Gospel Story Finder

Let me share another story. When I was a young child, I suffered from anxiety that often manifested itself as a sour stomach. There were many nights when you could find me stranded in the bathroom praying my little heart out for relief. My mom would always say to me, “God helps those who help themselves,” as she would hand me a cup of baking soda water to drink. The stuff was nasty, and I would have rather just had God come down and answer my prayers. But it turns out the baking soda water was the answer to my prayers, and it worked every time. (I guess my mom was unaware of TUMS!)

Four years later Joseph was finally ready. Obstacles to translating the plates, however, were immense. Newly married, Joseph needed to work to provide for Emma and himself, as well as for his extended family members, who still relied heavily on his contribution. Perhaps even more distracting, Joseph faced sweeping community opposition and avarice that threatened exposure and loss of the plates.

When a Palmyra mob demanded that Joseph show them the plates or be tarred and feathered, he knew he had to leave.4 So, in late 1827, Joseph placed the plates in a barrel of beans, packed up some belongings, borrowed $50 from his friend and early believer Martin Harris, and took his pregnant wife more than 100 miles (161 km) south to Harmony, Pennsylvania, to live with Emma’s parents. He hoped the change would ease their daily labors and free them of the cauldron of greed and animosity that gripped Palmyra.

Conditions improved enough that winter that Joseph was able to translate a few Book of Mormon characters. In April, Martin Harris moved to Harmony to assist Joseph as scribe, and the work of translation began in earnest. By the middle of June—roughly five years since the fateful day Joseph had first been directed to the Hill Cumorah to obtain the plates—they had produced 116 manuscript pages of translation.5

On another occasion I climbed Cuquenan Falls, the second highest falls in the world. To the best of my knowledge, I was the 14th person ever to reach the top. I was accompanied by Terry Brian, my partner in the rafting venture; Bernardo, a Venezuelan who provided transportation to the climb site; and Brazilo, our local Indian guide.
A four-hour hike from our vehicle brought us to the Indian village of Paraitepuy (Pear-rye-tu-pwee). Cuquenan and Roraima, two huge, twin, flat-top peaks loomed above us in the sky, shooting straight up. At the base of the mountains were rolling green hills and ravines overflowing with rain forest. All around were other high plateaus and mountains. Clouds loomed close overhead, and in the many crevices all around were broad-leafed plants, bats, and orchids. Everything was very green and beautiful.
Up at dawn the following day, we hiked across the plateau toward the foothills of Cuquenan. We stopped at the stream for lunch and bathed in the cool mountain water. The going became increasingly hard from there on. Finally we made camp in a large cave in the late afternoon. After bathing in the river, we spent the evening being eaten by jejenees (heh-he-nees), small gnatlike flies that bite as hard as horse flies. Cuquenan loomed larger than ever above us, filling much of the sky. The Indians call it Matuwe (Mat-too-wee), “the place of the dead.” They believe their dead ancestors wander around on its top as zombies, eating any unwary mortals who get caught there at night. The top of the mountain, we were told, was dark, misty, cold, and empty like a lunar landscape.
When we awoke the next morning there was a clear, red sunrise, and then the clouds and mist rolled in. The mist was very heavy, almost like rain. It was very cold at first. In the gloom we saw a single deer bound over the hill and out of sight. We also saw jaguar tracks. We crossed several streams. Tall grass about two or three feet high blocked our way. It was very wet and rough on our legs. Our path kept getting steeper and steeper. Eventually we passed from the tall grass into thicker vegetation. There were lots of prickly plants, seven-foot-tall ferns, and foot-tall carnivorous pitcher plants. The terrain continued to get steeper. From time to time the mist would break enough for us to see Cuquenan rearing up straight above us.
Soon we were slipping and sliding through a dark corridor cut out of a patch of dense rain forest. Moss hung everywhere from the giant fern trees. We finally stopped for lunch high on a rock point in the sun.
Soon we left the massive vegetation, and the terrain got rockier and steeper. Whenever we became thirsty we drank water from the pitcher plants. Then came the steep bouldering. It was very dangerous in parts, and we made slow progress. But finally we saw the top of the mountain, and our route lay clear before us. We scrambled onto the top at about 3:30 in the afternoon.
The top consisted of barren, dark-brown sandstone eroded into grotesque shapes. Here and there were stubby brown trees, about four feet tall, with reddish leaves. There were also some ferns, flowers, and grasses all growing from the bleak sandstone and pools of water. It was very misty and eerie. Through the clouds and mist we occasionally caught glimpses of the mountains below us where red and blue macaws flew above the jungle. We climbed up to some caves to make camp, then walked across the summit to the top of Cuquenan Falls. It was a beautiful view. Simply incredible!
On our way back to camp, I stopped and picked up some quartz crystals in a stream bed. For a moment I thought they were diamonds. Bernardo and I stayed to collect a few and maybe find some real diamonds. Brazilo was eager to get back to camp and build a fire. Bernardo and I didn’t pay any attention to the encroaching darkness because we kept our eyes on the creek bottom looking for diamonds. All of a sudden we looked up and found ourselves surrounded by darkness and misty fog. We were lost somewhere on top of Cuquenan Mountain!
We had built stone markers earlier to mark our trail, but we couldn’t see them now. The scape was all rock so we couldn’t follow our footprints. Bernardo panicked and began running wildly off into the night. I caught him, calmed him, and prayed. Suddenly it came to me that we just needed to follow the creek down to the edge of the mountain and then follow the edge around to where we had climbed up onto the summit earlier. There was some mud there and we could find our footprints. So that’s what we did. Bernardo was still scared, but I was calm inside. We found our footprints and followed them up to the cave where Brazilo was waiting. We arrived in time for spaghetti dinner and hugs and well wishes.

After church Tara puts away her shiny shoes.
She looks at her Book of Mormon picture book.
She draws a picture to send to her auntie.
While Dad and Mom make dinner, Tara plays with her baby brother.
Then she sets the table.
“Tara, thank you for helping our family have a happy Sabbath day!” says Dad.
Trace your finger along the line to help Tara move through her Sabbath day. Can you tell what she does to make Sunday a happy day?

She is eight-year-old Dorinelis Francisca, who was born in a home where the principles of the gospel are lived.
Neither Dorinelis nor her parents imagined the conditions of the world when they set the goal that she would be baptized on Saturday, May 16, 2020, after she turned eight.
“We set the date before the pandemic, but the work can’t be stopped even during a pandemic. We are very happy and grateful, and she is even happier because she knows how important baptism is,” says her father, Victor Cepeda, who baptized her.
“I know that this work is true, it is a work of miracles and, if we are loyal and faithful in keeping the commandments, God will not leave us alone in moments of difficulty,” said Dorinelis excitedly.

Fasting is not the easiest gospel principle for me to obey. But a year ago I decided it was time for me to get back into the pattern of regular fasting. With my new resolve, I decided that I would also try to learn how to make my fasts more meaningful: more acceptable to the Lord and more powerful in expanding my own spirituality.
Fast Sunday came. I intended to fast from Saturday afternoon until after fast and testimony meeting on Sunday afternoon—but on Saturday evening I attended a meeting where refreshments were served. I changed my plan: I would fast from late Saturday to late Sunday.
The next morning, amid the hurried atmosphere of trying to get my three little girls fed and ready for Sunday School, I suddenly caught myself licking dripped honey off my fingers and popping rejected bread crusts into my mouth. When I realized what I was doing, I felt discouraged and weak, and I gave up fasting that day.
I resolved to fast sometime later in the week to make up for my failure; but the week—and the month—passed without my accomplishing the goal. And so fast Sunday approached again.
This time things were different. President Spencer W. Kimball asked the members of the church to fast and pray about the weather situation, the bitter cold and snow in some areas and the drought in others. It was an inspiring feeling to know that I was joining hundreds of thousands of people in doing what a prophet of God asked, and that feeling motivated me to succeed.
But even though I did not eat or drink for twenty-four hours, I was not really satisfied with my effort. The day hadn’t been much different from most Sundays, and it seemed to me that if fasting were important, it should make a difference. I knew that it was important, so I concluded that I must not be doing it right.
I decided to study the scriptures concerning the principles and practices of fasting.
Then, to supplement my scripture reading, I read some fasting guidelines given us by modern-day prophets. They were clear in saying that a proper observance of fast day means abstaining from food and drink for two consecutive meals, attending fast and testimony meeting, and paying a generous fast offering.
With this information and an intense desire to really do what was right, I was ready to experiment upon the words I had studied. I knew the law of the fast, and I knew that I could observe the outward letter of the law. But it is the spirit of the law that can really change our lives. I decided to concentrate on the following five areas in trying to obtain the spirit of fasting:
1. A spirit of love for God and for my fellow beings. These two most important goals need constant work and attention. Not only is it difficult for me to love some people some of the time, but it is also sometimes difficult to want to love them. And when I think of loving God, I am overwhelmed to know that even my best love at this point is a weak and meager gift.
2. A spirit of sacrifice and service. Fast offerings are one sign of this spirit. Another is a willingness to share my testimony with others. I must also diligently seek other opportunities to give and to share my abundance of blessings with others. Sometimes I feel that I don’t even begin to understand what real sacrifice is.
3. A spirit of brotherhood and fellowship with the Saints. It gives me a wonderful feeling of joy to realize, when I fast, that I am joining the rest of the Church membership in this opportunity, and that we can gain power through unity.
4. A spirit of communion with God. For one day in each month I have an opportunity to put aside all distractions (except my three children, who cannot yet fully support me in my effort) and with “simplicity of intention” try to purify my heart to be one with God as I purify my body temple.
5. A spirit of self-control. To me, the exercise of my will in fasting is a sign of humility, that I submit my will to the Lord’s will, that I desire to strengthen my spiritual power and bodily discipline, and that I am willing to repent of wanting to do or doing other than what the Lord would desire.
With all of this in mind, I fasted. The first time, I fasted and prayed that I might withstand a particular temptation that had been bothering me. The results were miraculous. Not only did I withstand the temptation, but it ceased to be a temptation! Not only did I resist the sin, but I did not want to sin. And so I was immediately blessed.
I decided that it was important to my growth to fast again soon, and not wait for a whole month. This time I fasted and prayed about a decision I was having difficulty making. The pros and cons of the major alternatives seemed nearly equal, and I had been puzzling about it for several weeks. After fasting and praying about it, I suddenly knew what to do, and there was never another moment of wondering if it was the best choice.
After fasting I was intensely aware of what food I put into my mouth. Somehow my body seemed more sacred to me, and I did not want to eat anything that was impure or unnecessary. It almost seems as if fasting can help us sense what foods are really nourishing to us, and which ones pollute our physical system.
I seemed to be able to think more clearly and concisely. I was more able to concentrate with singleness of purpose when I went to the temple. Although I felt physically weak when fasting, it seemed that I was able to accomplish more and work with greater endurance afterwards.
I also felt an increased tenderness toward my husband and children, an overflowing of love and appreciation. And it seemed like I cried more during sacrament meeting, and appreciated it more. I’m sure that the meetings had not changed; instead, I was more emotionally and spiritually receptive.
Another important blessing I have received as a result of fasting is an increased ability to recognize evil influences and temptations—and to dismiss them without consideration.
As I have renewed my efforts to fast as the Lord would have me do, I have discovered some practical aids to help me. The following list contains some of these ideas.
1. Be united in fasting as a family. Take strength and motivation from the priesthood example and support each other in the effort. Those who are not yet old enough to abstain from eating and drinking can still participate in the spirit: praying, learning scripture stories, singing, counting blessings, planning service to others.
2. Plan specific service and sacrifice for others. Always give a generous fast offering and seek inspiration concerning other service the Lord desires.
3. Prepare carefully so that physical work can be held to a minimum. For me this means planning in advance what the children will wear and what they will eat. I also try to prepare appropriate Sunday activities for them before my fast begins on Saturday.
4. Prepare carefully so that my patience is not strained. Allow plenty of time to get ready for church meetings so that we don’t need to hurry.
5. Plan time for intense prayer. This is especially difficult for me now, with my three little girls always wanting to be involved in everything. Sometimes we can pray as a family; sometimes my husband and I can pray together while they are napping or sleeping; sometimes one of us can concentrate on them while the other prays alone. My best time for intense private prayer is in the middle of the night.
6. Fast and pray for a specific purpose or blessing. This might be a personal need, a family problem, a blessing for someone else, or something involving the whole Church or country, such as fasting for a change in the weather conditions.
7. Repent of sins. Seek strength to change and inspiration on how to change. Seek ways to make restitution and to receive forgiveness from those I have wronged.
8. Read, study, and ponder the scriptures. Seek to understand depths I have not yet understood. Use my husband’s resources to help answer my questions. Read topically as well as consecutively. Try to develop ways of teaching my children to know the scriptures and to love them.
9. Praise God. Show gratitude for his blessings. Sing hymns of praise to him. Rejoice in my relationship to him. Bear testimony of him and his goodness to others.
10. Avoid social conflicts and distractions. Saturday night wedding receptions, parties, dinners, sports, and Sunday dinners may not contribute to fasting and spiritual communion.
11. Record my experiences in my journal. Include praise to God, what I repent of and my plans for change, commentary on the scriptures I have read, service I plan to do, the purpose for which I fast each month, and my testimony. If we regularly make such entries in a journal, it can be a powerful tool in keeping our testimonies strong, providing direction and motivation for change, and inspiring our children and our children’s children. The miracles in our lives are quickly dimmed in our memories, but our journal entries can bring them clearly back and make us hunger for eternal life, a life of constant miracle.
Even though my fasting still cannot perfectly be called “rejoicing and prayer,” I feel much closer to that ideal than I did a year ago. I am grateful that I know that God lives, that we are his children, and that he desires that we find joy. And now I’m convinced that fasting is an integral part of that joy. It is a crucial element in our effort to eliminate every weakness, strengthen every talent, become perfect so that we can rejoin our Father in heaven. I am thankful to him for revealing fasting as a powerful tool that can help us find our way back to him.

Now, that’s a rather long introduction to something I want to tell you about that you may not know about. You may not know that, in addition to having some wonderfully good ball teams about which we have heard, you have some other teams representing you. In Phanat Nikhom in the province of Chon Buri, not too many miles from the Gulf of Thailand and about 100 miles from Bangkok, twelve remarkable young ladies, most of them graduates of this university, are presently charged with the responsibility of cultural orientation in a camp for refugees in transit to new countries. These twelve—and a mature couple who are their liaison with governments living in Bangkok—have done and are doing a remarkable work. You may have read a little about it in the Church News a week ago. If you did not, please do.

They won’t be honored by any great public notoriety, but they are doing something which in the aggregate and in the historical perspective may be far more important than anything even the good ball teams of this university are doing or will do. These twelve are meeting refugees at that critical moment when they are in transit, some of them for months, many for years, waiting to get home again—a home, not their former home; that’s gone.

There are a few things about refugees one ought to know. Not the numbers—I have them, and they are staggering (about half a million to this country in recent times; hundreds of thousands along the borders still—many hopeless). The refugees are not undesirable or weak people. Sometimes we get the notion they are different from us. They are different, all right, in that they have lost substantially everything we hold dear. But they are not different in their aspirations and their intelligence and their ties with families and their emotions and their desires. They can never go home again. Their home isn’t there; the street isn’t there; the people aren’t there; their loved ones aren’t there, and very frequently they are not with them either. They are casualties of war.

The refugee story ordinarily is a story of strength, of courage, of character, very frequently of a willingness to stand up for what one believes and to lay one’s life on the line for it.

Well, our great young ladies are in that refugee camp teaching many hours every day—cultural orientation, some crash English, but fundamentally they are teaching people how to live, how to cope with a certain amount of grace in the new country of which they know so little. They are frightened. One of the tender moments of my life—and I will not forget it while God grants me memory of anything—was to watch a young lady whose home is in this valley and who attended this school take a little brown baby from his mother’s arms, hold him tenderly, kiss the baby, and then gently, lovingly, lay the child down on a little carpet on which a diaper had been placed. She finished the operation, the first time the baby had ever worn a diaper in his life. The mother and the others watched with great eagerness, adoringly, as if in the presence of the Lord himself, and I felt that way. A little later we went from the large teaching shed to the compounds where they live, and there again the process was repeated, this time for a smaller group. You see, many of these great folks haven’t had the kind of experiences that would equip them for the simplest kind of understanding of life in this country. They don’t know how to get on an airplane. I went in one of the big teaching sheds there where our young ladies were teaching them about the journey they were soon to make. The refugees came to class carrying bundles under their arms, representing their baggage. They passed by three tables where attendants stood. All had been instructed carefully in what to do. One table represented the airlines counter, and they had to present a piece of paper as a ticket. They were excited, giggling; they were pale and frightened. Tentatively they put forward their tickets. The attendant took the ticket, tore a piece off, and gave them a part back. They went then to “Immigration” and to the folks who inspected their baggage. Then they sat in rows on the concrete floor while they were shown signs that said “No Smoking” and “Fasten Your Seat Belt,” etc. They had never seen any of that before. They didn’t know about food on a tray or stewardesses or going to the bathroom. They were taught gently, lovingly, genially.

They sometimes have to be taught through two interpreters because there are many languages and they are difficult. One interpreter may speak English and Khmer, another Khmer and Laotian but no English. To reach the Laotians, our folks must speak to the first Khmer, who translates to the second Khmer, who teaches the Laotians. But it works! All day long these heroines of ours are patiently teaching, preparing, helping, blessing, and they are doing it in accordance with strict rules against proselyting in refugee camps.

I would like to conclude with another sports story that really depicts this thing called commitment.

It was homecoming day at Champaign-Urbana, the home of the fighting Illini—the University of Illinois. They were playing Wisconsin for the Big Ten football championship. With seventy-two thousand fans in the stands, late in the ball game, Illinois had a lead of seven to three. Wisconsin had the football on Illinois’ four-yard line, first and goal, with four minutes left to play. Get the picture? A field goal won’t tie it or win it; they have got to score a touchdown. Illinois had a little linebacker who, during the time out prior to putting the ball in play, went around and shook guys, saying, “We have got to stop them! It is important that we win this football game.” Just before Wisconsin went into the huddle, this little Illinois linebacker got the Wisconsin quarterback’s attention. Playing fullback for Wisconsin that year was a guy named Alan “the horse” Ameche—six foot three, 230 pounds, Heisman trophy winner, two-year All-American, later the all-pro fullback for the Baltimore Colts—a moose of a man. Your grandmother would have known who was going to get the football on the four-yard line. But this little linebacker got the quarterback’s attention and said, “Hey, send Ameche at me.” Now, I have been on the line of scrimmage, and I would just as soon Ameche went over there someplace. This is like saying, “President, let me do it”; “Bishop, I’ll do it”; “Dad, I’d be happy to do it.” The linebacker felt, “The whole game depends on how I play. Send him at me.” The quarterback thought, “You’re as good as the next guy,” and he handed off to Ameche in the direction of the taunting linebacker. When the dust settled, this little guy screwed his hat back on straight again, and, with the ball on the three-yard line, got the quarterback’s attention and hollered, “Hey, send Ameche at me again.” Four times he egged him on: “Send Ameche at me.” When the smoke cleared and the dust settled, the ball was on the ten-yard line, and Illinois won a great football game because one little guy on that team had enough courage to invite them to “send Ameche at me!” that’s commitment!

Story of My Nickname
When my twin sister, Leilani, and I were very young we received the nicknames, “Lani” and “Loha.” These nicknames are short and cute and rhyme really well. I used my nickname, “Loha,” throughout college, even while a student here at BYU–Hawaii. When I entered the professional workforce as a social worker, I had a colleague pull me aside one day and ask about my nickname. He inquired why I introduced myself in such a way.
I shared with him the story that I just shared with you. He listened, and afterward gave me some gentle advice. You see, he grew up with the Hawaiian language as his first language. As with all languages, the words we speak and hear shape our experience when we talk with others, and in this case, when I introduced myself with my nickname, he received it with an experience of his own.
He took the time to share that although the story of my nickname was well-intentioned, when he hears it, he envisions that I am low in spirit and living with a heaviness that is always with me. He was concerned for my wellbeing. Of course, I asked why this concern. He shared that “loha” can be described as a branch of a tree that has fallen over and hasn’t the strength to pick itself up again. I later learned that “loha” in the Hawaiian perspective of emotional and mental wellbeing, is used to describe a person living daily with depression. Upon learning all this I paused and thought, “It’s no wonder I was such a grumpy teenager! My adolescent years all make sense now!” I offer a sincere apology to my parents, aunties, uncles, grandparents, and sisters – blame the nickname!
Since I learned this, in professional spaces, I introduce myself as my full first name, Leialoha, and if people need a nickname, they can call me, “Lei.” Lei describes a child, beloved and embraced. This is a meaning in which I am very comfortable.

As I walked down the dusty, Brazilian country road, my mind strayed to a day in my childhood. Now, I was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and was serving the Lord as a missionary. But the setting took my mind back to a loving aunt, a wonderful day, and a promise.
Aunt Rocilda and her family lived on a large farm. Our extended family was very important to us and we loved to visit her. Since a day in the country was a day away from the pressures of everyday life, I always looked forward to our visits to the country—especially Aunt Rocilda’s farm. I could tell that one of her greatest joys in life was making me happy.
One particular day, I had played hard and taken advantage of every opportunity to enjoy the farm. Aunt Rocilda had given me a fish to take home and it seemed that she had shown me her love more than ever that day.
As I prepared to leave, I hugged her and made her a promise; I wanted to somehow repay her for her Christlike love. “Someday,” I said with the sincerity of youth, “I will go to Sao Paolo and I will bring you back a big gift.”
As I grew up, the dream of Sao Paolo never faded, though the remembrance of my promise did. One day I learned that Aunt Rocilda had died. As I mourned, I remembered my promise to her and I grieved that I would never be able to fulfill it.
However, I did go to Sao Paolo and there I met two Latter-day Saint missionaries. After being baptized, I worked toward a mission and the blessings of the temple. As I entered the Missionary Training Center in Sao Paolo, I thought of my aunt. What would be the greatest possible gift I could give her? I felt a strong desire to share the blessings of the gospel with Aunt Rocilda, and I made sure that temple ordinance work was done in her name.
Though Aunt Rocilda didn’t receive the “big gift” in this, earthly life, I feel that she has accepted the greater, eternal gift.

I will conclude with a true story that happened not long ago. The story begins with a BYU-Idaho student (I will call Jane) inviting her boyfriend into her bedroom. This happened more than once. Her roommates knew what Jane was doing, but she told them, "We just need a place to talk."

Most of the roommates ignored what Jane was doing, but one of them, Mary, talked to Jane. Jane was upset with Mary and told her it was none of her business. Mary did not let it go. She followed Matthew, chapter 18, verses 15-17, and eventually persuaded Jane to go with her to the Student Honor Office.

Jane went, but she was really upset with Mary. Jane met with a Student Honor administrator. He could tell that Jane was very angry with Mary for bringing her in, and so he asked Jane a really interesting question: "Which of your roommates do you think loves you the most--the ones who turned away or Mary who brought you here?" Jane dropped her head and began to cry. She said in her tears, "Mary is the one who loves me the most."

That moment of tears and recognition was for Jane the beginning of "coming to herself" and turning to Christ. Many years from now when Jane is a wife and mother she will look back on the love of her roommate with overwhelming gratitude. She will think of her temple marriage, of her husband and her children, of her deep and abiding testimony of the gospel; and she will thank Heavenly Father for His plan of salvation, for the Atonement of Jesus Christ, and for a roommate who reached out to her in a moment of great need.

Now Paula had the skills and the knowledge to start helping others. She became a peer counselor at her school, helping her friends work through their problems. She helps others see the good in themselves and those around them.
“Looking for the good in others is the real basis of what I think Jesus meant when he taught about brotherly love,” says Paula.
Through peer counseling Paula found that drugs and alcohol are often at the root of people’s problems. Consequently, she immersed herself in her school’s Drug-Free Youth program. But she didn’t stop there. She found that awareness was only one part of the solution. She felt that removing people from dangerous situations could eliminate some of the most damaging problems. So she joined the Safe Ride program at her school. The organization gives rides home to teenagers who find themselves in compromising situations.
“We’re as close as the phone,” she says. “No one has to stay in situations involving dangerous activities, drugs, alcohol, or moral violations. We give them a way to escape.”

Benson, where are you? It’s time for bed.
I don’t want to go to bed.
Why not?
Because there is a ghost in my room.
There is not a ghost in your room.
Are you sure?
I promise.
Dad, what is the Holy Ghost?
That’s a good question.
The Holy Ghost is a member of the Godhead. His job is to help us feel what Heavenly Father wants us to know and do.
Do we see Him?
No, but we feel Him near. He helps us feel happy.
All right, now close your eyes. It’s time to go to sleep. I love you.
I love you too. And I think I feel the Holy Ghost.

In late February of 1834, the Prophet Joseph Smith was inspired to organize a group of brethren to travel to Missouri to assist the Saints who were being severely persecuted for their religious beliefs. This group, which became known as Zion’s Camp, was to resist the unlawful mobs that were harassing members of the Church and help restore the Saints to their lands, which had been unlawfully taken from them.

Zion’s Camp, a group of over 200 brethren and a few women and children, left Ohio in early May of 1834. Led by the Prophet Joseph, they marched a thousand miles in 45 days, finally arriving in Clay County, Missouri.

From the start the expedition was fraught with suffering and hardship. Some members of the group murmured against the Prophet and questioned his ability to lead. The majority, however, remained true to his counsel and continued on.

Zion’s Camp did not achieve its political or military objectives. Having been met by a superior force of Missourian ruffians, the Prophet Joseph resisted the bloodshed that would have certainly come from armed conflict. In early July, Zion’s Camp was disbanded and its members were honorably discharged.

Later the Prophet explained the outcome and purpose of the march:

God did not want you to fight. He could not organize His kingdom with twelve men to open the Gospel door to the nations of the earth, and with seventy men under their direction to follow in their tracks, unless He took them from a body of men who had offered their lives, and who had made as great a sacrifice as did Abraham. [HC 2:182, note†]

Wilford Woodruff, a member of Zion’s Camp and fourth president of the Church, said:

We gained an experience that we never could have gained in any other way. We had the privilege of beholding the face of the prophet, and we had the privilege of travelling a thousand miles with him, and seeing the workings of the Spirit of God with him, and the revelations of Jesus Christ unto him and the fulfilment of those revelations. [JD 13:158]

Within a few months after the discharge of Zion’s Camp, the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles and the First Quorum of the Seventy were organized. Seventy-nine of the 82 positions filled in these quorums were filled by those who had served and been proven in the march of Zion’s Camp. Men like Brigham Young, Heber C. Kimball, Wilford Woodruff, and many other members of Zion’s Camp were strengthened spiritually and gained practical experience that would be of great assistance to them in the future as they were called to lead the Saints west.

Priscila’s family joined the Church in 1991 but became less active shortly after their baptisms. In early 1998 Priscila’s friend began investigating the Church and asked Priscila to come with her to seminary.
“I had gone to another church, but I could never understand what they were teaching. In seminary everything made sense, and I could understand the gospel. Eventually, the Spirit testified to me that Joseph Smith was a prophet of God. When I learned he was a prophet it was so good and so sweet that I cried,” Priscila says.
Priscila’s mother, Francilene, enjoyed welcoming the ward’s young women into their home. She encouraged Priscila’s attendance at Church activities, and she soon began attending regularly herself. Francilene is now serving as her ward’s Relief Society president.

Christy peeked excitedly through the curtains. Snow glistened in the moonlight.
“Ready to go look at the Christmas lights?” Mommy asked. “You need to put on your hat, coat, and mittens.”
Christy skipped to the closet and pulled her coat off a hanger. She found her hat and mittens. Soon she was wrapped up like a caterpillar in a cocoon.
Outside, Christy made footprints in the snow. Her breath came out like steam. Mommy helped her into her car seat.
Their van crunched through the snow, making new tire tracks. Christy looked at her house. It looked like a twinkling gingerbread house! She giggled. The whole neighborhood looked magical.
“Look at that one!” Christy squealed, pointing to a house covered in pink lights. “Oh!” she said, pointing to a giant Christmas star sparkling with tiny white lights.
Mommy drove farther and farther. Christy grew sleepy watching the colorful lights. Soon it was time to go home. Mommy drove onto a small road to turn around. The road was piled with snow.
Mommy tried to back up. The tires spun around.
WHIRR, WHIRR!
Snow flew up, but the van didn’t move.
Mommy tried to go forward. The tires spun around again.
WHIRR, WHIRR!
More snow flew up, but the van still didn’t move. Mommy tried to go back again and forward again. The van didn’t budge. They were stuck. Mommy got out of the van and looked down the road.
Christy couldn’t see any cars. She began to feel nervous. What if they had to stay here until morning?
Then she remembered something. Heavenly Father always knows where we are. She felt better.
Mommy got back in the van. She looked worried.
“Mommy, it’s OK,” Christy said. “Heavenly Father knows where we are. We can pray and ask Him to help us get unstuck.”
“That’s a good idea,” Mommy said.
Christy folded her arms and bowed her head. “Heavenly Father,” she said, “would you please send someone to help us get home?”
Christy felt warm inside. She knew Heavenly Father had heard her. “Thank you, Heavenly Father,” she thought.
“It’s all right, Mommy. We’ll be OK now.”
Mommy smiled and nodded her head. She still looked worried.
Bright lights lit up the back of the van. A man climbed out of a big truck. He waved as he waded through the snow. “You look like you could use some help,” he said. “I’ll have you out in a jiffy!”
The man hooked a big chain to the back of the van. His truck pulled the van right out of the snow. Mommy could drive again. She thanked the man and started for home.
“Christy, you taught me a lesson tonight,” Mommy said. “Heavenly Father always cares about us. I love you.”
Christy felt thankful and happy. “I love you too, Mommy.”

Today is Valentine's Day. You might know about the BYU-Idaho English student who received a B-minus on an important paper. In hopes of bettering his grade, and in the spirit of the Valentine's season, he left for his professor an extravagant heart-shaped box of chocolates with a preprinted inscription: "Be Mine." The following day he received in return a Valentine from the teacher. It read, "Thank you, but your grade is still be mine-us."

A Primary teacher shared the following example. “Today,” she said, “our five- and six-year-old class made love necklaces. Each child drew pictures on strips of paper: one of themselves, one of Jesus, and some of members of their family and loved ones. We glued the strips into circles that looped through each other to make a chain that we turned into love necklaces. As they were drawing, the children talked about their families.
“Heather said, ‘I don’t think my sister loves me. We are always fighting. … I even hate myself. I have a bad life.’ And she put her head in her hands.
“I thought about her family circumstances and felt that maybe she did indeed have a hard life. But after Heather had said this, Anna, down at the other end of the table, responded, ‘Heather, I am putting you in my necklace between me and Jesus because He loves you and I love you.’
“When Anna said that, Heather crawled under the table to get to Anna and threw her arms around her.
“At the end of class, when her grandmother came to pick her up, Heather said, ‘Guess what, Grandma? Jesus loves me.’”

On a hot summer day, I went to play with a friend who is not a member of the Church. She wanted to go swimming, but I didn’t have a bathing suit. She said I could borrow one of hers. She pulled out a two-piece bathing suit. I said no. Finally she found a modest bathing suit that fit me.
I’m glad I chose the right by not wearing the two-piece bathing suit. I’m glad I was born in the Church and that my parents teach me what is right and what is wrong. I hope I can always choose the right so I can live with Heavenly Father someday.

When I was 12, my mother died of cancer. After her death, I thought I was dying of cancer too. I didn’t really have cancer, but my thoughts were very real to me. I didn’t talk to anyone about it. I carried the burden alone and was quite troubled.
I knew that when we have a problem we should go to the Lord in prayer. I always said my individual prayers at night and would think my prayers in my head as I knelt by my bed. But this particular time, I felt I needed to pray out loud.
Now, it was not easy to find a time to be alone in our house. I had five brothers and sisters and shared a bedroom with a sister. One afternoon I remember coming home from school to an empty house. I went into the living room and poured out my heart aloud to my Heavenly Father. I didn’t want to die. I didn’t want to suffer as my mom had suffered. I pleaded with the Lord.
Immediately after I had closed my prayer, a peaceful, strong feeling surrounded me. It was as if loving arms were around my shoulders and as if a voice said to me, “You are fine. You are fine.”
My prayer had been answered. I felt very loved, and I knew I was OK. A huge burden had been lifted from my shoulders. My thoughts of dying left me. Since that time, I have prayed to my Heavenly Father for answers. The answers never have come as quickly as they did that day, but I know prayers are answered—even if it is in the Lord’s timing and not mine.