Gospel Story Finder

Our youngest son, Bryan, like two of his siblings, was born with cystic fibrosis. Despite this health challenge, he was able to serve as an online missionary for two years in the Provo MTC referral center. He was blessed to serve with a small group of highly effective missionaries who fielded thousands of calls and video chats with both friendly and unfriendly enquirers. Each of these wonderful missionaries also had a health challenge, but they served from early morning until late at night teaching people from all over the world.

One of Bryan’s companions was Elder Tyson Boardman. Both Tyson and his brother Trevor struggled with muscular dystrophy, yet both served faithfully in the referral center. On one occasion a young woman contacted the referral center and was taught by Elder Trevor Boardman. She then requested that he be the one to baptize her. Given his muscular dystrophy, performing a baptism would have been very difficult and dangerous; however, a wise priesthood leader had Elder Boardman and his companion Elder Blair Ahlstrom enter the baptismal font together so Elder Ahlstrom could hold up Elder Boardman as they baptized their new friend. That is such a tender and symbolic example of how we should hold on to and lift each other up as we make and keep covenants to bear one another’s burdens.

For the fifth year, the Adventurers of the Cleveland Ohio Stake hit the Appalachian Trail for the backpacking adventure.
Preparations were intense as the girls planned the most creative menus that would fit in backpacks. Fettuccine Alfredo won raves while the mountain mush was voted the meal most likely to be skipped.
The Adventurers started on the South Mountain section of the Appalachian Trail in Maryland. They were soon into lush, green forest that was a relief from the heat. For the next three days, the girls with their Young Women and priesthood leaders marched 22 miles, carrying their own water supply most of the way. Along the hike were areas that became well known during the Civil War. At the completion of their hike, they visited Harpers Ferry, a town well known in American history.
On their way home, Wanda Bublik, stake camp director, said, “We learned that just as we had a destination and followed a plan each day to reach our chosen campsite, we must also have a plan and destination in mind in our daily lives if we are to reach our chosen glory.”

Many years ago it was my privilege to provide a blessing to a beautiful 12-year-old young lady, Jami Palmer. She had just been diagnosed with cancer. She learned that her leg where the cancer was would require multiple surgeries. A long-planned hike with her Young Women class up a rugged trail was out of the question, she thought.
Jami told her friends they would have to hike without her. I’m confident there was disappointment in her heart.
But then the other young women responded emphatically, “No, Jami, you are going with us!”
“But I can’t walk,” came the reply.
“Then we’ll carry you to the top!” And they did.
None of those precious young women will ever forget that memorable day when a loving Heavenly Father looked down with a smile of approval and was well pleased.

June 5, 1976, began early for the Ashcraft family in Wilford, Idaho. It was Wayne’s twelfth birthday, and it turned out to be an unexpectedly eventful Saturday for him and thousands of people in and around Rexburg, Idaho. By evening of that same day the Ashcrafts had lost their new three-month-old home, and their land and farm equipment were ruined when later that morning the Teton Dam broke, spreading disaster throughout the valley. But the Ashcraft family was safe.
Sister Ashcraft, Cara Lynn (4) and Greg (2) were in Salt Lake City, visiting relatives.
Meanwhile in Wilford, sprinkler pipes for irrigating had to be moved and ditches dug that day so Ronald (13), Wayne (12), Kaleen (11), Cynthia (10), and Renee (9) helped.
The girls had never moved pipe before. “I really didn’t want to help,” Kaleen admitted. “I wanted to go to a Primary activity instead. But Dad came and got us up, and by nine o’clock we’d moved all the pipes and were digging ditches.”
“Dad had told me to take a shovel and clean out a ditch, and I was just taking my time,” Wayne shyly admitted. “I figured I’d be through before Dad got back to the pickup. He had to check the water and everything first.
“Later when I was done, I met Dad and we got on the tractor and headed toward the road.
“Our neighbor, Roger Weber, was out in the field chasing his horses. He started shouting something, and Dad shut the tractor off so we could hear. Roger told us the dam was breaking.”
“We thought we had about an hour,” Ronald added, “so I took the tractor down to the other end of the field. Then we all got in the pickup and headed home.
“We were about a mile from our house when another neighbor said we couldn’t go any farther. Dad said, ‘Oh, surely I can make it home.’
“Our neighbor said, ‘You’d be foolish to try.’ But Dad wanted to try anyway.
“We went about a quarter mile and just around the corner we saw Virgil Wad’s spud pit go. Turning the pickup around, we saw Dean Dawes’ place being covered by the water. We headed next for Bischoff’s spud pit, then decided to go for higher ground.
“We started for the hill on one side of the valley, but the water began coming, so we went to the other side. We had to hurry because the road was in the valley.”
From that hill the Ashcraft family watched the water go around them and then hit their home. Stunned by what they were seeing, Wayne suggested that he and his brother and sisters go off by themselves to pray. Cynthia said, “I got in the back of the pickup, knelt down by a tire, and prayed. After that I thought, Everything’s going to be OK. The water will start to go down.”
But it didn’t.
Just then some airplanes flew over the area. One of the planes spotted the families below stranded on the hill. The pilot flew back to the airport in St. Anthony and returned in a military plane that landed in a grainfield. The Ashcrafts and others climbed aboard and were taken to St. Anthony.
The Ashcraft family lost their home and all of their earthly possessions except a little football belonging to Greg that they found downstream from their home several miles. But today they are happy they are alive and together and are thankful for all the help they have received.
The people of the Idaho flood area feel blessed. The Church through its welfare program has provided them with food, clothing, and shelter. Church members have opened up their homes and their hearts to the stricken families.
The Ashcrafts plan to return to their once fertile land, now covered by many feet of sand and gravel. There they will live in two trailer houses until they can build a new home.
This family will always remember one important lesson—to follow the promptings of the Holy Ghost. When Cynthia asked her father why he insisted on taking them with him that Saturday morning, he said he had a feeling that he should take them.
And Cynthia understood!

They finally asked Andy to be in the Third Street Tigers. His best friend, Michael, was already in the club. If only he wasn’t afraid to climb up to the tree house where they had the meetings! Wooden planks were nailed up the trunk like a ladder, but whenever Andy tried to climb anything, he got a funny feeling in his stomach.
One day he decided to try climbing while no one was looking. On the fourth step, his stomach did a double flip, and he dropped to the grass. Turning to go home, Andy found Montgomery blocking his way.
“You’re afraid! You’re afraid!” teased Montgomery.
“What do you mean?” Andy gulped.
“You chickened out. I saw you! You’ll never be a Tiger.”
“Leave me alone!”
Laughing, Montgomery pushed Andy. “Maybe you should join the preschoolers. They meet in the sandbox.”
In the morning, Andy told Michael what had happened. “It’s no use,” Andy sighed. “I’ll never get all the way up. Montgomery was right.”
“But you have to be a Tiger,” Michael said. “Best friends are always in the same club.”
“Yeah, but Montgomery …”
“Forget Montgomery. I know something that might help you build up your courage. Meet me at the gym after school,” Michael said as he headed back to class.
All day long, Andy wondered what Michael’s plan was and if it would work. He wanted to be in the Tigers more than anything.
The gym was crowded when Andy found Michael in a corner, watching a girl do a somersault on the balance beam.
“What’s the plan?” Andy asked.
“The balance beam.”
“You’re not getting me up there. I saw what that girl was doing.”
“Not the high beam,” said Michael. “There’s a lower beam over there.” As he talked, Michael pulled Andy across the room.
Andy put one foot on the beam, then jerked it down again. He hoped the Tigers were worth all this trouble. With Michael guiding him, Andy finally walked to the other end. Then he saw Montgomery watching him.
Andy stepped down to the floor. “What do you want?”
“I came to see if you’re still afraid.”
“Let’s go,” Michael said to Andy. “We’re done here, anyway.”
As they left, Montgomery shouted, “Hey, Andy, maybe you can join the Tigers when you grow up.”
On Friday, Michael talked Andy into trying to climb the tree again. As he got close to it, Andy felt a familiar flutter in his stomach. Hitching up his pants and crossing his fingers once for luck, he started up the tree.
First step, no problem. Second step, fine. By the third step, Andy felt as if he could make it. Then the plank pulled away from the trunk, and Andy tumbled to the ground.
Andy and Michael were both thinking the same thing: Montgomery must have loosened the step. “I’m going to find him,” Andy raged. He headed for Montgomery’s favorite hangout, the city park. By the time he got there, he’d cooled off. What’s the use? he thought. No matter what I say, Montgomery will never leave me alone.
He turned to go back to Michael, when he heard yelling and a dog barking. Andy ran toward the sound and found Montgomery backed up against a fence, his arms covering his face. In front of him stood a large, barking dog.
Wow! Tough Montgomery is afraid of dogs! Andy wanted to run and tell Michael, but then he remembered how he had felt halfway up the tree. I guess everybody’s afraid of something.
Andy grabbed the dog’s collar. “Calm down, Montgomery! Don’t you recognize Mr. Henry’s dog, Skipper? He only wants you to play with him.”
“Keep him away from me!” cried Montgomery.
“There’s nothing to worry about,” Andy told him. “Let him smell your hand.”
“No way! I’m getting out of here.”
“Watch me.” Andy bent down and held out his hand. The dog sniffed, then licked it. “Now you try,” Andy said.
Cautiously Montgomery put out his hand while Andy held the dog. When Skipper licked it, too, both boys began to laugh.
“It tickles,” said Montgomery.
The boys heard someone calling Skipper, and the dog ran off.
Montgomery jammed his hands into his pockets and played in the dirt with his shoe. “Thanks for saving me. Are you going to tell?”
“No.”
“How come?”
“I don’t know,” Andy said. “It doesn’t seem right.”
“I’m sorry for picking on you,” Montgomery apologized. “If you want, I’ll help you climb the tree tomorrow—no tricks, I promise.”
“How come?”
“Isn’t that what friends are supposed to do?”
In the morning, Andy and Montgomery went to the giant tree early. Andy took a deep breath, then looked up. The Third Street Tigers clubhouse was up high!
“You can do it,” Montgomery said. “I’ll be right behind you. If you get scared, stop and rest.”
Andy swallowed hard. With shaky hands he grabbed the bottom plank. Nervously he pulled himself up. Counting to three, he moved on to the second step, then the third, which had been nailed on tight again. He bit his bottom lip and stopped to gather his courage.
Andy forced himself to continue from each step to the next. When he saw the opening of the tree house, he heard Montgomery say, “I knew you’d make it!”
They pulled themselves inside to wait for the rest of their friends. Andy could hardly believe that he’d done it. When Michael arrived, he asked, “What happened? How’d you do it?”
Andy and Montgomery just looked at each other and grinned.

“This sure is a grumpy neighborhood,” said Jennie as she came in the front door.
“What’s the matter now?” asked Mother.
“Well, every time I ride past Mrs. Langston’s house on my bike, she calls out, ‘Better oil your wheels—that squeak is awfully noisy!’ And Mr. Pratt says, ‘Watch out for my grass as you turn the corner!’
“I say hello to the neighbors and most of them look at me with surprise, like they don’t know I have a voice. Mother, do we have to stay here?” Jennie asked. “If we moved somewhere else, maybe things would be different.”
“You’re really upset aren’t you, Jennie? Why not take the opportunity to be a missionary in our neighborhood?” Mother suggested, putting an arm around her unhappy daughter.
Jennie sounded a little doubtful as she answered, “How could I do that?”
“You think about it, Jennie, and I will too,” Mother said on her way to the kitchen to fix supper. “I’m sure the two of us can come up with some ideas to make our neighborhood a friendlier place.”
Jennie was about to plop down on the couch when a loud knock sounded at the front door. But when she opened it nobody was there. However, someone had left a brown paper bag tied with a colorful ribbon on the doorstep. As Jennie picked up the bag, she could feel something warm inside. And the smell that came from the bag was heavenly. Inside was a small loaf of bread and a card that read, “To Jennie from your secret friend.”
Jennie carried the little loaf into the kitchen.
“What a wonderful smell!” Mother exclaimed.
“Yes, it’s a gift from my secret friend,” answered Jennie. “In our Merrie Miss class we decided to do something to make us feel closer to each other. We put all of our names in a box and then each of us drew one out. We’re supposed to do nice things for our secret friends without letting anyone know about it.”
“I hope your secret pal comes often,” said her brother Frank. “How about a piece of bread with butter and honey on it right now?”
Mother had a slice, too, and as the three of them sat around the kitchen table enjoying the freshly baked bread, Frank asked, “Hey Jennie, why don’t you learn to make bread like this?”
“I already know how, Frank. Our Primary class made small loaves as favors for our A Miss and Her Mom Party,” replied Jennie.
“Good!” said Frank. “Then you can bake some for us, and why not some for all of our grumpy neighbors.”
“That’s it!” said Jennie excitedly. “I could be a secret friend to each family in the neighborhood and I can begin by baking each one a small loaf of bread. Would that be all right, Mom?”
Mother was excited too. “Instead of signing the note ‘secret friend’” she suggested, “we could sign it, ‘a good neighbor.’ And then we could do other things later on.”
“That’s neat,” Frank said with an appreciative grin. “Nobody will know who to thank, so they’ll just be nice to everybody.”
“Could you use your saber saw to cut some small breadboards out of that scrap lumber in the garage?” Jennie asked.
“Sure,” said Frank. And they all laughed together when he added, “Cast your bread upon the waters. Who knows—someday it may come back a sandwich.”

It’s six in the morning at the Redondo Beach chapel. The cultural hall is filled with chairs. Slowly, seminary students begin filing in. Only today it’s not a normal seminary morning. Something is different. Sure, you can smell the French toast cooking in the kitchen. Breakfast is in about 30 minutes. What’s out of the ordinary, though, is that not all of the teenagers in the room are Latter-day Saints. Some have never even been in an LDS church building before.
On this Monday, it’s the monthly version of Bring a Friend to Seminary, an idea hatched by Linda O’Brien, the seminary teacher who challenged her students to invite nonmember friends to seminary once a month. This morning, Aarika and many other students are enthusiastic participants.
Today, four of Aarika’s friends have come for the lesson—and the food. “Once you get them to come, they have a great time. They have so much fun, and then they tell another person. But I do kind of mumble the six-in-the-morning part,” Aarika says, laughing. “They’re not sure what to expect, but they’ve told me their days have been so great because it started out with a prayer and talking about the scriptures.”
When Aarika was attending her first year of seminary, she was unsure about the program. “I thought, Who am I going to ask? But now I’m really comfortable, and it’s a lot easier now.”
Sharing the gospel is so much a part of Aarika’s life that she can’t remember a day when she didn’t talk about the Church with someone.
As seminary ends, Aarika and her four friends leave. They’re all smiling.

Elder Thomas H. Hilton and Sister Sarah M. Hilton were serving on a mission in Samoa where they lost three of their children between 1891 and 1894. Little Jeanette lived less than a year, George Emmett for only seven days, and Thomas Harold for a year and a half.

Of the death of Thomas Harold the record says: “On Sunday the 11th, he was not feeling very well. … For two days following he appeared to be improving, but on the morning of the 14th, his mother again became concerned about his welfare. From then until his death, on March 17, 1894, everything that loving hands could do was done for his recovery, but he grew rapidly worse. …
“Oh how loath we all were to believe that it was so! How sad to see our dear sister again bereft, and her so far from dear parents and friends who she has left for the gospel’s sake.
“Thomas Harold Hilton was about one and a half years old, a beautiful little boy and very dearly beloved by all the missionaries, as well as the natives who knew him. Much sympathy is felt for the bereaved parents and the blessings of the Lord are invoked upon them.”

Jason remembered how his foot had tingled when it went to sleep that night as he stood motionless by the kitchen door, listening. The big folks were in the living room, discussing Grandpa! Mom had sent him off to watch TV, but when he went to get a drink, he couldn’t help overhearing them. Then he just stayed there.
There was no mistaking Aunt Madge’s high-pitched, nervous voice. She always seemed to talk too fast. She and Uncle Bill had flown in from Texas the day before Grandma’s funeral. Jason could hear Aunt Madge say that there was no way that Grandpa could live alone now that Grandma wasn’t there to take care of him. And that it was impossible for him to live at their house.
Aunt Edith said that she was sorry, but she didn’t have room for him in her little apartment. Aunt Sherma and Uncle Dick traveled a lot; besides, Aunt Sherma said, they just didn’t have an extra bedroom either.
Jason’s mom had spoken up quickly. “We can move the TV into the living room and give Grandpa the TV room. We’d be happy to have him live here with us.”
Jason was delighted!
Grandpa moved in with them at the first of the year. It had been hard for him to leave his home. The movers brought his bed and dresser, a lounge chair, and some boxes of his personal things, but that was all.
He and Jason soon became good buddies. Grandpa was a great storyteller, and Jason loved to listen to his stories. Grandpa talked a lot about his boyhood, the time he’d spent overseas during the war, the early days of his law practice, and the years that he sat behind a big podium as a judge in a black robe. But he was old and frail now, and it was hard for Jason to picture him as a little boy, a soldier, a lawyer, or a judge.
Grandpa helped fill the empty spot in Jason’s heart. Jason had never known his own father—he’d been only two at the time of the car accident. “Did Daddy look like me when he was six?” he asked Grandpa one day.
“You’re a dead-ringer for my Joe when he was your age,” Grandpa told him. “Your dad’s hair was darker than yours, but he had your same nose and that same cleft in his chin.” Grandpa smiled and started talking about all four of his children—Madge and Edith and Sherma and Joe.
Later Jason pushed Grandpa’s wheelchair out onto the front porch to try to escape the hot, humid house. The cool, fresh breezes from the sycamores brought a refreshing change. Jason threw his leg across the brick-bordered porch, pulled a leaf from the lilac tree, folded it, and put it to his lips. As he blew softly, out came a low, clear whistle.
Grandpa stopped, then said, “If you’d like to see the seashell, I still have it. Would you go get the brown shoe box in the back corner of my bottom dresser drawer, please?”
Jason returned a few moments later with the shoe box. Grandpa opened it and took out a small white and coral seashell, beautifully formed and with black and gray striations. “I want you to have this, Jason,” he said, placing it in Jason’s hands. “If you listen to it often, it will help you remember another Voice that is always there to guide you and help you make right decisions.”
Jason placed the seashell next to his ear and listened for a moment. “Thank you, Grandpa, for telling me about Dad,” he said softly. “And thank you for sharing your treasure with me. It will always remind me of the Holy Ghost, Dad, and you.”

On October 27, 1973, Elder Mark L. Draney of Shelley, Idaho, was killed in an airplane accident. He had only been home one month from a successful mission in Kansas and Oklahoma, and he really didn’t have a chance to tell his family all about the growth of his testimony or about his converts, his friends, and his companions in the mission field. But his parents have his journal, and it is a great comfort and blessing to them. “It is something of his,” his mother remarked, “a letter to us that we don’t get anymore.”
His parents love all of his journal, but they are especially fond of his “Remember” notes jotted down at the bottom of some of the pages. “Remember: ‘For without me ye can do nothing.’” “Remember: You can’t fail with God.” “Remember: A mission is not two years out of my life, but a great, the greatest two years out of my life.” “Remember: I am a child of God.”
Through these notes, through his motto “To teach is to love,” through his testimony—“It’s great to be here, and I know with every fibre of my body, every inch of it, that the gospel is true and for everyone”—his parents are assured of Mark’s salvation, for, in his journal as in his life, he acknowledged the Savior.

When the missionaries first approached Jormeto and Vineta Moreang on Majuro, Jormeto told them he was busy. He admits now that he was stretching the truth. There’s not all that much to do on Majuro. Although it is the capital of the Marshall Islands, like most atolls it is a small, self-contained world. Thanks to construction of a causeway during the second world war that joined several islands in the atoll together, Majuro is more than 56 kilometers long. But it still remains only a few hundred meters wide. A single road connects the west end with the east. Recreation consists mostly of swimming and fishing.
The Marshallese are a religious and hospitable people, and Jormeto, embarrassed by his inhospitality, finally allowed the missionaries into his home. At first, Vineta left when the elders came. But when she saw that her husband was serious about changing his life, she joined the discussions. Three months later, in July 1985, Jormeto was baptized. Vineta was baptized that October.
Jormeto says that his life is much better now. “Before, I didn’t care about my family’s needs. I was just interested in cigarettes and drink. But when I learned that our Heavenly Father cared for us, I began to change. I started reading the scriptures and Church manuals.”
“There’s a lot of change when a person joins the Church,” Vineta says. “Family life gets better. There is more respect. Even people’s bodies change, and they begin to change their environment.”
Change did not come easily for the Moreangs. “I asked the missionaries a lot of hard questions,” Jormeto says. “But they never showed anger or disappointment. They always stayed with me, like brothers. The more I tried to push them away, the more they loved me.” Their gentle kindness and concern kept him listening until the Spirit finally swept through his soul like a cool ocean breeze. At that point, he embraced the gospel of life.
And so have many others on Majuro. Some 10 percent of the estimated 23,000 people on Majuro have joined the Church, though keeping people active is a challenge. The Saints need training, and priesthood leaders are in short supply. Even so, Majuro may soon have the first stake in Micronesia. Brother Moreang explains the reason for the rapid growth: “Other churches are not teaching the true gospel,” he asserts. “People recognize the pure gospel when it comes.”
Jormeto has seen the growth first hand. Shortly after his baptism, he was called to be president of the Long Island Branch on Majuro. At that time, only four members attended church. When he was released several years later, more than 100 were attending. Brother Moreang currently serves as a counselor in the district presidency and as Sunday School president of the Long Island Branch. He also teaches seminary and works as the custodian at the chapel.
He has plenty to do.

I vividly remember a conversation I had with my roommates during my freshman year at BYU. One night at dinner we were discussing what we would give our mothers for Christmas. I had been raised in a very middle-class family, but I attended high school with wealthy, upper-class Jewish students. I had no other point of reference, so by the standards of my peers, my family was pretty poor. As I discussed gift suggestions with my college roommates, I mentioned that I was contemplating giving my mother a telephone for Christmas. She seemed to already have everything else she needed. One of my roommates said, “I’m going to buy my mother a store-bought blouse. I don’t remember her ever owning a piece of new, store-bought clothing.” Wow, was I humbled in a hurry! My naive eyes had awakened to the real world.

In my young years growing up in Logan, Utah, I was part of a musical family. My grandfather, Francis H. Baugh Jr., affectionately known in the community as Frank Baugh, was the director of music for nearly thirty years in the Logan City School District, where he directed the high school choral groups and musical productions in addition to supervising music education in the junior high and elementary schools. He was Logan’s own music man.
By the time I was in elementary school he had retired from teaching in the public system, leaving him time to teach my siblings and me the piano. Not too many people can say they took piano lessons from their grandfather, but I did—he was my one and only teacher.
Every piano lesson included playing hymns from the LDS hymnal. Grandfather would have me go over each hymn several times while he pointed out fingering and dynamics and told me to “make the long notes longer and the short notes shorter.” And since Grandfather was a choral director and a singer—a beautiful tenor, I might add—he would sing the hymns, every verse, as I would play them. By the time I was a teenager I could play many of the hymns, but surprisingly I could also sing the words of those hymns by heart because I had heard my grandfather sing them so many times.
Around the time I was in junior high school, my grandfather must have felt I was ready to take on the longest hymn in the hymnal: number 296, which was titled “The Seer, Joseph, the Seer,” a poem written by John Taylor and later set to music by Ebenezer Beesley. Fortunately for me it was in the key of C, but it was four pages long, not to mention it was a choir number.
Looking back, I think I can say that it was while I was learning to play that number and hearing my Grandfather Baugh sing the words that I felt the first feelings of a testimony in my heart concerning the life and mission of Joseph Smith. However, for many years I was puzzled as to why the text referred to Joseph Smith as a seer, a title I was not altogether familiar with. It was not until I read the Book of Mormon that I learned that perhaps the greatest designation Joseph Smith could have been given was that of a seer.

Armed with flashlights, my brother and sister and I jumped out of the minivan and followed Dad down the trail leading to Lava River Cave. “Have fun,” Mom called. She and my baby brother had enough snacks and books to last two hours, the time it took us to hike the cave last time.
This time we felt more prepared. Dad wore a helmet so he wouldn’t scrape his head on the roof of the cave, and all of us had jackets and good hiking shoes. Flashlights shining, we entered the cold, dark cave. We crawled on hands and knees through the narrow opening until it widened and we could stand and walk.
As we plodded forward, we passed other spelunkers (cave explorers). The deeper into the cave we went, the more we saw people giving up and heading for the surface, maybe too scared of the dark to continue. But I liked the mysterious cave, as long as we had flashlights.
After a while, my brother Paul whimpered, “My flashlight isn’t working.” It dimmed and went out. A few minutes later, Crystal’s flashlight weakened too.
“Follow me closely,” Dad instructed.
“Oh no,” I mumbled. Now my flashlight was going dim! We had been in the cave for two hours. We were supposed to be finished by now.
“Bad news,” Dad said nervously. “I think we’ve been walking in a circle.” On our last visit to the cave, Dad had brought a map, but not this time. We had thought we knew the way.
We made another circle through the cave, but we didn’t see any other people who could help us. I was scared Dad’s flashlight would go out too, and we’d be left alone in the dark.
Paul began to cry.
Then it dawned on me. “We should say a prayer!”
Dad smiled. “That’s the right thing to do. I’ll say it.”
As he prayed that we could find our way out of the cave safely, I felt a calm, peaceful feeling. Soon we heard voices and saw spelunkers coming toward us with flashlights and headlamps. “Need help?” they called.
Not only did they know the way out, but they also gave my sister another flashlight and my brother a piggyback ride to the surface. When I saw sunlight again, I was so tired and relieved I collapsed on the ground.
Mom stood nearby with a camera. “What happened?” she called. “I was starting to get worried!”
As we told her our story, Dad realized something: “Our cave adventure was a little like our life here on earth,” he said.
“What do you mean?” Crystal asked.
“Well, we needed a flashlight to find our way, just like we need the Holy Ghost,” he explained. “Also, we should try to be more prepared. Today, we should have made sure we had new batteries in our flashlights, and we should have used a map to guide us.”
“Like we need the scriptures,” I said.
“That’s right. And when we prayed for help, what happened?”
“People helped us,” Paul piped up.
Dad nodded. “We need other people, like prophets and teachers, to help us find our way.”
I smiled. Grateful to be headed home, I knew I’d be grateful to return to my heavenly home someday.

I was born in Romania. That is a country far, far away from my home in Salt Lake City, Utah. My mother went to Romania and adopted me. She loved Romania, but she said that there was not much food there. My mom found me in a hospital. I was three months old and weighed only five pounds.
When we got to Salt Lake City, I was very sick. I couldn’t keep food in my stomach, so I was very skinny. And I had sores all over my body.
My mom kept praying that I would get better. One night, she had a vivid dream about what she was supposed to feed me. The next morning, she got up and made rice pudding and put it in the blender so she could feed it to me using a baby bottle. Not only did I eat it, but I liked it a lot.
Rice was all I would eat for six months. The sores all over my body went away, and I started gaining weight. Mom says that she knows Heavenly Father inspired her to feed me rice pudding, because she doesn’t like it and had never made it before. I’m glad Heavenly Father knew that rice pudding would help me get better. My mom calls me the Rice Pudding Baby.
Kateri Daniela Combs, age 8Salt Lake City, Utah

I was attending a track meet, and there were about a dozen fellows who had qualified to represent their schools in the mile run at this invitational. As the gun was fired, those young men, who had trained hard for this vigorous race, took off. Four of them were running in a bunch so close together that it looked to us as if they might trip each other. Suddenly one fellow spiked the shoe of the boy running in front of him. As the spiked runner went to take his next step, his shoe flew off.
I wondered what this boy who had been leading the race would do. He had several choices: He could have grabbed the boy who had spiked him and done something to get even. He could have run over to the coach and yelled, “So this is what you get. I’ve trained half my life for this, and now on the big day, look what happens!” He could have said to his mom and dad, “Look what that guy did to me!” Or he could have sat down and cried.
But he didn’t do any of these things; he just kept running. This happened on the first lap, and I thought he would quit after that lap. But he kept running every step of the way. The cinders came up through his sock into his foot, but he said nothing. He just kept running. He finished the race, and I thought, “What a boy!” He said nothing. He simply finished the job he had to do.

Our motives and thoughts ultimately influence our actions. Let me share a personal experience from my own youth about the power of righteous motives.
After the turmoil of the Second World War, my family ended up in Russian-occupied East Germany. When I attended fourth grade, I had to learn Russian as my first foreign language in school. I found this quite difficult because of the Cyrillic alphabet, but as time went on I seemed to do all right.
When I turned 11, we had to leave East Germany overnight because of the political orientation of my father. Now I was going to school in West Germany, which was American-occupied at that time. There in school all children were required to learn English. To learn Russian had been difficult, but English was impossible for me. I thought my mouth was not made for speaking English. My teachers struggled. My parents suffered. And I knew English was definitely not my language.
But then something changed in my young life. Almost daily I rode my bicycle to the airport and watched airplanes take off and land. I read, studied, and learned everything I could find about aviation. It was my greatest desire to become a pilot. I could already picture myself in the cockpit of an airliner or in a military fighter plane. I felt deep in my heart that this was my thing!
Then I learned that to become a pilot I needed to speak English. Overnight, to the total surprise of everybody, it appeared as if my mouth had changed. I was able to learn English. It still took a lot of work, persistence, and patience, but I was able to learn English!
Why? Because of a righteous and strong motive!

Great Bushfire Danger Today!
That was the headline in the newspaper that Ross read as he buttered his toast. It was only eight o’clock, and the heat was already thick.
Ross looked outside the screen door at the paddocks and the peach orchard. It was early January in southeastern Australia, and the land was brown from the heat of a summer drought. Across the fields and all the way to the dam the grass shimmered in a hot wind. “It’s going to be a scorcher, Mum,” Ross said. “May we go to the beach?”
“No, Ross,” his mother answered. “I must run to town to do some shopping, and I want you to be here while I’m gone. I don’t like the feel of that north wind.”
“All the men are on fire alert,” Ross told her. Then he asked hopefully, “Will Dad take me with him if there’s a fire?”
Mum ignored his question and eyed five-year-old Colin, who was teasing the dog in the yard. “I’ll be back sooner if I leave Colin with you and your older sister,” she said. The bleat and blare of a radio announced Marion’s whereabouts deep inside the house. “Anyway,” Mum added, “your father’s already left for the day.”
Ross grunted as he bit into his toast. This vacation is so boring that I might as well be at school, he thought. With a long sigh, he picked up his plate and took it to the sink. Then he started outside to the chicken house.
Caring for the chooks (chickens) was his chore. Ross gathered the eggs and sorted them for sale. Then he cleaned the coops and refilled the water containers. He filled cans with feed and let the chooks squawk at his ankles as he tossed the grain into their feeding trays outside.
Dust flew up in the yard as the quarreling chickens pecked away. A few scuttled under the shade of a eucalyptus tree at the end of the enclosure. It was getting hotter and hotter.
His shirt was sticking to his back as Ross climbed the ladder to inspect the water tank.
Ross’s father had placed a huge corrugated iron tank on the roof of the chicken house, from which pipes led to the watering trays. There was another, larger tank next to the main house, for every drop of rain that fell in this parched country was precious.
Ross peered into the tank. When he holloed into its dark, warm interior, an echo holloed back. Not much water, Ross thought. The surface of the water must be two-thirds of the way down the tank.
From his perch Ross looked across at the dam. Even browner than the surrounding landscape, the water hole had shrunk from its normal half-acre size and had exposed its cracked earthen bank. Ross guessed that at its center the water behind the dam was not more than six feet deep now.
Swiveling around to face the northern hills before descending, Ross noticed something. Is it smoke? he wondered.
Ross was scrambling down the ladder when Marion burst from the house, shouting, “Ross, quick! It’s on the radio. A bushfire’s started in the ranges, and it’s getting bigger.”
Ross felt a surge of excitement and fear. Dad would be among the firefighters if the bushfire spread closer. And in this heat, with the drought and the wind, it surely would.
Ross and Marion ran inside. With Mum in town, what should we do? Ross worried. Save the house? the chooks? ourselves? But how?
Marion was already pulling blankets off the beds. “Colin, help me!” she directed as she dragged the blankets through the door into the dust of the yard and across the paddock to the dam, where their best chance of safety lay.
Ross dashed outside. The north wind was like a foul breath. He could smell the fire now, although it was still miles away in the hills. Bits of soot and singed leaves whirled past.
Marion was back. “I left Colin by the dam,” she said.
Ross glanced over and saw his brother playing on the blankets.
“Ross, help me with the sandbags, please,” Marion said.
They ran to the woodshed and dragged out several heavy burlap sandbags. Ross hauled his to the chook house. Marion pulled hers under the water tank at the main house.
Turning on the spigots, they soaked each bag, careful to turn off the water in between soaks. Then Ross piled the bags side by side around the outside of the wire chicken runs.
“It won’t help if the sun dries the bags before the fire comes,” Ross told Marion when he came over to help her with the harder job of protecting the house. To save time, he piled dry bags around the back of the house, then turned on the hose.
Only a trickle came out. Ross followed the hose back to the faucet, flattening out its kinks, but only a little more water came through.
At the back of his mind he worried about Mum. He hoped she had not already left town for home. If she had, she could be cut off on the road by the fire. Here at least was the dam.
Suddenly Marion yelled, “The radio says the fire’s out of control now. It’s heading south. That’s us!”
Time to go. The children stumbled hand in hand over the field and across the rise to the dam. There was their safety. But where was Colin?
There was no sign of the five-year-old. Ross felt panic rising. Could he have drowned? They scanned the water but could see nothing.
Marion and Ross spread out, searching. Up to the house they ran, around to the dog-house, then to the orchard. Colin’s toy cart filled with peaches was there. He had obviously tried to save the crop. But where was he?
All of a sudden there was a terrific cackling from the chook house, and a barking dog ran out.
Hens flew and scurried in all directions. The dog yapped, nudging the terrified birds toward the dam. Then Ross saw a tow-headed figure chasing the chickens with a stick and yelling. It was Colin.
“The chooks! The chooks! Don’t let them burn!” the little boy cried, as his brother and sister half dragged him to the water’s edge.
The three almost fell down the bank, carrying the blankets with them. After soaking the blankets, they covered themselves with them and crawled into the shallow water with the dog, while the screeching chickens crammed over the banks and scrabbled for perches above them.
Just in time! Huge red flames spread over the grass paddocks to their right. Soot flew into their faces, and the children coughed and buried their smarting eyes in the blankets. There was a popping noise as the eucalyptus tree by the chicken run exploded.
The children waited, terrified, for another explosion to tell them that the house had gone. There was none. The roar of the giant flames swept beyond them.
Colin put his head up first. “Fire’s gone!” he yelled. It was true. The fire, finding little but dust and wire in the chicken house and guided by a changing wind, had veered off to the east. Behind it the fields were charred, the orchard was half-gone, the chook house was totally gutted—but the house was still standing!
As the children stared at the devastation, they heard shouts, which quickly grew louder. The volunteer firefighters—including Dad—came roaring up on a fire truck. And Mum was with them, happy tears streaming down her face at seeing the children safe.
“You kids were your own fire department,” Dad said, hugging each of them.
“And we’ve no roast chooks, thanks to Colin,” Ross said happily.

The stunningly beautiful island of Bermuda is only about 21 square miles (54 km) in total area. It’s also one of the most isolated inhabited islands you can find—the nearest land mass is over 600 miles (966 km) away. I was one of six full-time missionaries in Bermuda, four elders and one senior missionary couple, serving in the single branch on the island when we decided to try something a bit unusual.
We were going to put on a play! And not just any play.
I can’t remember exactly how the idea first cameup to produce a play about Mormon pioneers for the general community, but once the idea was out there in the open, we all felt a spiritual confirmation that it was worth pursuing.
The other missionaries and I had never written a play before. But why let that stop us? With the help of the branch, we came up with a simple storyline based on Church history. The play included early Church hymns, such as “Come, Come, Ye Saints” (Hymns, no. 30).
We built simple sets and cobbled together costumes from various sources. The branch members and missionaries made up the small cast.
All along I kept wondering how many people would actually attend a play about Mormon pioneers who had lived half a world away from this scenic island.
Still, we pressed on, both with our regular missionary work and in our free time by memorizing lines and practicing hymns.
In time, we were ready. Our branch president placed an advertisement for the date of the free-to-attend production in the newspaper.
Showtime! As you might have guessed, the room was not exactly packed to standing-room-only status (there might’ve been 60 people). Still, we were happy with the turnout and enjoyed spending an evening honoring and celebrating the faith and courage of the early Saints.
And then the following Sunday rolled around. A woman we didn’t recognize sat down with the congregation.
We hurried over to introduce ourselves.
This sister turned out to be a member of the Church who hadn’t attended in years. She was new to the area, so her records were not with the branch. After seeing the newspaper ad, she decided to watch the performance. From that Sunday on she attended regularly and became a big blessing to the branch.
I’m sure plenty of other good came out of this pioneer play effort, but for me it’s also a reminder of how important is the “one” (see Luke 15:4). Elder M. Russell Ballard of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles has taught, “Brothers and sisters, never, never underestimate how precious is the one.”1
It well may be that the entire reason we were inspired to put on this play was to reach this one sister. On an island already so full of beauty, isn’t that a beautiful thought?

I think of Royce Flandro and his wife, who after retirement served a mission in Spain, performing valuable service. Upon returning home, they missed that beautiful experience, so they came to the Missionary Department to ask where they could help the most. It was suggested to them that they might learn Hungarian, which they did. A few months later they were called to Hungary, once again serving with distinction. Now they are headed for Mongolia.