Gospel Story Finder

“Bridgette, have you seen my takkies?” Jaide said. Sometimes Bridgette borrowed Jaide’s clothes. This time, Jaide’s tennis shoes were missing.
“Bridgette!” Jaide called again. “Have you …”
Bridgette came into the room, holding Jaide’s white shoes. Only they didn’t look white anymore. They were covered with mud!
“What did you do?” Jaide said.
“I had to go outside,” Bridgette said. “And it was raining. So I put on your shoes. But I stepped in some mud and …”
“You’re always ruining my things!”
“And you’re always mean to me!”
That’s when Jaide heard awful words come out of her mouth: “I wish you weren’t my sister!”
Bridgette started to cry. Then she ran out of the room.
Jaide started to cry too. She hadn’t meant to say that.
Jaide looked out the window. Along the street she could see the lavender blossoms of the jacaranda trees. There were lots of them where her family lived in South Africa.
Usually, seeing the pretty trees made Jaide feel happy. But right now she didn’t feel happy at all. She had hurt Bridgette’s feelings with those sharp, ugly words.
Now she wasn’t sure what to do. She sat down at the table and looked at her scriptures. Last night she had been reading a story with Dad and Bridgette. It was about when an angry crowd came to take Jesus away.
Jaide opened her scriptures to that part and read, “And, behold, one of them which were with Jesus stretched out his hand, and drew his sword, and struck a servant of the high priest’s, and smote off his ear.”
The disciple must have been really angry that Jesus was being taken away. Jaide read the next verse:
“Then said Jesus unto him, Put up again thy sword into his place: for all they that take the sword shall perish with the sword” (Matthew 26:51–52).
Then Jesus healed the man’s ear. Jesus was kind, even though the man was there to hurt Him.
Now Jaide realized what she needed to do. She needed to forgive her sister, like Jesus would. And then she would try to help her heal from the cutting things she had said earlier.
Jaide bowed her head and said a little prayer. “Please, Heavenly Father, help me make things right with Bridgette.”
Jaide looked out at the jacaranda trees again. She got a piece of paper and started drawing. She drew a picture of their street, lined with the beautiful trees. In the corner, she wrote, “I love you, Bridgette!” Then she went to find her sister.
Bridgette was sitting alone, staring at the floor.
“I made this for you.” Jaide held out her picture of the jacaranda trees.
Bridgette looked at the picture. “Thank you! It’s so pretty!”
“What I said was mean,” Jaide said. “I’m really sorry.”
“But I ruined your shoes.”
“It’s OK,” Jaide said. “I forgive you. Will you forgive me for saying something horrible that I didn’t really mean?”
“Yes!” Bridgette said. “Do you still want to be sisters?”
“Of course! I love you, and I want to be your sister forever.”
She liked the way those loving, happy words felt coming out of her mouth. It felt good to follow Jesus.

Illustration by Phil, i2iArt.com
During my freshman year of high school, my parents got divorced. For years, I had watched my dad not take the sacrament. I knew he struggled to keep the commandments, but I did not understand the extent or length of those struggles. It was only when my parents told me about his excommunication that my sister and I finally learned the details.
“I hate you!” I yelled over and over, sobbing. I was furious. How could he do this to our family? I thought. How could he lie to us for so long?
The initial shock and anger didn’t last long. Within a couple of weeks, my anger gave way to numbness. At first, numbness was a relief from the anger and pain I felt, but eventually my relief changed to desperation. I felt my life crashing down around me. More than ever before, I needed to feel connected to heaven. I needed to feel God’s love, guidance, peace, and healing.
Soon, general conference came. During one session, I listened and waited to feel God’s comfort. But it didn’t come. There in the dark chapel, I thought, I cannot feel the Holy Ghost, but I’m sure He’s here. He has to be here. As I thought this, I started remembering the many small witnesses I had received that the scriptures were true, that Joseph Smith was a prophet, that Heavenly Father had blessed my family, and that keeping the commandments brought peace. It was as if I had a reservoir of testimony.
The more I reflected on my past spiritual witnesses, the more I realized that even though I desperately wanted to feel the Spirit, it really didn’t matter that I could not feel His influence at that exact moment. I already had a store of quiet, constant witnesses that the gospel was true.
That knowledge sustained me and gave me the desire to continue keeping the commandments even when there seemed to be no immediate payoff. Gradually, I felt Heavenly Father’s and the Savior’s love more in my life. Staying close to Them, even when I couldn’t always feel Them near, brought me an undeniable peace and a stronger testimony of the Savior’s gospel. This continues to influence me now when I face uncertainty or heartache. I know I can trust Heavenly Father and the Savior, and that They will heal, uplift, and strengthen me and each one of us.

• St. Petersburg, Russia, Thursday, June 27: How is it possible for the emotional, spiritual, and musical highs to keep on going! Tonight six encores are performed to a cheering, crying audience! For the second time, an audience will not stop clapping until the last choir member has walked offstage, audience and choir members poignantly waving good-bye to each other.
“Wonderful! Wonderful! Spiritual! Spiritual! Leningrad is happy again! This is a holiday,” calls out a man in strongly Russian-accented English. The concerts are now over. But a day remains for visiting new Russian friends and tomorrow’s closing fireside of choir music and the testimonies of Russian converts. Elder Nelson tells the choir: “You have been totally successful in all we expected you to do.”

In His love for us, God has decreed that any worthy man, regardless of wealth, education, color, cultural background, or language, may hold His priesthood. Thus, any properly ordained man who is clean in hand, heart, and mind can connect with the unlimited power of the priesthood. I learned this lesson well as a young missionary years ago in the South Pacific.

My first assignment was to a small island hundreds of miles from headquarters, where no one spoke English, and I was the only white man. I was given a local companion named Feki, who was then serving a building mission and was a priest in the Aaronic Priesthood.

After eight seasick days and nights on a small, smelly boat, we arrived at Niuatoputapu. I struggled with the heat, the mosquitoes, the strange food, culture, and language, as well as homesickness. One afternoon we heard cries of anguish and saw a family bringing the limp, seemingly lifeless body of their eight-year-old son to us. They wailed out that he had fallen from a mango tree and would not respond to anything. The faithful father and mother put him in my arms and said, “You have the Melchizedek Priesthood; bring him back to us whole and well.”

Though my knowledge of the language was still limited, I understood what they wanted, and I was scared. I wanted to run away, but the expressions of love and faith that shone from the eyes of the parents and brothers and sisters kept me glued to the spot.

I looked expectantly at my companion. He shrugged and said, “I don’t have the proper authority. You and the branch president hold the Melchizedek Priesthood.” Grasping at that straw, I said, “Then this is the duty of the branch president.”

No sooner had I said this than the branch president walked up. He had heard the commotion and returned from his garden. He was sweaty and covered with dirt and mud. I turned and explained what had happened and tried to give the young boy to him. He stepped back and said, “I will go and wash and put on clean clothes; then we will bless him and see what God has to say.”

In near panic, I cried, “Can’t you see? He needs help now!”

He calmly replied: “I know he needs a blessing. When I have washed myself and put on clean clothes, I will bring consecrated oil, and we will approach God and see what His will is. I cannot—I will not—approach God with dirty hands and muddy clothes.” He turned and left me holding the boy. I was speechless.

Finally he returned, clean in body and dress and, I sensed, in heart as well. “Now,” he said, “I am clean, so we will approach the throne of God.”

That marvelous Tongan branch president, with clean hands and a pure heart, gave a beautiful and powerful priesthood blessing. I felt more like a witness than a participant. The words of the Psalmist came to my mind: “Who shall ascend into the hill of the Lord? …

“He that hath clean hands, and a pure heart.” On that tiny island a worthy priesthood holder ascended into the hill of the Lord, and the power of the priesthood came down from heaven and authorized a young boy’s life to continue.

With the fire of faith glowing from his eyes, the branch president told me what to do. Much additional faith and effort were required, but on the third day that little eight-year-old boy, full of life, was reunited with his family.

I hope you understand and feel these truths. This was a tiny island in the midst of a huge ocean—with no electricity, no hospital, no doctors—but none of that mattered. For in addition to great love and faith, there was a branch president who held the Melchizedek Priesthood, who understood the importance of cleanliness of hand and heart and its outward expression in cleanliness of body and dress, who exercised the priesthood in righteousness and purity according to the will of God. That day his individual power in the priesthood was sufficient to connect with the unlimited power of the priesthood over earthly life.

When I look into the heavens at night and contemplate the endless galaxies therein, I am amazed at what a tiny dot our little earth is and how infinitesimally small I am. Yet I do not feel afraid, alone, insignificant, or distant from God. For I have witnessed His priesthood power connecting with clean hands and pure hearts on a tiny island in a vast ocean.

The first “ensnaring” poem I remember was a section from “The Walrus and the Carpenter” in Lewis Carroll’s Through the Looking Glass. Long before I was aware of literary allusions or the implications of poetic style, I had fallen in love with this nonsense verse:
“‘The time has come,’ the Walrus said,
‘To talk of many things:
Of shoes—and ships—and sealing wax—
Of cabbages—and kings—
And why the sea is boiling hot—
And whether pigs have wings.’”
The word patterns and sense (or lack of it) bounced with a liveliness that made me smile just at the fun of hearing the words run over each other.
Several years later I discovered the same delight in the writings of a very different sort of poet, Robert Frost:
“Leaves got up in a coil and hissed,
Blindly struck at my knee and missed.”
from “Bereft”
Frost talked about his views of life in ways that particularly struck me. I associated with what he said, and that is an important key to enjoying poetry.
“And life is too much like a pathless wood
Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
From a twig’s having lashed across it open.”
from “Birches”
In a very somber way I was emotionally conscious that the poet was often dealing with the opposition I sometimes felt.
The fact that each poet in these contrasting moods wrote words to the heart of something silly or a dilemma of personal growth brought their works into my life in a significant way.

Stepping out of the car into the raw January drizzle, I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. Ashes of the portable trailer classroom that had housed my high school’s seminary classes smoldered at my feet.
We had been studying the Doctrine and Covenants in our released-time seminary program, learning of the persecutions the early Latter-day Saints had endured. I never skipped seminary class, but I wasn’t always there in spirit. Occasionally I didn’t listen to the lessons and sometimes dreaded going to class. But I didn’t realize how attached I was to seminary until I saw our meeting place destroyed.
That frigid morning I trudged through the thick mud surrounding the trailer’s remains to where a dozen mourners stood silently. The stunned students carefully nudged the smoking desks as if they were dead animals. They spoke quietly, if they spoke at all. Most just stared intently at the damage as if it were one of those computer-generated, three-dimensional posters.
A rusty old pickup thundering down the road shattered the stillness. It slowed as it passed the rubble. “H-A-A-A-A-A-A-A!” screamed the stubbly-faced senior, craning his head out of the passenger-side window. “So much for your Mor-man temple!”
The seminary students shuddered as the words reached out and slapped them in the face with some invisible hand.
I wandered over to where our seminary teacher, Brother Shields, stood beside a fallen filing cabinet. He wore faded blue jeans, a paint-splotched sweatshirt, and an expression that couldn’t hide his pain. He hardly resembled the man who filled our little seminary with his wide grins and optimism.
“I’m … sorry,” I squeaked, not knowing what else to say, my thoughts still knots of confusion.
Brother Shields raised his eyes in my direction, then frowned. “This was the journal of my trip,” he sighed, flipping through the blackened pages. “To Jerusalem.”

I watched a fuzzy caterpillar
Crawling across the street;
His little body wiggled
As he moved his many feet.
When he hurried in a flurry,
He moved his feelers ‘round
And looked like an accordion
As he slid along the ground.
“Mr. Caterpillar, what’s your hurry?
Can’t you see the sun’s still high?”
“Yes, it is, but I won’t see it
If a car comes rolling by!”

During the sacrament, I used to think about things like what I have to do in the week, things at school, or my friends. But then through Sunday School classes and the messages of our prophets, I began to understand the meaning of the sacrament. I now think about the Atonement of Jesus Christ, that He gave His life for us, paid for our sins, and suffered all things. That gives me the motivation every day to say: I can strive to be like Him and demonstrate the same love that He showed others. I can share the gospel with others. I can do something to be more worthy to enter the temple and to take the sacrament.
Alessandra B., 17, Santiago, Chile

Recently, I spoke with a Laurel from the United States. I quote from her email:
“This past year some of my friends on Facebook began posting their position on marriage. Many favored same-sex marriage, and several LDS youth indicated they ‘liked’ the postings. I made no comment.
“I decided to declare my belief in traditional marriage in a thoughtful way.
“With my profile picture, I added the caption ‘I believe in marriage between a man and a woman.’ Almost instantly I started receiving messages. ‘You are selfish.’ ‘You are judgmental.’ One compared me to a slave owner. And I received this post from a great friend who is a strong member of the Church: ‘You need to catch up with the times. Things are changing and so should you.’
“I did not fight back,” she said, “but I did not take my statement down.”
She concludes: “Sometimes, as President Monson said, ‘You have to stand alone.’ Hopefully as youth, we will stand together in being true to God and to the teachings of His living prophets.”11

Recently I asked the internet, “What day most changed the course of history?”
The responses ranged from surprising and strange to insightful and thought-provoking. Among them, the day when a prehistoric asteroid struck the Yucatán Peninsula; or when in 1440, Johannes Gutenberg finished his printing press; and, of course, the day in 1903 when the Wright brothers showed the world that man really can fly.
If the same question were asked of you, what would you say?
In my mind the answer is clear.

In the middle of the forest stood a giant apple tree with a golden apple hanging on its highest branch.
Several animals saw the apple, and each claimed it for himself. But none of these animals could climb, so they all sat under the tree and waited for the apple to fall.
Soon a squirrel came along, climbed the tree, and nibbled through the stem of the apple. But the apple was so heavy that it slipped through his paws and fell.
The one who emerged from the forest with the golden apple is a surprise!

When I was seven years old, my parents asked me why I was limping. They took me to a doctor, who said I had an incurable hip disease. It had caused my right leg to almost stop growing. Without treatment, my right leg would be four to six inches shorter than my left leg as an adult. He sent me to a specialized doctor who told me to keep pressure off the hip until I was full grown. Even then, I would still have a four-inch difference in the length of my legs. I had two choices: stay in bed or wear a brace. I chose the brace. I didn’t feel afraid because I had faith that Heavenly Father would take care of me.
Wearing my new leg brace, I tried to do the same things other children did. I played baseball, even though I couldn’t run very fast. My left leg kept growing, but my right leg stayed the same.
Then my father received a work opportunity in northern California. In our new town, I started fourth grade. I soon learned that Heavenly Father watches over His children. My parents took me to see Dr. Chan. He had been studying my disease and had an idea for a new surgery. If I was willing to take the risk, he was willing to experiment on me. I agreed, even though I would be in a body cast for up to six months. We had very good home teachers who gave me a wonderful blessing.
With the surgery, a medical miracle happened. My right leg began to grow. The cast was removed in just two months, and I learned to walk on my right leg for the first time in two years. I was soon walking and running again! Within 11 months, my right leg was the same length as my left.
After fifth grade, my family moved back to Colorado. I know it was no coincidence that my family moved to the only place where a doctor could help me. Heavenly Father guided my parents so I could be healed.
Because of this experience, two verses in Alma 36 have special meaning to me. I remember how the Lord healed me to do His work:
“But behold, my limbs did receive their strength again, and I stood upon my feet, and did manifest unto the people that I had been born of God.
“Yea, and from that time even until now, I have labored without ceasing, that I might bring souls unto repentance; that I might bring them to taste of the exceeding joy of which I did taste; that they might also be born of God, and be filled with the Holy Ghost” (Alma 36:23–24).
I am grateful that Heavenly Father blessed me to have the use of my right leg. He knew the things that He had in store for me to do, and He blessed me with the health to be able to do them more easily. As a Seventy, I travel and testify of the Savior, bringing the joy of the gospel to others so that they can know and feel what I know and feel.

In 1965 I headed to Vietnam for my third tour of duty with the U.S. Air Force. We were flying combat missions just about every day, with our squadron’s F-100 Super Sabers taking small arms hits regularly. In this environment, I easily developed faithful habits of prayer, and I found strength in knowing that my family back home was praying regularly for my safe and speedy return.
Looking back, I can see clearly that these prayers helped build a protective shield around me. I felt this protection especially on the morning of March 30, 1966. About halfway through a mission, I noticed that my fire warning light had lit up. I had been hit! I was in trouble, so I headed east toward the nearest friendly airfield.
I was feeling pretty good about things until my wingman told me that I was burning badly, with flames trailing several feet behind the aircraft. A moment later, the aircraft quit responding to the control stick. It was time to bail out. I squeezed the trigger, firing the ejection seat charge. It fired much more violently than I had expected, but at least I was separated from the burning F-100.
As soon as I ejected, things quickly went from bad to worse. The jolt of the ejection put me into a rapid, head-over-heels tumble. The tumble was so violent that I couldn’t think through the remainder of my memorized emergency procedures. My only clear thought at the time was that the human body was not built to withstand such violence. I expected an arm or a leg to be torn off at any minute!
I finally calmed down enough to recall a parachute free-fall training film I had seen just before my deployment to Vietnam. An image soon became crystal clear in my mind: Spread eagle to slow down and stabilize. As I responded to the image, which I knew was an answer to the many prayers that had been offered in my behalf, I immediately stopped spinning and tumbling. I was then able to concentrate on other pressing matters—like opening my parachute! If it had opened automatically, I wouldn’t have found myself tumbling with such violence.
My mind then cleared further, as if a small TV screen had appeared before me, outlining the rest of the critical emergency procedures I needed to remember. Check chute. I didn’t have one. If no chute, pull D-ring. The D-ring is the rip cord, which I quickly pulled. Immediately the parachute popped out and filled with air to break my fall. Deploy seat kit. I pulled the lanyard to release the heavy, hard-shelled survival kit that was strapped to my seat. No luck. The kit stayed attached, hanging dangerously behind my thighs.
Later, in my debrief of the ejection, a flight surgeon told me that in every case he knew of, an undeployed seat kit had resulted in a crushed pelvis. I was thankful I was not aware of this grim statistic as I floated toward the earth.
I hadn’t realized that Vietnam was in its dry season, and the soft rice field I expected when I landed was concrete hard. I hit my head on the ground and was briefly knocked unconscious. Fortunately, I had kept my helmet on throughout the ejection.
When I recovered, I unstrapped myself from my parachute and took a quick inventory. I had no broken bones and saw no enemy troops, but I knew I had landed in hostile territory controlled by the Vietcong. Within 30 minutes an Army helicopter arrived, picked me up, and flew me to my intended destination.
When I finally came down from my adrenalin high and could focus on all that had happened, I became immediately aware of the divine intervention that had occurred in my life. I had experienced major equipment problems: neither the automatic feature on my parachute nor the survival kit release system had worked. My spinning had prevented me from thinking clearly until mind-clearing images came to me. And I had landed safely and been rescued from hostile, Vietcong-held territory. In short, it was clear that my prayers and those of my family had been answered in a remarkable fashion.

I also remember once asking two young boys if they could swim. One said, “No.” The other, “I don’t know. I’ve never tried.” Unknowingly, perhaps, their attitudes were showing.

We recently had two other tragedies here in Utah which demonstrate faith and the healing power of forgiveness. Gary Ceran, whose wife and two children were killed on Christmas Eve when their vehicle was hit by a truck, immediately expressed his forgiveness and concern for the alleged drunk driver. Last February, when a car crashed into Bishop Christopher Williams’s vehicle, he had a decision to make, and it was to “unconditionally forgive” the driver who had caused the accident so that the healing process could take place unhampered.

Betsy Ward slid the pan of biscuits into the black castiron oven. She huddled for a moment in front of the warm fire. Then turning, she arranged the pewter mugs and plates on the massive oak table. It seemed strange to be setting two places instead of six. First they had stopped setting places for Pa and Dan. Lt. Ward had had to go with his men, but Dan was only sixteen and had done some fancy talking to convince Ma that he should go fight Redcoats too. Betsy sighed. Fighting Redcoats would be so exciting.
Then Grandma Clay began to ail. She became so sick that Ma left last week to go care for her. Ma said that Grandpa didn’t even know how to boil water! Even little Hannah, who went with Ma, knew how to boil water. Now just ten-year-old Betsy and twelve-year-old Nate were left on the farm.
Betsy heard Nate whistling “Yankee Doodle” as he slowly wandered back from the barn. Nate, Betsy thought, has no gumption at all. He doesn’t even want to fight Redcoats; he’s happy with his cows.
“Hey, Bet, someone’s coming.” Nate had stopped whistling and was standing in the middle of the yard.
Betsy pulled her cloak off the peg by the rocking chair and hurried out onto the worn stone steps of the farmhouse. Nate was looking down the snowy, winding road at a skinny, ragged boy trudging toward them. He was no older than Nate, but much thinner. Slung over his shoulder was a battered drum and an empty knapsack.
“This the Ward place?” he asked.
“Yep,” Nate replied.
The boy fumbled inside his torn jacket and pulled out a folded brown paper. “Lt. Ward sent this.”
Betsy snatched the letter out of the drummer boy’s fingers. Christmas wasn’t as exciting as one of Pa’s letters! Then she handed it to Nate. She hadn’t learned to read cursive before the schoolmaster joined the army. Nate didn’t open the letter. Instead, he invited the drummer boy in to eat, and it wasn’t until the dishes were cleared from the table that he carefully unfolded the paper.
“‘Dear Rhoda,’” Nate read aloud. Rhoda was Ma. “‘I pray that all is well and happy for you. How do the children fare, and how …’” It seemed to Betsy that Nate never would get to the interesting part.
“‘We are here in Morristown now. Food, especially meat, is scarce, and my men are in rags. As we marched into camp, our path could be traced by our bloody footprints in the snow! There is hardly a decent boot in camp and not one stocking in my whole company. Please send us stockings quickly, for we march again on Monday night.’”
The drummer boy coughed and said he’d best be moving along. After he’d gone, Nate looked at Betsy and shook his head. “Too bad Ma isn’t here. We can’t do much without her.”
Betsy stared at Nate. “Of course we can!” she exclaimed. “You go hitch the oxen to the wagon. I’ll be out in a moment.”
As Nate reluctantly ambled out, Betsy ran to the chest of drawers where Ma kept the knitting needles and neatly rolled balls of yarn. There were eight large balls, all previously destined for sweaters, scarves, or mittens. Betsy scooped them up along with a pair of needles. Then she slipped into her cloak and ran outside to prod Nate along. “Where is your red coat?” Betsy asked. “You move so slowly, I’d swear you were on their side and don’t want Pa’s men to get stockings.”
“It isn’t going to do any good,” Nate grumbled. “You can’t knit enough stockings with that little bit of yarn anyway, even if we do get to Morristown. Monday is just the day after tomorrow.”
“Who says I’m going to knit them all myself?” Betsy countered. “And we aren’t going to Morristown—not yet anyway. First, drive me to the Lawrences’. There are four girls there who’ll knit too.”
By the time Nate was ready to go, Betsy was seated comfortably among the brown, blue, and white balls of yarn, and her needles were clicking away steadily. Nate guided the oxen out of the yard and down the long road toward the home of their neighbors.
By the time they reached the Lawrence place, Betsy had her first stocking half finished. Mrs. Lawrence ran out to meet them as they pulled into the farmyard.
“Goodness, Betsy child,” exclaimed Mrs. Lawrence, “you’re as blue as a berry! You, too, Nate. Come inside this minute.”
“No, thank you, ma’am. We can’t,” said Betsy, glaring at Nate who had started to climb down from the wagon. “Read her Pa’s letter, Nate.”
Nate settled back onto the wagon seat and read the wrinkled brown paper. He skipped the beginning and just read about the condition of Lt. Ward’s company and the request for stockings.
Mrs. Lawrence’s face paled—her two sons were there too. “They shall have all the stockings we can knit,” she promised.
“Thank you, Mrs. Lawrence. If the clear weather holds, the short road to Morristown will be open and we’ll go that way. Since we won’t come this way again, would you mind sending the stockings by on Sunday night? Thank you again.” Betsy nodded to Nate, and he clucked to the oxen. Soon they were on their way to the next farmhouse, the Pauls’.
Young Mrs. Paul lived alone. Her husband was with the company. She promised to knit until doomsday if it would help. Then Nate and Betsy turned toward the Dixons’. By the time the oxen pulled out onto the road again, Betsy’s first stocking was finished. After stopping at the Moon farm and the Tucker place in the valley, Nate pulled the wagon into their cousins’ farm, the last one in the parish. The sun had been down for an hour, and the children were numb with cold and weariness. They didn’t mind a bit being bustled into the warm, friendly kitchen and being coaxed into staying the night with their cousins.
The sun rose the next morning a little after Betsy had prodded Nate out of bed. It was a long, cold trip home, and the trip to Morristown the next day would be even longer and colder. But Betsy didn’t mind. By helping Pa, she was fighting Redcoats! As the wagon rolled toward the stoutly built farmhouse, she started humming “Yankee Doodle.” Before she had finished the first verse, Nate was humming too.
As Nate drove the oxen into their farmyard, he asked, “Bet, how many pairs of stockings do you think we’ll get?”
Betsy felt so good that she teased her brother. “I’ll not be surprised if we have enough for all of General Washington’s army and for a few of the British as well!”
After starting the fire in the kitchen and fixing a little dinner, Betsy relaxed in the rocker to knit and wait for the stockings to come. She had almost finished two pairs when Nate came in from the barn and lit the lamp. “I expect we’ll have company any minute now,” he said. “Should be quite a flock of stockings here tonight. You’ve done a good job.”
Betsy kept knitting and rocking, and Nate busied himself with his pocketknife and a chunk of pinewood. When he had whittled one piece into fine kindling, he went to the woodbox for another, then another. The only sounds were the scraping of his knife, the clicking of Betsy’s needles, and the howling of a fierce wind that had started up outside. No company came. When she finished her fourth stocking, Betsy’s knitting fell into her lap.
Nate said softly, “Why don’t you go to bed? When the stockings come, I’ll wake you up.”
Betsy nodded and trudged upstairs. When she awoke, it was day, but the sky was a blanket of gray. She pulled on her clothes and ran downstairs. Nate was sitting in the rocker, his head resting on his chest. “Nate.” Betsy shook his shoulder. “Where are all the stockings?”
Nate awoke scowling. “You can see them yourself.” He swung his arm toward the table. “Your two pairs.”
Betsy’s chin trembled, and her eyes started to burn. Blinking furiously to control her tears, she looked at the two lonely pairs of stockings. Her throat felt twisted and tight. “Well,” she finally managed to say, “get busy and hitch up the wagon. Pa and Dan will have stockings when they march tonight.”
“Betsy, we’ve been beaten. Two pairs of stockings aren’t worth the trip—haven’t you seen the new snow? We’ll have to go the long way.”
Nate’s voice was angry, but Betsy knew that he was just as disappointed as she was.
“It’s all right if you don’t want to come,” Betsy said with a gulp. “I’ll go by myself.”
Nate stamped out the door and hitched up the oxen. Then he called Betsy, and they rode down the bleak, snowy road. For miles the oxens’ muffled plodding and Betsy’s needles were the only sounds they heard.
Suddenly a figure ran awkwardly toward them from the Lawrences’ narrow side road. Nate stopped the wagon and lifted Mrs. Lawrence’s bundle into the wagon.
“We’ve been knitting all night,” Mrs. Lawrence told them. “We wanted to get the stockings to you, but the storm stopped us. We knew that it would force you to pass this way though. Anyway, here they are—twelve pairs!”
Betsy and Nate both thanked her. Betsy was elated. Fourteen pairs were better than two! Nate slapped the reins, and they were off again.
When they came to a fork in the road, there stood Mrs. Paul and one of the Dixon lads, laden with stockings. Farther down the road they met little Richie Moon with a basket of stockings almost bigger than he was. When they finally left the parish area, Nate pulled the wagon to the side of the road. They both scrambled into the wagon bed and started counting: 50 … 80 … 110 pairs of heavy woolen stockings! Enough for the whole company—and a few of the British too!
Nate winked at Betsy and started humming “Yankee Doodle.” Before he had finished the first verse, both their voices were ringing across the frozen New Jersey countryside.
Late that night, Lt. Ward’s company did march—with a warm stocking on every foot!

The youth of the Charleston, Fairmont, and Huntington stakes in West Virginia wanted service to be a part of their youth conference. In preparation for the conference, local governments and organizations were contacted and asked in what areas the youth might be of service.
Faced with funding problems, the public library asked the youth to help with a pledge drive. The librarians had not had the manpower to stage the campaign themselves. The head librarian said, “We were excited when the Church came to us and said they would like to help. I’m impressed with the Church and with their willingness to help. If every church made these kinds of efforts for the things they believed in, it would be exciting to see what would happen in the world.”
In addition, the youth helped with heavy yard work and cleaning for several widows in town. They also painted and cleaned the Head Start building. The youth presented a musical program at a local nursing home and spent time talking individually with the residents.
The youth also helped clean up along the roadways leading into town; cleaned, raked, and helped prepare a new soccer field; and painted park restrooms and a gazebo.
The group participated in a Book of Mormon marking project as well. They underlined specific scriptures in 120 copies of the Book of Mormon to be used by the missionaries in the Charleston West Virginia Mission.
At the testimony meeting at the conclusion of the youth conference, those involved left feeling better about themselves because they had helped someone else.

President Quintana knows the importance of finding friends at church. The night of his baptism at age 18, his best friend told him he would never visit him again if he joined the Church. Ten minutes before the service began, Guillermo decided to go ahead anyway and left for the meetinghouse. “I lost my dearest friend that night,” he recalls. However, within two weeks he met the woman who later became his wife, and she became the friend who sustained him during his mission.

Illustration by Jim Madsen
A missionary activity had been planned in the stake where I was serving. My companion and I were to briefly explain a gospel principle to the investigators who would attend. However, when we arrived at the meetinghouse, we discovered that hardly any investigators had come. Instead of teaching the principle as we had originally planned, we were asked to go out into the street and invite the people passing by to come and take part in the activity.
Truthfully, I couldn’t help but think, “This is not going to work.” I felt that our efforts would be fruitless—that no one would accept the invitation to just come to the activity, particularly with such little notice.
But we understood the importance of obedience, so my companion and I tried to invite people to come in. Not much later, a woman and her daughter and her daughter’s boyfriend passed by. We invited them to come in. At first they were hesitant, but finally they accepted the invitation and joined the group inside. I was surprised but very happy.
The activity started: a gospel-centered musical presentation. The activity lasted more than an hour. I worried that our guests were angry because the event lasted so long, but I had a prayer in my heart asking for everything to work out well.
When the activity ended, I approached them to apologize for taking so much of their time. Before I could say a word to them, the woman said, “Thank you. Thank you so much. It was very beautiful. Thank you.”
I was astonished; they were thanking us for the experience, and they weren’t concerned about the time. It was marvelous, and there was joy in my heart. (And to think that I had been saying that inviting people on the street wasn’t going to work!) The woman wanted to know more about the Church and to attend our Sunday meetings.
I learned something great from this experience: exercising just a little faith, even if it is nothing more than a desire to believe, can yield great fruits (see Alma 32:27–28).
This experience changed my attitude for the rest of my mission. From that time on, at each missionary activity, I would see the fruits of my labors when I went forth with hope and an eye of faith.
If we exercise faith, even when we think it cannot come to pass, we can obtain delicious fruits. What we see as impossible is not impossible for God.

When Elder Backman finished his mission, he was soon drafted. “When I went down to make my appearance, who should show up but my mission companion of 15 months. He was drafted the very same day. Here was another of those examples where the Lord had his hand on me. Instead of being isolated and going into the army by myself, here was my beloved missionary companion by my side. We went down to Camp Wolters, Texas, for basic training. The first six weeks we were there, we got transferred six different times to different outfits, always together. By that time in the war there was a heavy need for infantry, so we were being trained as infantry replacements. I don’t know what I would have done without my missionary companion. We were always transferred together. In fact, along with us were five other Mormon boys, all returned missionaries. We formed a cluster that sustained us all during those 17 weeks of basic training and gave us the strength and courage to face that kind of challenge. You can imagine going from the mission field into the army!”
At the end of basic training every one of those Mormon boys was sent to the Pacific. “The whole bunch of us went overseas together. I’ll never forget going out of San Francisco harbor and under that bridge. You just can’t describe the feeling of leaving this land and wondering if you’re ever going to see it again.”
He helped care for his seasick companions on the month-long voyage to New Guinea. “We thought that they would surely give us more training before they put us into combat, but they didn’t.” In New Guinea the Mormon group was finally split up, as each member received a different assignment, Elder Backman being placed with the 43rd Division. “But just think! We remained together all that time, and my beloved missionary companion, whom I still love to this day like a brother, stayed with me all that time. I just can’t conceive of that all just being happenchance.”