bishop, I learned that Mary Watson, a member of my ward, was a patient in the county hospital. When I went to visit her, I discovered her in a large room with so many beds that it was difficult to single her out. As I identified her bed and approached her, I said, “Hello, Mary.”
She replied, “Hello, Bishop.”
I noticed that a patient in the bed next to Mary Watson covered her face with the bedsheet.
I gave Mary a blessing, shook her hand, and said good-bye, but I could not leave her side. It was as though an unseen hand were resting on my shoulder, and I felt within my soul that I was hearing these words: “Go over to the next bed, where the little lady covered her face when you came in.” I did so. I have learned in my life never to postpone responding to a prompting.
I gently tapped the other patient on her shoulder and carefully pulled back the sheet that had covered her face. Lo and behold, she, too, was a member of my ward. I had not known she was a patient there. Her name was Kathleen McKee. When her eyes met mine, she exclaimed through her tears, “Oh, Bishop, when you entered that door, I felt you had come to see me and bless me in response to my prayers. I was rejoicing inside to think that you knew I was here. When you stopped at the other bed, my heart sank, and I knew that you had not come to see me.”
I said to Kathleen McKee: “It does not matter that I didn’t know that you were here. It is important, however, that our Heavenly Father knew and that you had prayed for a priesthood blessing. It was He who prompted me to come to you now.”
A blessing was given, a prayer was answered. I bestowed a kiss on her forehead and left the hospital with gratitude in my heart for the promptings of the Spirit. It was the last time I saw Kathleen McKee alive.

I also learned about prayer from my mother. I grew up in the country on a cattle ranch. When I was eight or nine, my dad gave me a Shetland pony for my birthday, and I was really happy because I liked horses. A few days after I received this gift, a couple of boys asked if I wanted to go horseback riding with them. Mother said that I could go, so I rode with them for about three hours into the mountains. Suddenly, the two boys looked at me and said, “We have to go home now. We promised our mothers we would be back soon.” They had big horses. Mine was a little pony. They took off on a gallop, and my little pony couldn’t keep up with them. When they got out of sight, I stopped and I had no idea where I was. I became frightened.

Then I remembered what my mother had told me—if you get in trouble or if you need help, remember that you can pray to Heavenly Father. I got off my pony, knelt on the ground, and prayed. I don’t remember what I said, except “Please help me to get home.” After I finished my prayer, I got back on my pony. I sat there for two or three minutes holding the reins, not knowing what to do. I decided to drop the reins on the horse’s neck. After a few seconds, the horse started to walk. He walked faster and faster, and just before dark he walked into our backyard.

I learned two things from this experience. The first is that if we will pray to Heavenly Father in sincerity, He will answer our prayers. The second is that a horse knows its way home! I didn’t know that before I prayed.