Gospel Story Finder

Needing income, Henry and his father went downriver to St. Louis, Missouri, to find jobs. His father joined George Betts’s shoe shop, which employed 25 men. Henry took a job at a small shop belonging to three LDS shoemakers. His mother and sisters joined them in St. Louis in the spring.
Henry’s good friends from Nauvoo, Algernon and John Rigdon, visited him in his new home. Their father, who had been Joseph Smith’s counselor, had decided to leave the Church and was moving to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. In “the last conversation that I had with them as we were saying good-bye,” Henry said, “the boys declared that they would return to the Church. … Knowing they were … sincere, I expected for some years to hear from them but was disappointed.” (John Rigdon rejoined the Church in 1904 just before he died.)

When my family moved to Japan, it was scary moving to a new place and making new friends. On my first day of kindergarten we were doing an art project. We had to trace our hands on paper. I noticed that a boy at my table was having a hard time tracing his hand. I wanted to help him, but I was nervous. Then I remembered that in family scripture study we had been talking about how Jesus loved and served others. I helped the boy trace his hand. It made him happy, and I felt happy too. Heavenly Father blessed me to not be nervous and helped me make a new friend too!

Twelve-year-old Simon Stone let more string out so that his kite could climb higher in the sudden rush of wind that lifted it aloft like a winged thing in the copper-colored sky. Simon’s uncle, Elias Thatcher, had helped the youth build the kite a few days earlier in an effort to keep Simon occupied while Elias felled trees.
Lumberjacking was a hazardous business, and the lumbering activity in Hammond County was no exception. Already that season three men had died tragically. A far safer place for a young boy than where they were cutting wood was in the bunkhouse, sweeping floors. But that chore took Simon no more than an hour to complete, and he pined for something else to do besides watching logs pour out of the flume at the sawmill. After all, he had been at the camp at White Pine for nearly a year.
Flying a kite in the woods was hard. Simon’s uncle had said that the trees on the slopes were closer together than hands in prayer and that the wind went into a fit just trying to find a way to go through them. Sometimes Simon found it difficult to believe everything that his joshing uncle told him. But Simon did believe his stories about an unusually large and mean wolverine that everyone called Old Scratch. The wily varmint usually roamed the slopes below Fox Meadow.
Suddenly the sound of a gunshot disrupted the stillness, and Simon’s kite began to tumble toward the earth like a piece of limp cloth. Simon glanced around and spied a youth with a single-shot army carbine emerging from the trees that bordered the small meadow, a dark grin creasing his face. “I guess I haven’t lost my touch,” the youth sneered.
It was Clay McCalister, a son of one of the lumbermen. Big for a thirteen-year-old, he was a short-tempered bully and had often taunted Simon because of his gentle manner and the book of scriptures that he always carried with him.
Simon gazed at his kite lying broken on the ground. “There wasn’t any call for that, Clay,” Simon blurted uneasily.
Clay’s grin widened. “No call for a lot of things, Stone,” he retorted. “But that doesn’t seem to keep them from happening, now does it?” Clay ejected the spent shell from his rifle and slipped another cartridge into the breech.
Simon, deciding that the best place for him to be was anywhere that Clay wasn’t, crossed to where his kite lay, picked it up, and started out of the meadow.
“I’m not through with you yet, Stone!” Clay declared.
Simon froze; then he turned and faced the menacing youth. “You ruined my kite,” Simon said boldly. “What more do you want?”
Clay stepped closer. “You think you’re something special, Mormon? You think that book that you’re always carrying around is going to save you?”
“No,” Simon replied, “but its teachings will, if I live by them.” Clay seemed to be listening, so Simon continued. “There was a prophet by the name of Joseph Smith who said that a man cannot be saved in ignorance—”
“Are you saying that I’m ignorant?” Clay barked.
“No,” Simon returned, “but it never hurt anybody to become a little more learned.”
Clay just stared. No boy had ever spoken to him with such simple boldness. He narrowed his eyes and demanded that Simon hand over the Book of Mormon. “Maybe I can make it even more holy with a bullet from my carbine,” he added with a cold chuckle.
Simon stiffened. “I can’t do that, Clay. It’s a sacred book.”
Clay regarded Simon threateningly. “Mormons aren’t real popular around Hammond County. Your uncle probably told you that already, him being one too.”
“Yes, he did,” Simon replied evenly. “He also told me that it’s important to stand up for what you believe, even when it’s not easy.”
Clay snickered. “Like now, Mormon boy?” Clay started forward. “Are you going to give me that book, or am I going to have to—” Clay’s boot caught under an exposed root, and he fell hard across a stump. It knocked the wind out of him, and his rifle discharged skyward.
“Are you all right, Clay?” Simon asked.
Clay glared at Simon, gasping for air. “I feel a lot better than you’re going to, Mormon!”
Simon sighed and started out of the meadow. Making his way down the slope, he was careful to give a wide berth to Old Scratch’s territory. Simon paused in a small clearing to rest. The brushwood was so dense that he almost missed seeing what appeared to be a burrow above him. He shuddered at the thought that he might one day encounter the beast.
As Simon was about to move on, he heard a crashing in the brush a short way uphill. His blood ran cold as he whirled around and caught a glimpse of Clay McCalister. The youth had regained his wind and was racing down the slope to overtake him.
Simon had no sooner turned to flee, when a scream erupted from the thick undergrowth above him. Again he stopped. Simon couldn’t see Clay, but the boy was still screaming. Simon started back uphill. When he got close enough to see through the foliage, he spied Clay lying on his back, without his gun, pressed against a half-decayed log. The wolverine was growling and slowly closing in on him, provoked by Clay’s intrusion of his privacy. Scratch’s short snout sniffed at the boy’s foot; his sharp teeth were bared.
Simon crept out from behind the trees, removed a hunk of jerky from his pocket, and tossed it a short distance from the wolverine to lure it away from Clay. While the animal’s attention was diverted to this new object, Clay quickly crawled off.
After distancing themselves from Old Scratch, Clay questioned, “Why did you do it, Stone? I mean, I shot up your kite and was going to bust you up good.”
“You needed help,” Simon replied matter-of-factly. He patted the small, worn book that protruded from his pocket and added, “In the Book of Mormon, it tells about a prophet named Enos who prayed for his enemies. If he could do that, the least I could do was try to …” Simon’s speech trailed as he beheld what appeared to be a tear in Clay McCalister’s eye.
Clay quickly wiped it away. “Haven’t you ever had anything in your eye before?” Clay snapped defensively.
Simon smiled understandingly. “Sure, Clay,” he said, “lots of times.”
Clay stared at Simon a long moment, his eyes gradually settling upon the Book of Mormon. “Could I borrow that book of yours for a few days, maybe?” he asked somewhat sheepishly. “I won’t tear it up or anything, honest. I’d just like to read some of it—find out what it’s all about. And what you’re all about.”
Simon nodded and handed Clay the book. “Keep it as long as you like,” he offered.
“Don’t start thinking that I’m going to become a Mormon or anything like that,” Clay asserted.
Simon smiled. Clay’s most likely right, he thought. But Simon had planted a seed, just as someone once had for his father and mother and his Uncle Elias. Those seeds had taken root, and many had been blessed because of it. Maybe, just maybe, Clay would be too.

More than once I have repeated an experience I had in getting my portrait painted.
In the temple on the fourth floor is the room of the Council of the Twelve Apostles with large chairs in a semicircle. Here important meetings of that body are held. Around its walls are portraits of the Brethren. When I came to this service, I looked upon them with admiration and affection, for these were truly great men with whom I was associated.
Sometime later authorization was given by the First Presidency of the Church for my portrait to be added to the others.
Lee Greene Richards was selected as the artist, and we began immediately. I sat on a chair on an elevated platform in his studio and tried very hard to look handsome, like some of the other brethren. With paints, brushes, and palette ready, the artist scrutinized my features and daubed on the canvas alternately. I returned many times to the studio. After weeks the portrait was exhibited to the First Presidency and later to my wife and daughter.
It did not pass, and I was to submit to a redoing.
The angle was changed, the hours—many of them—were spent, and finally the portrait was near completion. This particular day was a busy one like most others. I suppose I was daydreaming, and quite detached from this world. Apparently he had difficulty translating my faraway gaze onto the canvas. I saw the artist lay down his palette and paints, fold his arms, and look straight at me, and I was shocked out of my dreaming by the abrupt question: “Brother Kimball, have you ever been to heaven?”
My answer seemed to be a shock of equal magnitude to him as I said without hesitation: “Why, yes, Brother Richards, certainly. I had a glimpse of heaven just before coming to your studio.” I saw him assume a relaxed position and look intently at me, with wonder in his eyes. I continued:
“Do you believe in heaven, Brother Artist?” I asked. “Yes, that is it. Heaven is a place, but also a condition; it is home and family. It is understanding and kindness. It is interdependence and selfless activity. It is quiet, sane living; personal sacrifice, genuine hospitality, wholesome concern for others. It is living the commandments of God without ostentation or hypocrisy. It is selflessness. It is all about us. We need only to be able to recognize it as we find it and enjoy it. Yes, my dear brother, I’ve had many glimpses of heaven.”
I straightened up in my chair and posed again. The artist picked up his palette and brushes and paints, did some touching up of the portrait, and sighed contentedly as he said, “It is completed.”
In due time it was placed with those of others of the Brethren in the Council of the Twelve room on the fourth floor of the Salt Lake Temple, where it hangs to this day.

In early 2011, New Mexico—usually a mild desert state—felt record low temperatures. The freezing caused pipes all over the state to burst, including some in the stake center where the Scouts of Troop 211 meet. Within hours volunteers, including many of these Scouts, were at the building to help clean up.
But serving together is nothing new for the boys of the troop. Just days after helping clear out the building, parents and Scouts gathered to hold a court of honor for the 10 boys from the ward who would be receiving Eagle awards. These young men had performed a host of service projects in their community, including organizing a blood drive; cleaning up a baseball field; working on the landscaping, classrooms, and libraries of local schools; and assisting with research for eye diseases in Peru. In recognition of the boys’ collective service, the city’s mayor attended their court of honor and pronounced February 9, 2011, as “Troop 211 Eagle Scouts Day.”

“One of our Young Women leaders is deaf. For New Beginnings, we decided to perform “Embark” [the 2015 Mutual theme song] in American sign language [ASL]. Our leader taught us the chorus of the song, and she signed the verses. I loved this activity because any young woman who wanted to could have a solo in the song while all of the girls signed. I feel good that we’re learning another language that may help someone we may know in our future. Also, I hope it inspired other people to want to learn ASL.”
Piper W., 17, Missouri, USA

Most of us have memories of perfect days—days that stand apart from the rest because something or someone made them unforgettable. One of mine happened when I was in the fifth grade. On a particularly bleak Saturday morning in January, my father suddenly announced that we were going skiing.
“All of us?” I asked, thinking of my brothers, John and Jim.
“No,” he responded, “just you and I.”
He urged me to finish my breakfast in a hurry as he gathered our equipment together. Half an hour later we were heading up Provo Canyon to the old Timp Haven ski resort. Dad and I spent the entire morning there, perfecting our snowplows and challenging one another to races. Later that day, after thoroughly exhausting ourselves on the slopes, we traveled to my Grandpa Edwards’s warehouse where we helped him and other family members bag potatoes for hauling. Although it was cold outside, dad worked so hard that huge beads of perspiration rolled freely off his forehead. Afterwards, he and I went to a nearby drive-in and had hamburgers, fries, and shakes—just the two of us.

Recently I was privileged to meet a modern-day pioneer, a beloved daughter of God and recent convert to the Church in Chile. She is a single mother with two young sons. Through the power of the Atonement, she has been enabled to put her past behind her and is now earnestly striving to become a true disciple of Jesus Christ. As I think of her, a principle taught by Elder David A. Bednar comes to mind: “It is one thing to know that Jesus Christ came to earth to die for us—that is fundamental and foundational to the doctrine of Christ. But we also need to appreciate that the Lord desires, through His Atonement and by the power of the Holy Ghost, to live in us—not only to direct us but also to empower us.”
As this Chilean sister and I discussed how to stay on the path leading to eternal life, she enthusiastically assured me that she was determined to continue on the path. She had been off the path most of her life, and she declared that there was nothing “out there” off the path that she wanted to have back in her life again. The enabling power of the Atonement is living inside of her. It is being written in her heart.

Jim was an old-timer. He had been an ironworker for over 30 years and had worked on about every type of job in the trade, which gave him a rich background of experience. He had walked narrow beams hundreds of feet off the ground and moved or crawled to the end of beams to make the connections thousands of times. Connectors are supreme among ironworkers. They take the greatest risk, and their job requires the greatest courage. Jim was admired by his peers as a man of great courage and stability.

One day he was working with a crew of ironworkers on a job in the rugged mountains of the Colorado Rockies when a storm struck without warning. The rain poured down, the lightning flashed, the thunder roared, and the wind blew with fury. The ironworkers quickly climbed down and gathered in their work shack to wait for the storm to end.

They had been there for about fifteen minutes when someone asked, “Where’s Jim?” He wasn’t in the shack. They went outside and looked up at the steel structure. There he was, standing on a beam with his arms wrapped tightly around a steel column. They called but got no response, so two of the crew went up the framework and found him frozen in panic. His arms were so tightly clenched around the column that they had to pry him loose. Then they fastened him to a cable and lowered him to the ground. He was terrified with fear.

They took him into the shack and warmed him by the fire. An hour later the storm was over, the weather was calm, the sun shone brightly, and the birds sang in the trees. The crew started back to work, but Jim stayed behind. He had lost his nerve and was afraid to get back in the air.

The foreman recognized the problem. It was not something for Jim to be ashamed of. It happens to the best of men. The situation needed wise care and attention. If Jim didn’t get back in the air now, he never would. The fury of the storm combined with the risk of his trade had broken the spirit of an old-timer. He alone could mend the damage. But he needed a helping hand as he had never needed one before.

The wise foreman put his arm around Jim and said that what had happened to him could happen to any one of them. The foreman told Jim to get back to work and assured him of his complete confidence that he could do so. Jim knew that the foreman was right. Every ironworker knows he has to go back. Jim knew he had to do it now. It would be even more difficult tomorrow if he didn’t go back today, and within a week it would be impossible. Finally, he demanded of himself that he get up on the steel structure and go to work. His legs felt weak and his body shaky. As he climbed the steel and cautiously proceeded to carry on, the members of the crew gave him a rousing cheer. That gave him the strength and confidence he needed.

Jim went to work, and as he strove to keep pace with the others in the crew, he gradually regained his self-confidence. Had the foreman not been understanding or had the other members of the crew been critical, he would likely have been unable to return to work. Jim learned that his fellow workers were his true friends, for they had understood and given him support in a time of dire need.

This summer I was invited to speak on the subject of the family to a gathering of United Nations diplomats. I agonized over what to say to such a diverse group. In the end I simply shared my personal experience. I explained that my parents had taught me as a child that personal virtue was essential for a happy marriage and family and that in my youth I had made promises to God that I would live a chaste life.

I then acknowledged that I was about to turn 50 and that, though I had not yet married, I had kept my promise. “It hasn’t always been easy to stay morally clean,” I admitted, “but it has been far easier than the alternative. I have never spent one second worrying about an unwanted pregnancy or disease. I have never had a moment’s anguish because a man used and then discarded me. And when I do marry, I will do so without regret. So you see,” I concluded, “I believe a moral life is actually an easier and a happier life.”

I worried about how this sophisticated audience would respond to a message about virtue and abstinence, but much to my surprise they leapt to their feet in applause—not because of me but because the Spirit had borne witness of the truth of that message.

Last summer, I was playing on the sidewalk when a neighbor boy was teasing a good friend of mine. At first, I didn’t say anything. After a while, I started to tease my friend, too, and I hurt her feelings. I knew what I had done was very wrong.
I went home and talked to my mom. She helped me clean up and fix my hair. Then I got dressed in my Sunday clothes and picked some violets from our flower garden. We went to my friend’s house, and I gave her the flowers and told her I was very sorry.
I felt much better after I apologized, and I smiled all the way home.
Austin Hamon-Poulsen, age 6Hillspring, Alberta, Canada

The January night was cold and dark. Six-year-old Brigitte huddled next to her nine-year-old sister, Wanda, both of them trying to stay close to the wood-burning stove. Black paper covered the windows so that not even a bit of light would show through to show enemy planes where to bomb. Papa held out a paper, straining to read it by the light of one tiny candle.
“I am to report to Augsburg (Germany) for military training by February first,” he said. “I have been drafted.”
To be without Papa? It was unthinkable! Papa with his funny stories. Papa, who had always kept the family safe. Brigitte looked at the shadowy faces of Mama, Papa, and Wanda. They were sad faces, but without tears.
Papa’s voice was calm. “Over three-fourths of Nuremberg has already been bombed. We ourselves had to find a new home when a bomb tore the hole in our kitchen. Elizabeth, I think that after I am gone, you and the children should try to find a place to stay away from here. It will be safer in the country.”
Mama nodded her head. “My sister Margarete is already looking for a place for us.”
Shuddering, Brigitte remembered the bombs hitting the top floor of their apartment building before they could escape to the shelter. She remembered burning mattresses being flung out of windows. And she remembered being pulled along to the bunkers by her father’s strong hand as they ran through the street in terror, the upper part of it engulfed in flames. That time there had been no warning.
As though reading her mind, Papa said, “Gitte, remember the time Mama covered you with blankets in the shelter to try to block out the noise and screaming? You had been crying. I know that you were very much afraid. Then you heard one of our neighbors say, ‘I want to sit by Mrs. Baier—she has such strong faith, nothing ever happens to her.’ You pushed the blanket off and looked at Oma (Grandmother), who was sitting quietly. Do you remember what you did then?”
“Yes, Papa. I crawled into Oma’s lap, and I stopped crying.” Brigitte smiled. “I always want to be just like Oma.”
“We must all have faith like Oma,” Papa agreed. “Ever since I was baptized when I was fifteen years old, I have never doubted the truthfulness of the gospel. This war will be over soon, but I will never have peace in my heart until I can move us to America and we are sealed in the temple. I have to leave you for a little while now, but we will be together again, and then, somehow, we will get to America.”
Mama smiled. “Yes, George, I’m sure that your dream will come true when you come back to us. You could have gone there after your mission in 1931. I’m glad you stayed here to marry me, instead.”
Papa grinned back at her. “I thought we could go in 1936, after Wanda was born—we even gave her an American name—but by then the government wouldn’t let us out of the country.”
“You were the branch president, however—perhaps you were needed here for a while. I was really frightened, though, when the police came to our home to search for Church books.”
“I was, too, Elizabeth, but no harm came to us.” Papa looked at his two little girls. “I want to give you each a father’s blessing before I leave. And don’t ever doubt that Heavenly Father will take care of you. He won’t ever leave you.”
Brigitte felt comforted after she was given the blessing. Somehow it made her feel like Papa was always close by, even after he had to go away.
Aunt Margarete found a place for them to stay in the country with a kind farmer and his family. Brigitte started school in the nearby village. There was no word from Papa since he had written that he was being transferred. Every day Mama faithfully wrote to him.
“Mama! Mama!” Wanda cried one day as she hurried home. “The Americans have come. The war is over! Surely Papa will be home soon.”
Mama looked up from the stove where she was cooking potato pancakes, wiped her brow with her apron, and sighed. “I hope so, Wanda. I wish we would have some word of him.”
Although the long war was over and there were no more alarms, no more hurrying through the streets to get to the underground shelter when the bombs came, there was no word yet from Papa. Was he alive? Mama still wrote to him. But it had been two years. …
When she came home from the post office with a letter one day, Brigitte and Wanda both ran to her crying, “Is it from Papa?”
“No, I’m afraid not. Oma needs us to come back to Nuremberg. Opa (Grandfather) is very sick. She needs help taking care of him. We must leave right away.”
What about school? Brigitte wanted to ask. But she kept silent. Oma needed them. They walked over an hour, and then two American soldiers gave them a ride in a jeep to Nuremberg. All of the American soldiers treated the people with kindness.
“Oma, let me sweep this floor for you,” Brigitte said, hurrying to take the broom from her grandmother. Opa did not have much longer to live, and Oma looked worn out. Brigitte watched for every chance to help her.
Mama had been called to be Relief Society president. “I don’t know what we’d do without this help from the Saints in America,” she said, opening a big box of food to distribute to people in need.
Brigitte loved the powdered milk that came in some of the boxes. How she loved to put a bit of the white powder on the end of her spoon and lick it off. Mmmm!
Spring came. Opa died in March, and Mama, Wanda, and Brigitte planted a garden where he had always planted one. He had always been so proud of his garden. In the years before he got sick, he had risen at five o’clock each morning and hurried to it, a small part of a shared lot about a twenty minute walk from their apartment.
The garden wasn’t doing very well, though, and Mama was discouraged. “Throw these plants away, Brigitte. They’re so scraggly and the soil is very poor. I don’t think they’re worth bothering with.”
Brigitte looked at the plants with their drooping leaves. They looked dead already. She started to pull them up, then stopped. Opa always worked hard in his garden, she thought. I can’t give up on these plants. I know he wouldn’t. She carefully loosened the dirt around each one and gave them a drink of water. “Please help them to grow, Heavenly Father,” she prayed. Every day she came to the garden and watered it or pulled weeds or both.
One day after she had worked in the garden, she returned home to find her mother sitting and rocking back and forth with tears chasing each other down her cheeks, clutching a letter. “Papa’s alive! This letter is from him. He is a prisoner of war in France and has been clearing the forests there. He didn’t get any of my letters, so he wrote to our friend Peter Loscher in America to see if he could find out if we were all right. Peter sent him our address.” She started to read from Papa’s letter:
“I am so happy to finally know how to reach you and to find that you are safe and well. I am too. My biggest problem is lack of food. Sometimes I have been so hungry that I have had to eat insects. But my faith remains strong. Once when I was clearing a forest, I climbed to the top of a high mountain, where I was able to be alone for a few minutes. I asked the Lord for renewed strength to endure it here. I haven’t forgotten our dream—surely we will be together soon!”
At last, in 1947, after three and a half years of silence, another letter came. This one was from America, from the Church. It told Mama where to write to obtain an affidavit to sponsor Papa’s emigration. For months she worked to get the papers and visas.
At last the long-awaited day came. Brigitte, Wanda, Mama, and Oma stood at the railroad station in Nuremberg, waiting. They had heard that Papa’s train was coming. Brigitte was now twelve years old, and she was nearly afraid to hope too much.
Then she saw him! Papa was thinner and older than she remembered, but he was there, smiling and walking toward them with his suitcase in his hand.
“Papa!” Brigitte cried.
He knelt and opened his arms, and they all rushed into them.
At last the family was together again.
Later, after many more months of waiting and working and praying, the dream came true. The family left Germany and went to America. There, in the temple, they were sealed together for time and all eternity.
Brigitte never forgot the blessing her father had given her that cold January night. She knew that Heavenly Father had taken care of them, just as Papa had promised.

Several years ago we were returning home to the East Coast of the United States from a summer trip to Utah. Our family van started to “hiccup” somewhere in Missouri, and it got worse as we drove into Tennessee. Finally, climbing the hill leaving Chattanooga late that night, the motor died.
As we sat in the dark, wondering what we could do, it occurred to me that this was a great time for our entire family to unite in a prayer of faith. My wife and I calmed our four children and invited them to exercise their faith as we prayed.
Immediately after the prayer, the van started and we continued up the hill. But within a mile it started running badly again. We took the first exit, thinking we would find a motel room for the night. But despite checking with four different motels, we couldn’t find a vacancy.
We returned to the freeway and soon came to an exit that didn’t look like it would have any motels, but something whispered to me to take that exit. I did, but I could see nothing that I thought would help solve our problem. The exit led to a four-lane highway, and we quickly came to a stoplight. I was desperately wondering what I could do for my family in our predicament.
Suddenly my wife pointed out a sandwich shop that was still open on a side road and suggested we stop and get the kids something to eat. I pulled up to the shop, gave our oldest son some money, and sent the other children in with him while my wife and I sat and pondered.
We were tired. We had been traveling since 5:00 that morning, and it was now close to 9:00 p.m. I started asking questions in my heart about why our prayer hadn’t worked and why all our efforts to live the gospel didn’t seem to be having an effect for us in our time of need, when suddenly it came to me that something just wasn’t right.
I looked up and realized that the sandwich shop’s outside light wasn’t turned on. “How did you spot this shop?” I asked my wife. “Was there a sign out by the highway?” She said no, that she had had a sudden impulse to turn her head to the right, and there it was.
I nodded, my mind racing, and quickly summed up. We were trying to live the gospel, raise our children right, be faithful in our callings; we had prayed in faith, followed a prompting, and here we were. It came to me then that we were exactly where we were supposed to be. We just hadn’t figured out what the Lord had for us here.
And then I knew. Somebody must be here who could help us. I looked into the sandwich shop, and in the first booth was a young family. From my seat in the van I could tell that the father had grease stains on his hands.
I got out of the car, walked into the shop, and approached the family. “Are you an auto mechanic?” I asked.
Surprised, he answered, “Yes.”
I explained my problem, and his wife turned to him and said, “That’s just what my car did last week!” He told me what to do to get my car running well enough to reach Atlanta that night. There we had the car repaired and then made it home no worse for wear.
Our children learned that night—and I did too—that faithful prayer does work, but often you have to trust in the Spirit to help you understand the answer.

Our little blue Volkswagen rolled down the country road, carrying us farther and farther away from the home we had grown to love so much during the past five years. Mom was driving the car that contained my two younger sisters and me, and Dad was ahead in a borrowed truck that was loaded high with beds and tables; our old upright piano; and boxes of dishes, dresses, and collected memories. Leaving our little town of Potlatch, Idaho (population 880), for the big city of Lewiston, Idaho (population 26,000), was traumatic. I was 12 years old, and I knew that the sidewalks, drive-ins, and paper mill of this strange new place I was moving to could never replace the fresh country air and close friendships I was leaving behind. I was sure the best part of life was over, and I tried to resign myself to my fate.

After we were settled in our new little home, I spent most of the hot summer days lying on my bed listening to records, reading, and writing letters to my friends. Yet, as August drew to a close, I began to get more excited about attending this big junior high school that had almost as many people as the whole town of Potlatch.

With a new dress and a nervous smile, I entered the building that September and went to first period English. I took a seat near the front of the room and was delighted when the girl in front of me turned around and introduced herself.

As the days continued, I found that, miracle of miracles, the students here were really not so different from my other friends. They also liked the Monkees, hamburgers with mustard, and football games. They also weren’t too excited about math tests, cold weather, or the rival junior high school. I began to feel a part of things and even quit plotting to return to Potlatch for my senior year. I played the clarinet in the school band and quickly found that being in that organization offered me the security of belonging to a group. I didn’t know then that there was an even greater group that was soon to enter my life.

Although I was a member of the Church, when we lived in Potlatch I had usually attended a Protestant church located just behind my house. (There was at that time no branch in Potlatch, and our family seldom traveled the half-hour distance to the nearest ward.) When we moved to Lewiston, however, we began attending Sunday School at the LDS church. It was large, and the people seemed quite friendly—I couldn’t believe how welcome they made me feel! I became good friends with a girl named Teresa, and one day she invited me to come to Mutual. I had no idea what that was, and even after she explained it to me, I figured it must be something like 4-H. What a surprise to find that both boys and girls attended and that we had interesting classes and fun activities! I became involved in Church activities and hardly ever missed Mutual. Mutual was the place where I felt the greatest warmth and acceptance. I didn’t have a testimony of the Church at that time, and the reason I attended was because of the love and friendship extended to me by my friends and leaders. I could feel a warmth there that influenced my life in a very positive manner.

Today when I hear the names of inactive boys or girls, I try to remember that each of them is a potential active member. I am grateful to Teresa, a wonderful friend who kept inviting me to Mutual until I came, and for those open-hearted people in my ward who loved me into activity. I am grateful they did not say, “Oh, well, another inactive girl. I wonder what her problem is?” I’m glad that instead, they thought, “I wonder what her strengths are? We need her.”

Mutual gave me so much—firesides, girls’ camp, slumber parties, eternal friends. And perhaps most important, it gave me the beginnings of a testimony of the gospel and the understanding of what a tremendous influence Mutual can be in the lives of young men and women. For many years I was one of the many inactive little girls throughout the Church; how grateful I am that I wasn’t allowed to remain one forever! I wonder how many inactive members are waiting for us to invite them back into the Church? President Harold B. Lee once said, “What you have to give just may be enough.” From personal experience I know that sometimes that doesn’t have to be very much at all.

President McKay served his mission in Scotland. This was a missionary assignment that pleased him because the McKays originated in Scotland. In 1898 while serving in Scotland, Elder McKay and his companion were transferred from Glasgow to Stirling. Upon arriving in Stirling, they needed to find an apartment. After preparing themselves for the day, they went in search of possibilities. They found an appropriate place and then decided to familiarize themselves with the area. They spent the afternoon sightseeing. They visited “Stirling Castle, the Statue of King Robert the Bruce, the Ladies’ Rock, the Battlefield of Bannockburn, the Public Green, the King’s Tournament” (Larson & Larson, 1999, p. xxxiii), and other sites in Stirling. As they left Stirling Castle to return to their newly acquired apartment, they walked down Back O’ Hill Road. Elder McKay noticed a building under construction for new apartments that would be known as the Albany Crescent buildings. As he and his companion passed the construction site Elder McKay noticed something unusual about the building. He later recalled, “from the sidewalk to my surprise I saw an inscription carved in stone on the lintel of the front door. I said to Brother Johnson, ‘I want to go over there and see what that inscription says.’ I was not more than halfway up the pathway leading to it when this message struck me:, ‘What e’er Thou Art, Act Well thy Part...’ (McKay, D. O., 1959, The Improvement Era, 62 (October), pp. 726-727, 770-771).

There is no record in Elder McKay’s missionary journal about this experience, but the message from the Albany Crescent stone had a tremendous impact on him from that day forward. He recounted during a 1959 General Conference address the impact that this experience had on him as a young missionary. I recall hearing this phrase, What e’er Thou Art, Act Well thy Part, as I was growing up. I assumed for many years that this phrase originated from President McKay himself.

Leaders must learn how to issue calls. When I was a young man, I heard Elder Spencer W. Kimball speak in a stake conference. He said that as a new stake president in Arizona, he left his office in the bank to call a man to be stake leader of the young men.

He said, “Jack, how would you like to be leader of the young men in the stake?”

Jack responded, “Aw, Spencer, you don’t mean me. I couldn’t do anything like that.”

He tried to persuade him, but Jack refused the call.

Brother Kimball went back to his office to brood over his failure. He knew the stake presidency had been inspired to make the call. Finally it came to him: he had made a terrible mistake! Of course, Jack would not respond.

Perhaps he recalled what the prophet Jacob had said when he “taught them in the temple, having first obtained mine errand from the Lord.”

President Kimball now did as Jacob had done in ancient times. He “obtained [his] errand from the Lord.”

He returned to ask Jack to forgive him for not doing it right and started over: “Last Sunday the stake presidency prayerfully considered who should lead the young men in the stake. There were several names; yours was among them. We all felt that you were the man. We knelt in prayer. The Lord confirmed to the three of us, by revelation, that you were to be called to that position.”

Then he said, “As a servant of the Lord, I am here to deliver that call.”

Then Jack said, “Well, Spencer, if you are going to put it that way …”

President Kimball replied, “I am putting it that way!”

Of course, Jack would not respond to a casual invitation from Spencer, but he could not refuse a call from the Lord through Stake President Kimball. He served faithfully and with inspiration.

June and Dallin had talked about the future of their family before she passed away. They agreed that remarrying would be a blessing to him and their family. On August 25, 2000, Elder Oaks married Kristen M. McMain.
Kristen Oaks describes her life with President Oaks with one simple sentence: “We are united in the work of the Lord, and it has showered us with countless blessings.” She creates family gatherings as often as possible because it brings so much joy to the entire family. June is always a part of the conversation.

This story about the Aaronic Priesthood begins with a young woman, 16-year-old Lauren DellAquila of the Cary Second Ward, Apex North Carolina Stake. Lauren hadn’t come to Church for years. She had never been baptized and confirmed, “but I just knew in my heart that the Church was true.”
She also knew David Christison, 16, and Andrew Hill, 15, who attend the same school, are Latter-day Saints. “I’m in marching band with David and had a couple of classes with Andrew last year,” she says. And she knew they stood by their beliefs. “It meant a lot to see their example, because most teens at our school don’t have values like they do,” Lauren explains.
Then one day after band, some other classmates were making unkind comments about the Church. Lauren told them if they really wanted to know the truth, they shouldn’t repeat rumors; they should find out for themselves. Afterward, David thanked her and asked how she knew so much about the Church. “She said that when she was really young she went to Church, but then her parents divorced and she stopped coming,” David says. “So I invited her to come again.”
“People had tried to get me to come back before, but for one reason or another it had never happened,” Lauren explains. “But when I told David and Andrew that I did want to try again, they were excited. I started coming to meetings, and they introduced me to the bishop, the missionaries, and the young women in the ward. They helped me feel at home.”
Soon Lauren was baptized and confirmed, and today she’s a happy, confident Laurel who recently gave a sacrament meeting talk about the importance of the priesthood. “If the gospel had not been restored,” she says, “I wouldn’t have seen two young men honoring their priesthood. And I wouldn’t have had the opportunities I have had to make covenants and to draw close to the Savior.”
It’s a similar story for Hope Riner, an 8-year-old in the same ward. She benefited from the good example of her 17-year-old half-brother, Andrew Roberts. He joined the Church a little over a year ago and was recently ordained a priest, which meant he could baptize her. “I felt great about it, because we have a strong bond already,” Hope says. “I was glad my brother could use the priesthood to help me.”
“It was an incredible experience,” Andrew says. “I know I need to be an example to my sister, not only as a brother, but also as an example of the kind of young man she should have as friends and the kind of man she will marry one day. By my example, I’m preparing her to understand how the priesthood can bless her life.”
Both Lauren and Hope know that the young men in their ward—as well as in the Cary Third Branch (Spanish speaking), which is dependent on their ward—take the priesthood seriously. “They don’t just talk about it,” Lauren says. “They live it.”
Maxwell Guerra, 13, is another example. He’s a member of the branch but serves as the deacons quorum president of the ward. On any given Sunday, he’s meeting with the presidency and the quorum adviser to keep track of the quorum members, plan activities, and make sure all the deacons needed will be there to pass the sacrament. After church on a recent fast Sunday, he helped another deacon collect fast offerings and then visited Alma Parraga, who is about to turn 12 and will soon be joining the quorum.
Andrew Hill, mentioned earlier, is president of the teachers quorum, and he loves the fellowship he finds there. “It’s more than just getting along with each other,” he stresses. “We strengthen each other and learn from each other.” Any assignment, he has found, is easier with teamwork, and that includes home teaching. “One of the great things we do in the Church is to look after each other,” he says. “It’s a powerful thing when an Aaronic Priesthood holder and a Melchizedek Priesthood holder become a team, with a responsibility to watch over families and individuals.”
The teachers also spend time preparing the sacrament, and Andrew says that has special significance for him. “Priests bless the sacrament,” he says, “and deacons pass the sacrament. But teachers set a tone of reverence by having everything ready before the meetings begin.” Being involved with something so sacred is a great privilege for the Aaronic Priesthood, Andrew says.
Of course, the bishop of the ward is the president of the Aaronic Priesthood. In the Cary Second Ward, Matthew Watkins is the first assistant to Bishop Charles N. Anderson. Matthew says he feels one of the most important things the priests do is to study the gospel together. He is grateful when the bishop helps the priests to understand gospel principles. “The priests help teach each other, too,” he says. “Each Sunday I feel like I understand more and more.” In particular, he remembers a lesson about fasting. “It helped me see how important it is to get close to the Spirit.” He also enjoys providing music for priesthood meeting. “Music is another way of getting close to the Spirit,” he explains.
Another priest, Erick Wells, 18, recently ordained his younger brother, Michael, 12, to the office of deacon. “I wanted Erick to ordain me,” Michael says, “because he’s one of the greatest examples in my life. He never does anything wrong that I’ve noticed, so everything he does, I know I can do too.”
Erick smiles at the tribute. “I really enjoyed being able to use my priesthood to confer it on Michael,” he says. “I feel a great responsibility to be an example not only to my family but to other people as well so that I can share in the gospel with all of them.”
Erick says the goal of all young men in the Church should be “to obtain both the Aaronic and Melchizedek Priesthoods, make covenants in the temple, be missionaries, prepare for a lifetime of service, and live faithfully with their families so that they can be together with Heavenly Father again.” Matthew agrees. “The Aaronic Priesthood lifts us to a higher sense of what we need to be doing,” he says.
And that’s what’s happening in the Cary Second Ward. Ask these young men who is using the priesthood to make a difference right now, and they can truthfully answer, “We are!” Ask them who is using the priesthood to prepare for the future, and the answer is the same.
How has the priesthood made a difference in your life? E-mail your experience to us at newera@ldschurch.org.

Ali smiled as she closed the last bright blue envelope. Her eighth birthday was next week! She had spent the whole morning making invitations for her birthday party.
“Ready to go?” Mom asked.
Ali nodded. They were taking an invitation to her friend Tiffany in the hospital.
“I think Tiffany will be glad to see you,” Mom said as she and Ali climbed into the car. “Her mom told me they had to shave off some of her hair for the surgery.”
Ali’s eyes got wide. “But school is starting soon! How can she go to school with no hair?”
“They didn’t shave off all her hair—just a little bit,” Mom said. “And taking care of our bodies is much more important than how we look.”
Ali ran her fingers through her own long hair. It almost reached her waist. “I feel sad for Tiffany.”
“That’s why we’re going to visit her,” Mom said. “It’s part of bearing one another’s burdens.”
Ali scrunched up her eyebrows. “What does that mean?”
“It means helping others when they are going through a hard time,” Mom said. “It’s something you’ll promise to do when you get baptized.”
Ali smiled. Her baptism was coming up! “So I guess helping Tiffany feel better is one way I can practice doing that?” she said.
“Yeah,” said Mom. “That’s a great way to think of it.”
When they got to the hospital, Ali followed Mom to Tiffany’s room. They walked down a long hallway with brightly painted walls and open doors. Inside the rooms, Ali could see children resting in big white hospital beds. Some of them didn’t have any hair.
Finally they got to Tiffany’s room. Tiffany was happy to see Ali.
Ali saw that Tiffany had a bandage on the side of her head. “How are you feeling?” Ali asked.
“Pretty good,” Tiffany said. “The doctor says the surgery went great.”
“Yay! I’m so glad you’re OK,” Ali said.
Then Ali held out a bright blue birthday invitation. “When you’re feeling better, I hope you can come to my birthday party! And maybe you can even come to my baptism.”
Tiffany gave Ali a big hug. “Thank you!”
When it was time to go, Ali walked back down the hallway with Mom. Ali noticed a poster hanging on the wall. It had a picture of a girl holding a long ponytail of her hair. She was smiling. The top of the poster said, “Donate Your Hair for Wigs.”
“Mom,” Ali said. “Can I do that?” She pointed to the poster.
Mom turned to read it. “But Tiffany doesn’t need a wig.”
“I know,” said Ali. “But there are lots of kids at the hospital who do!”
Mom smiled. “I think that’s a great idea.”
On the morning of Ali’s birthday party, Mom took Ali to get her hair cut. After lots of combing and snipping, Ali looked in the mirror. Now her hair reached just to her chin. She felt happy inside when she imagined a girl sitting in a hospital bed, putting on a wig made with some of Ali’s hair.
“How do you feel?” Mom asked.
“So happy that I made up a joke,” said Ali. “Want to hear it?”
Mom nodded.
“I’m getting a head start on my baptism promises!” Ali said with a laugh. She couldn’t wait to keep helping others bear their burdens.

When I turned 18, I wanted to serve a full-time mission and help in the Lord’s work. I eagerly told my parents about my plan and how I wanted to invite people to come unto Jesus Christ by helping them receive and live the principles and ordinances of the gospel. Their response surprised me. They said it broke their hearts to think of me leaving on a mission, and I had to choose: my family or my mission.
I was shocked when I heard those words. Immediately I went to the Church building near our home and entered one of its rooms to kneel and ask Heavenly Father, “What will I do? What will I choose: my family or my mission? Both are important to me.”
While on my knees, the words of the missionaries came to mind: “Whatever God commands, do it.”
I love my family and want to be with them forever. I respect their feelings. Yet the scripture says, “To obey is better than sacrifice” (1 Samuel 15:22). The Spirit of the Lord filled me, and I was strengthened. I decided to serve because I knew Heavenly Father would help my family understand.
I went home only to be sent away by my father’s angry words and told to never return. Not knowing where to go, I packed my things. I was not a bit scared, because I knew the Lord was with me, that He has a plan for every family, and that someday my family would understand this beautiful plan.
I was only a few steps away from home when my mother caught me. She embraced me and said how much she loved me. As I left, I could see her crying with all the love and pain of a mother seeing her child go.
For over a year, I stayed in the house of a returned missionary I had met when I was an investigator. The Lord was true to His promise in 1 Nephi 3:7—He provided the way so I could obey His commandments. He sent this selfless and generous man to provide for me and to create a spiritual environment where I could prepare for my mission. I felt the hand of God sustaining me through my challenges. I felt the love of our Savior Jesus Christ through His atoning sacrifice. This love carried me through my trials until I was set apart as a full-time missionary in the Philippines Cauayan Mission.
A few months later, I received a letter from my family telling me they were waiting for my return. I never lost faith and hope that my whole family would become members of the Church, be sealed in the temple for all eternity, and be with our Heavenly Father and His Son, Jesus Christ, someday.