Gospel Story Finder

When I received my call to serve in the France Toulouse Mission, I was excited to serve in a foreign country and learn a new language. Despite not having studied French before, I was confident I would be able to learn to speak the language easily.
My stake president blessed me with the gift of tongues when he set me apart as a missionary. This blessing added to my confidence that I would be able to learn French quickly.
When I arrived at the missionary training center in Provo, Utah, I was eager to begin, but my time at the MTC was humbling. I was overwhelmed and struggled every day. When I left the MTC, I felt I had made few advances with French. I wondered when the gift of tongues would come.
My first assignment in the mission field was in a small town in southern France. One afternoon, just days after I had arrived, my companion and I were street contacting. I didn’t say much when we spoke with people—I could hardly understand them, and they could hardly understand me.
We approached a woman, and my companion began telling her about the Church. The woman listened for a few minutes and then suddenly turned to me and said, “What do you have to say?”
I anxiously and desperately tried to remember something I had learned. In a trembling voice, I bore a simple testimony about Heavenly Father and the Book of Mormon. As I did so, the Spirit bore witness to me that what I had said was true. I don’t know if the woman felt anything, but she smiled, turned back to my companion, and asked her to continue with her message.
This experience taught me an important lesson. I learned that even though I couldn’t speak French well, the Spirit could speak through me. I learned that perhaps the blessing I had received from my stake president was actually a blessing to be able to speak the language of the Spirit.
Years later, this experience still influences me. I am not required to preach the gospel in French anymore, but I need the help of the Spirit when I am asked to teach a lesson or give a talk in church. When I feel that I am struggling to express myself, I find comfort in remembering that the Spirit is able to speak to the hearts of all of God’s children.

I’ll never forget the lesson I learned a few years ago. It was a lesson of how to show, not just teach, the gospel message. At the time, I was serving in the Sweden Stockholm Mission in a town not far from Stockholm.
One rainy day, while my companion and I were riding the bus home for lunch, we met a young lady who had been an exchange student in the United States. She told us that her name was Anna and that she was attending the university in town. We asked her about her beliefs and found that she was very active in another church. She said that she would never change but accepted our invitation to hear more about our beliefs.
During the weeks that followed, we taught her several discussions and had some wonderful spiritual experiences. She read from the Book of Mormon and prayed for answers to her questions. She felt that it was right, but because of her previous religious ties, she had a hard time accepting the challenge to be baptized.
That Thanksgiving we had planned a small “feast” for our investigators and some member friends. As the word spread, our small feast became a large gathering. Of course Anna was invited, along with others that my companion and I had grown very close to.
Before the blessing on the food, I took the time to explain the significance of Thanksgiving and why we celebrate it. I also explained to the guests just how much my companion and I loved and appreciated each one of them. I thanked them for the kindness they had always shown us.
The rest of the night went rather well. There were musical numbers by members and nonmembers alike and many other fun activities. I couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed, however. It had taken much more of our time than I had expected, and I wondered if the time could have been better spent.
Later that next week, I received a notice of transfer, but before I left, Anna wrote a short letter and gave it to me. I have translated a portion of that letter:
“I also want to thank you for letting me come to your Thanksgiving party. It was quite an experience for me in two ways—partly because I got to eat American food and partly because I got to see the warmth that exists between you and your friends. It will be of great importance for me in my decisions concerning your teachings.”

Steve was working on a term paper when a credit card company called his Brigham Young University dorm. The company was offering cards to students and wondered if he would like to apply. Happy to take a break from studying, Steve agreed to answer a few questions. He told the representative he was on scholarship and had no income. Since he planned to serve a mission at the end of the year, it would be a long time before he graduated and began a career. I’ll never get approved, Steve thought as the conversation ended. To his amazement, he received a $2,000-limit credit card a week later in the mail.
Credit card debt can get out of control, causing heartache and deep financial troubles if unchecked. President Gordon B. Hinckley has said, “Debt can be a terrible thing. It is so easy to incur and so difficult to repay. Borrowed money is had only at a price, and that price can be burdensome” (Ensign, Mar. 1990, 4). Steve learned this lesson the hard way. For the first few months he had his credit card, it stayed in his wallet. But in the last three weeks of his freshman year, Steve went on a spending spree. “After a year of living on a few hundred dollars a month, I decided to go have some fun,” says Steve.
With his credit card he paid for weekend trips and new clothes. By the time he went home, he had racked up charges nearing his credit limit. As a result, he spent the summer before his mission working frantically to pay off the debt. “It wasn’t a positive learning experience,” says Steve. “At the time, I didn’t realize that a credit card doesn’t expand your income now; it shrinks your future income because of debt.”

Eleven-year-old Cassie sat on the front porch, frowning at the yellow stains on her fingernails. Since early morning she’d helped peel bushels and bushels of peaches, and the fuzzy skins had not only stained her fingers but made her hands itch. She never wanted to see another peach as long as she lived.
It had been a good summer for her family. The garden had given them lots of vegetables, and they’d already bottled beans and peas. The corn and the apples looked promising, but the peaches had been the best crop that Cassie could remember.
“Come inside and wash up for supper,” Mama called. “We have to go to bed early because we’re making peach jam tomorrow.”
Peaches, peaches, and more peaches, Cassie thought. Too many peaches! I’ll be dreaming all night about peaches.
“I see Papa and the boys coming up the back way,” Mama said. “Please hurry.”
Cassie hadn’t realized how hungry she was. Mama’s beef stew was wonderful, and even the peach cobbler tasted good.
After supper, Papa, Willy, and Jon took the bottles of peaches down to the fruit cellar. “These will be mighty tasty this winter,” Papa said. “How many bottles did we get?”
“Nearly two hundred,” Mama answered. “Almost twice as many as last year, even after we took the tithing bushels to the storehouse.”
Papa smiled. “I hope you children realize how much the Lord has blessed us.”
Cassie offered the family prayer that night and thanked Heavenly Father for all their blessings, including the peaches, though it was hard to feel grateful when she was so tired.
Cassie fell asleep right away. She awoke to the sounds of people shouting and wagons rattling down the road. She looked out the window and saw a smoky orange and red glow coming from the direction of the Ashman house. She jumped out of bed, her heart pounding. Sara Ashman was her best friend! She wrapped her quilt around her and ran downstairs. The floor felt cold on her bare feet. Mama was shaking out their extra quilts.
“What’s wrong, Mama?”
“I’m glad you’re up, Cassie. The Ashmans’ house caught fire. I don’t know how bad it is yet, but Papa and the boys are helping to put it out. The Ashmans are going to have to stay with us awhile, and I need your help to get the house ready. Brother and Sister Ashman will stay in your room. You, Sara, and Molly will stay in the boys’ room, and the boys can sleep down here on the floor.”
Cassie dressed quickly and moved her things to her brothers’ room. She put fresh sheets on her big double bed that had belonged to Grandma Bingham. The boys’ straw mattresses wouldn’t be nearly as comfortable as her down-filled one, but she was happy to share it with Sara’s parents. Besides, it would be fun to have Sara and Molly stay with her.
As she and Mama finished getting the house ready, a wagon pulled up outside. Cassie was hurrying downstairs when Willy came through the door, carrying Molly wrapped in a quilt. Sara and Sister Ashman followed him in. Their faces were smudged with soot, and Cassie could see where tears had run down their cheeks. She ran to Sara and gave her a hug.
“Oh, Cassie,” Sara cried, “everything’s gone—our clothes, our furniture, even our dolls!”
“Couldn’t you save anything, Edith?” Mama asked.
Sister Ashman shook her head. “We’re just very grateful to be alive.”
Papa and Jon came in with Brother Ashman, Tim Ashman, and Bishop Smith. “Looks like some rags were left too close to the wood stove, and the fire just spread from there,” the bishop said. “It’s a good thing Tim smelled smoke and woke the family. You’re a hero, Tim.”
Tim blushed. “I’m just glad the house was built next to the oak tree. We all climbed out Sara’s window and down the tree. You should have seen Mother—she shinned down faster than any of us.”
“We’re grateful that you’re safe,” Papa said. “We’ll go over when it’s light and see what’s to be done. Bishop, will you offer a prayer?”
The Bishop thanked Heavenly Father for saving the lives of the Ashman family. He asked for a special blessing on Cassie’s house while the Ashmans were staying there. Cassie felt good inside knowing that they had more than enough to share.
At daylight the men examined the ruins. They decided that it would take nearly two months to build a new house since they could work on it only after their own work was done. Every man in town volunteered to help.
The time went by quickly. Each evening except Sunday the men worked on the house. Lumber was donated from the sawmill in the next town, and Mr. Farley gave them paint from his store. People Cassie didn’t even know came to help. If anyone had a spare minute, it was spent building the house.
The sisters from the ward were busy too. They met to make quilts and clothing. People donated furniture, clothes, and kitchen utensils. A traveling salesman stopped by with a box of kitchen knives and left without telling anyone his name. Cassie couldn’t remember when everyone had seemed so happy.
Cassie and Mama kept busy making peach jam and canning the vegetables from both their own garden and the Ashman’s, which had not been harmed by the fire. Being with Sara and Molly was so much fun that Cassie even forgot that canning was hard work.
Because of everyone’s help, the house was finished sooner than expected. Cassie felt sad to think about Sara leaving. One night at dinner Sister Ashman began to cry. “I don’t know how I’ll ever repay all of you. The new house, the clothes, the dishes. Why I feel like a young bride again.”
“There’s no need to thank us,” Mama said. “You’d do the same for us.”
When the Ashmans moved, everyone came to see the new house. It was beautiful. Cassie couldn’t believe all the wonderful things the neighbors had done. There were dishes in the cupboards, rugs on the floors, and curtains at the windows. But for Cassie, the best part of the house was the fruit cellar. Lined up on the shelves were the bottles of vegetables she’d helped preserve—including three full shelves of bottled peaches. Well, she thought, maybe there weren’t too many peaches after all.

The Mia Maids of the Academy Park Ward in Kearns, Utah, recently held a combined Young Women activity called a PJ’s party. The idea was to help the young women think about three important things to remember before going to bed each night: Prayer, Journal, Scriptures. Each girl wore a pair of pajama pants they had made the previous month. They put together folders with scripture-study and journal-writing suggestions, and then each girl painted a prayer rug to place by their beds.
“My prayer rug is inspirational,” says Holly, one of the Mia Maids. “Every night my prayer rug is there reminding me to say my prayer before getting into bed. It really has changed my praying habits.”
Photograph courtesy of the Academy Park Ward

Maddie was having fun coloring in her coloring book when she heard Mom calling her to get in the car so they could run errands. Maddie did not like going on errands. She pretended she didn’t hear her mom and kept coloring.
Finally, Mom came to Maddie. “Maddie, I have been calling you and calling you. Everyone is in the car, and we are waiting for you. We need to go to the bank, to the grocery store, and to put gas in the car. Please hurry.”
“I don’t want to come,” Maddie said. “Errands are boring. They take forever!”
“I need you to please obey,” Mom said. “You can bring your crayons and coloring book.”
Maddie growled and grumbled as she picked up her things and stomped after Mom to the car.
“This is not fair!” Maddie whined.
As they drove along, Maddie had a hard time keeping her crayons inside the lines of the picture she was coloring.
“I can’t color in the car,” Maddie said. “Every time you turn it makes me mess up!”
Maddie thought if she was miserable running errands, everyone else should be miserable too. At each stop the family made, Maddie had something to complain about. She complained and complained and complained.
When they finally got home, Maddie ran to her room. She was glad to be home. But she was starting to feel sorry about the way she had behaved. Making everyone else miserable hadn’t made her feel any happier.
She thought about the family home evening lesson Mom had taught the week before. Mom talked about Nephi and his brothers Laman and Lemuel. She asked who had been more obedient, and Maddie said Nephi. When Dad asked her why, Maddie said that Nephi was the one who did what he was asked to do.
Dad explained that Laman and Lemuel had gone with their family into the wilderness and with Nephi to get the brass plates from Laban. But Laman and Lemuel had murmured and complained. They were miserable and tried to make everyone else miserable. But Nephi respected his parents and Heavenly Father. Even when he was asked to do something hard, Nephi obeyed without complaining.
Maddie realized that even though she had gone to the car as she had been asked, and even though she had gone on all of the errands with her family, she had not been like Nephi.
Maddie put down her crayons. She walked into the kitchen and apologized to her family for the way she had acted. Mom hugged Maddie and asked her to help her brother set the table for dinner. Maddie didn’t really want to help, but she said OK and went to the cupboard to get the plates without complaining. Mom smiled at her, and Maddie smiled back. She was feeling better already.

Miss Bridie Chose a Shovel, by Leslie Connor. When she leaves her home in 1856 to cross the ocean, Miss Bridie can choose just one keepsake. In this practical, poignant story, Miss Bridie uses her shovel to build a new life in America.

I remember when I was young, I had a stutter and had difficulty reading and writing, but my mother always expressed confidence in my ability to overcome these challenges. Her belief in me led me to enter a speech contest for youth held at church. To my surprise, I came in first place among the boys and second overall out of 14 youth in the contest. To this day, I still remember that speech. I was able to do this because I felt the confidence of my mother and leaders to do what was hard for me. I never would have imagined that I would be where I am today, speaking at conferences or writing articles for Church magazines. Our youth need us to believe in their ability to do difficult things as they turn to God and live in a higher and holier way.

When I finished telling this story in the Sunday School class, a member who had recently returned from his mission asked me where I had served.

“In the Japan Sapporo Mission,” I answered.

“Was it in Asahikawa that you helped this child?” he asked.

“Yes,” I answered.

Then he said, “The child in your story was baptized by my companion. One week after the baptism, I was transferred to Asahikawa and I met him. He mentioned that a missionary had saved him from drowning in a river.”

The Lord guides us in miraculous ways. It was not mere chance that my companion felt inspired to work in a distant area that afternoon despite his difficulty with walking or that we walked along the river at just the right moment.

Now the young man who was saved wants to be a missionary, just like the one who saved him. I thought I had completed my mission 14 years ago, but when this young man goes on a mission, in a sense my mission will continue.

A few years ago, I didn’t talk to anyone outside of my family, my five or six close friends, and maybe a few acquaintances. None of my friends were girls, and the friends I did have were very similar to me. I wouldn’t talk to girls because I was scared of them. I didn’t want to talk to anyone different from me. I didn’t know how to carry on a conversation if our interests weren’t the same.
That summer, I went to my first FSY conference. I tried not to talk to the girls in my company for the first two days because I didn’t know how. But eventually they started to talk to me and be friends with me, and I realized they were nice.

After taking all the missionary lessons, I’d spent the previous two weeks asking questions, pondering, and learning. I read the entire Book of Mormon and spent time praying.
Every time the elders asked me if I would commit to live by what I was being taught, I answered, “Yes, if I find out the Church is true.” Originally, I said this without much intent, but slowly as I learned, thought, and prayed about the Church, I became much more sincere in both desire and effort.
However, just deciding I wanted to know wasn’t enough to suddenly bring the answer I sought. As the hours and days went by, I started to get frustrated. There was a promise right there in the Book of Mormon: “Ask with a sincere heart, with real intent, having faith in Christ, [and] he will manifest the truth of it unto you, by the power of the Holy Ghost” (Moroni 10:4). Yet that confirmation still eluded me. Maybe in the beginning I hadn’t prayed with real intent, but that changed along the way. I was sincerely searching. Why was I still not able to receive this witness?
The elders were also praying for a way to help me recognize the Spirit. When I told them about my struggles to receive an answer, one elder, led by inspiration, asked me if maybe I had already gotten an answer and had simply overlooked it—that revelation sometimes comes in quiet answers. That advice impacted me profoundly. It caused me to really reflect upon my intentions.
The Spirit whispered to me, asking me specifically why I wanted to know if the Church was true.
This inspiration formed the basis of my prayer the next day. I shared with Heavenly Father that I desired to know if the Savior really had restored the gospel through Joseph Smith. If it was true, I was willing to be baptized and spend the rest of my life trying to be the most faithful member I could be. I also shared the concern that this would be a huge change for me—and I worried about being the only Church member in my family. I feared that if my testimony wasn’t built on a strong enough foundation, I would talk myself out of it when things got challenging. I acknowledged that He might have already answered me, and I was sorry if I’d missed it. I pleaded for another chance, repented for taking the search lightly in the beginning, and shared again my willingness to spend my life in His service if it was true.
The idea came to write down all my thoughts, feelings, and experiences while learning about the gospel. I momentarily hesitated, wavering between the desire to know and the desire not to know. Fortunately, my determination won out over complacency, and I wrote the idea at the top of a yellow pad.
First, I wrote down the way I felt when I was taking the missionary lessons and my thoughts as I pondered what I learned. I remembered that I’d felt prompted to read certain scriptures that answered specific questions.
As I wrote these things down, I noticed that my frame of reference started to change. I wasn’t just remembering things from the past two weeks but from my whole life. An amazing picture of the Lord teaching and preparing me to accept the gospel over the years started to emerge. Excited, I wrote down the last few things. There were 31 in all.
As I read the list, tears came to my eyes and gratitude filled my soul. I realized I held in my hand my very own testimony of the restored gospel. It was the answer I’d been praying for. Not a grand sign or even something purely new to learn, but instead a list of the times His hand had been evident in my life and that the Spirit had touched my heart.
In a way, that missionary had been right about overlooking a quiet answer—I had simply needed to recognize the many promptings I’d received throughout my whole life.
I have pondered those few weeks, especially that day I made the list, many times in the past 20 years. I have often wondered why I was blessed to be not only introduced to the gospel but also led, guided, and prepared to accept it. That quiet answer impacted my life in ways I couldn’t have imagined during those searching days. I will be eternally grateful to Heavenly Father for the angel He sent in the form of a missionary to teach me not just His words but also how to listen to His voice.
I have tried my best to always hearken to that voice and live up to the promise that I made to Heavenly Father all those years ago. He gave me an answer I couldn’t talk myself out of, and after all this time, I wouldn’t want to.

I served in the United States Navy near the end of World War II. Navy boot camp was not an easy experience for me or for anyone who endured it.
When Sunday rolled around after the first week, we received welcome news from the chief petty officer. Standing at attention on the drill ground in a brisk California breeze, we heard his command: “Today everybody goes to church—everybody, that is, except for me. I am going to relax!” Then he shouted, “All of you Catholics, you meet in Camp Decatur—and don’t come back until three o’clock. Forward, march!” A rather large group moved out. Then he barked out his next command: “Those of you who are Jewish, you meet in Camp Henry—and don’t come back until three o’clock. Forward, march!” A smaller group marched out. Then he said, “The rest of you Protestants, you meet in the theaters at Camp Farragut—and don’t come back until three o’clock. Forward, march!”
Instantly there flashed through my mind the thought, “Monson, you are not a Catholic; you are not a Jew; you are not a Protestant. You are a Mormon, so you just stand here!” I felt completely alone.
Then the chief petty officer looked in my direction and asked, “And just what do you guys call yourselves?” I had not realized that anyone was standing beside me or behind me. Almost in unison, each of us replied, “Mormons!” Joy filled my heart as I turned around and saw a handful of other sailors.
The chief petty officer thought for a moment and finally said, “Well, you guys go find somewhere to meet. And don’t come back until three o’clock. Forward, march!”
As we marched away, I thought of the words of a rhyme I had learned in Primary years before:
Dare to be a Mormon;
Dare to stand alone.
Dare to have a purpose firm;
Dare to make it known.
How grateful I am that I made the decision long ago to remain strong and true, always prepared and ready to defend my religion.

On a computer screen, Elder Eric Bennett watches two Brazilian missionaries teaching a discussion in Portuguese. With a click of his mouse he brings up the text of the discussion so he can read along as the Brazilians speak. He clicks on a “record” icon, does his best to imitate the Portuguese into his microphone, then plays the recording back, comparing it to native speech.

When Ioana Schifirnet joined the Church as a young teen in Romania, the young adults in her branch welcomed her and included her in their classes and activities. “They became my best friends,” she said. “They made me feel like I belonged.”
Ioana concluded, “Looking back, I would have joined the Church of Jesus Christ without those young single adults. But having them helped strengthen me in ways I needed.”

There were two young boys returning home late one afternoon. It was getting dark, and they should have been home earlier. Knowing they were in trouble, they decided to save a little time and take a shortcut by going through a pasture. The boys were well aware they were not to go into the pasture. The property was posted with “no trespassing” signs because of the presence of a large, mean bull. It was getting dark, and since the bull was in an area of the pasture where he couldn’t see the boys, they decided to attempt the shortcut. After they had crawled under the fence, and were about halfway across the pasture—at the point of no return—the bull spotted them and charged in their direction. The boys began running, but one of them stopped and said, “Wait, let’s kneel down and pray for help.” The other boy said, “If you want to stop and kneel down and pray, you do it, but I’m going to run and pray.”

In March of 2003, one of my good friends, Bret, invited me to help with his Eagle Scout project. After school the next day we drove in his truck with another friend of ours, Camden, to where the project would be. Inspired by the Spirit, Bret directed Camden to a Book of Mormon situated in a holder in the passenger-side door. He told him to open to a verse he had recently read in the Book of Alma. My interest was sparked, and for the first time, I saw the book I wanted so very badly. However, I was too scared to say anything right then. Upon returning that evening, I worked up the confidence to ask Bret for the book. He happily gave it to me and told me to read it. That night I read nine chapters. From the moment I picked up the book, I fell in love with its message.

Although the language barrier is challenging, North American and Brazilian missionaries also say it’s a lot of fun trying to talk with each other in the cafeteria, in their dorm rooms, in the gym, and in occasional combined classes. “Even on our first day here, we were actually able to carry on a conversation with a Brazilian in the cafeteria line,” says Sister Kathryn Sevy. “He was going really slow for us, but it was so exciting to realize that what we learned in Provo actually works!”

“Now may I make a personal reference, which I’ll try to treat in such a way as to preserve the confidentiality. It involved a beautiful, young wife and mother from a prominent family. She had gone away from her home and was now in the East. She had gone out into an area where she and her husband had taken up with those in the ghetto, and she wrote me a rather interesting letter, and I quote only a paragraph: ‘Tomorrow my husband will shave off his long, full beard. Because of the request of the stake president and your direction in the Priesthood Bulletin, he must not have the appearance of evil or rebellion if he is to get a recommend to go to the temple. I have wept anguished tears; the faces of Moses and Jacob were bearded, and to me the wisdom and spirituality of the old prophets reflected from the face of my own spiritual husband. It was like cutting out for me a symbol of the good things my generation has learned.’ Then the letter concluded with a challenge to me: ‘We are prepared for clear, specific, hard-line direction as youth. Wishy-washy implications are not heard very well here. We look to you to tell it straight.’
“I don’t know whether she knew just what she was asking for when she asked me to tell it straight, but these are some things I wrote to her: ‘In your letter you address me as, “Dear President Lee,” and in your first sentence you refer to me as the Lord’s prophet. Now, in your letter you tell me that you are saddened because with the shaving off of the beard and the cutting of the hair, which, to you, made your husband appear as the prophets Moses and Jacob, he would no longer bear that resemblance. I wonder if you might not be wiser to think of following the appearance of the prophets of today. President David O. McKay had no beard or long hair; neither did President Joseph Fielding Smith; and neither does your humble servant whom you have acknowledged as the Lord’s prophet.
“‘The inconsistency in your letter has made me reflect upon an experience that I had in the mission field when, in company with some missionaries and the mission president, we were at Carthage Jail, where the martyrdom of the Prophet Joseph and his brother, Hyrum, took place. In that meeting there were recounted the events that led up to their martyrdom. Then the mission president made some significant comments. He said, “When the Prophet Joseph Smith died there were many who died spiritually with Joseph.” Likewise there were many who died spiritually with Brigham Young, and so with others of the presidents of the Church, because they chose to follow the man who had passed on, rather than giving allegiance to his successor upon whom the mantle of leadership had been given by the Lord’s appointment.’
“And then I asked her, ‘Are you following, in looks, prophets who lived hundreds of years ago? Are you really true to your faith as a member of the Church in failing to look to those who preside in the Church today? Why is it that you want your husband to look like Moses and Jacob, rather than to look like the modern prophets to whom you are expressing allegiance? If you will give this sober thought, your tears will dry, and you’ll begin to have some new thoughts.’” (“Be Loyal to the Royal Within You.” Speeches of the Year, Provo, Utah: Brigham Young University Press, 1974, pp. 97–98.)

Before I started coming to church, a friend of mine gave me a couple of New Eras to read, but all I’d do was glance through them and give them back. I never realized the important messages that were contained in them. I guess I thought that they would be like any church publication of any religion. But they’re not! They’re magazines that contain the most important message of all—that the true church of our Savior, Jesus Christ, has been restored to the earth. I am grateful for the publication of the New Era, as well as the Friend and the Ensign, and for the words of wisdom published in them. They help strengthen our testimonies.
Jane SkinnerSelby, Victoria, Australia

As a youth, Elder Osborn especially enjoyed Scouting. One time when he had gone on a hike into the mountains with his Scout troop, he took a different path from that of the rest of the Scouts, thinking that the two paths would eventually meet. The trail was steep and rocky and did not join the path that the other Scouts had taken, after all. He was lost, and he prayed that the Lord would help him. “A short time later,” he said, “my Scoutmaster, having been prompted by the Spirit to find me, came up the path and helped me back down the trail.”