Gospel Story Finder

Michael J. Williams of the Reading Pennsylvania Ward delivers more than newspapers every morning. Recently, he delivered a life.
One day, while running his normal paper route, Michael noticed an older woman hadn’t retrieved her paper the day before. He knocked on her door to see if she was all right, and when there was no response, he called the police. They found the woman had fallen down her stairs, had a concussion, and had been lying there all day. “If the boy hadn’t said something, I don’t think she would be alive today,” said a neighbor.
Michael is also willing to go the extra mile in early-morning seminary, where he works diligently on scripture-mastery memorization. He is a fine example of a young man who sincerely tries to do his best.

Last week Dad took me with him to a town called Winchester. For his work he had to take some field strength measurements there and at some places along the way. I don’t know much about field strength measurements, but I do know about my dad.
One of the things I know is that he likes to take me places and do stuff with me. On the way to Winchester, for instance, we stopped and hiked across a big field with yellow flowers to a real pretty waterfall. We waded in the shallow parts of the pool under the falls and talked and laughed at a squirrel that was scolding us worse than Mom did the day Dad and I rode my go-cart down the steep part of Willow Lane and crashed through out little white picket fence and into her daffodils.
Another thing I know about Dad is that he loves Mom. He always opens the car door for her and helps her wash dishes and takes her on dates and hugs her a lot.
And he never yells. Well, almost never. I can only remember three times he did. One was at my soccer game when I made a winning goal. He ran out onto the field, put me on his shoulders, and hooted like he did the day my baby sister, Patience, was born. That was the second time he yelled. The third time was when our cat, Guinevere, ate Aristotle, his sixty-five-dollar tropical fish.
I know other things about Dad, too: He likes to jog, and he counts to ten a lot (like when he hammers his finger or steps on my baby sister’s loud, squeaky toys when he’s trying to tiptoe out of her room at night). He likes country-western music and Mom’s cheese enchiladas, but he hates cauliflower as much as I do. And he cries sometimes when he goes to Sky Hill, where Grandma and Grandpa are buried. They’re Dad’s mother and father, and they died in a plane crash about three years ago.
Something I don’t know about Dad is why he doesn’t go to church with Mom and me anymore. Oh, he still takes us to church, but it’s just to drop us off. Sometimes when kids ask me why he doesn’t come to church, I pretend I don’t hear them or I just say that I don’t know. I feel bad—not because their dads are there and mine isn’t, but because, well, because I love him a lot and I want him to be with us. It’s hard to explain. It’s just that Dad’s part of Mom and Patience and me, and we’re part of him. And what are families for if it’s not to be together? I get lonely, sort of, deep inside. As I said, it’s hard to explain.
Dad sometimes goes to pack meetings at the ward with me—when I earn a Scouting achievement award or when we have our Pinewood Derby. But that’s about all.
Once, when we were flying my kite behind the school, I asked him why he didn’t go to church with Mom and me. He looked like I did the time Mom asked who tracked mud across her clean carpet. But he just gave a little tug on the kite string and said, “Look at that thing climb, Arny!” And I knew better than to ask him again.
I know that Dad thinks about Church, though. And about God and Jesus. I know because when I was baptized, Dad was there, sitting right next to Mom and Uncle Henry, and he squeezed me afterward in a way that I will never forget. I can still feel it. There were tears in his eyes and the same kind of look that he had the day I scored at that soccer game and the Sunday Bishop Huxley blessed my baby sister. And I know because when my pet lizard died, Dad said that God would look after it, that Heavenly Father wouldn’t have taken the time to make something that He didn’t love.
When I asked Mom if she thought Dad would ever go to church again, her eyes shone as brightly as Aunt Margaret’s rosewood music box, and her chin jiggled like it does every time she bears her testimony. She said that she hoped that he would and that until then we should go on loving and supporting him as he does us and letting him know every day that we think he’s the greatest guy on earth.
“That won’t be hard,” I said, “because he is!”

One beautiful spring day, I heard a knock at my front door—then another and another. It sounded like the knocks came from little hands.
Dropping a basket of clean laundry on the couch, I opened the door. There stood Wade, Savannah, Mace, and Zane. At once they began showering me with questions: “Is it OK if we pull the weeds in your garden?” “May Mom and Dad trim your bushes?” “What color are your favorite flowers?”
For a moment I stood there speechless. Then I asked, “Would you like to come in to visit?”
The children smiled up at me. “Oh, no,” they said. “We’re not here to visit. We’re here to help you!”
The children showed me the tools they had brought. “May we get started?” they asked. “We will be careful of your purple flowers.”
Soon eight little helping hands were busy at work as four happy voices filled the air. All day long they worked, pulling weeds and planting flowers.
What a beautiful example of love and service those children set for me. I will always remember their kindness—and the gorgeous marigolds they planted in my garden with their little helping hands.

My brother and a family friend received their mission calls. We drove eight hours to the temple in Freiberg, Germany, so they could receive their temple endowments.
We stayed for five days so my family could do a lot of temple work. There is a hostel for families on the temple grounds. Some other children and I helped the gardener, and he gave us ice cream. We had a lot of fun.
I look forward to next year when I will be 12 and will be able to do baptisms in the temple.
Alicka S., age 11, Slovakia

What did the program accomplish? Some of it can never be measured because it went on inside people’s hearts, but there have been a couple of encouraging signs already. One pair of missionaries report that a family of investigators, whose smoking had kept them from baptism, gave up the habit in anticipation of the coliseum program. Another pair of missionaries are now teaching the gospel to a waitress whom they met at a truck stop on the way to the coliseum. She was impressed that neither the elders, nor any of their investigators, would drink coffee.

If having a variety of skills and work experience on a résumé is a good thing—and it is—then 16-year-old Sarah K. is off to an awesome start. She has worked at babysitting, house cleaning, and doing yard work. She’s done photography shoots at weddings and receptions. And for the past nine months, Sarah has been working part-time at a restaurant as a hostess and a busser.
“I believe in a strong work ethic,” Sarah says. She believes firmly that every job she’s had has taught her something useful.
Sarah got started in her work-for-hire jobs the same way many Latter-day Saint youth do: by checking first with people in her ward. “The Church members started hiring me, and they would tell their friends,” she says.
It’s also been a family effort with her siblings. Sarah is the second-oldest of nine children. Her younger brothers know how to network and find yard-work jobs. “Whenever they had a gig, I would tag along,” she explains.
Her work plans are only getting started. “My goal is to be a cosmetologist and to have a business degree so I can build on that skill,” Sarah says.

In December 1999 we were preparing for our annual Christmas trip to the Bern Switzerland Temple. The trip, a special tradition we began shortly after our marriage, is one way we commemorate the Savior’s birth.
We live about eight hours by car from the temple, and bad weather preceded our departure. Uprooted trees, a sharp wind, and icy roads would make the journey treacherous.
I felt uncertain and didn’t understand why we were encountering so many obstacles when we knew that the Lord wanted us to go to the temple. Would He not open our way?
My husband, Antonio, and I knelt in prayer with our children and said to our Heavenly Father that unless He told us differently, we would head for Bern the next day.
“If the road is truly impassable,” Antonio said after our prayer, “we’ll come back.”
I felt our decision was right, but I was still fearful. The next morning, full of doubt, I wanted to pray again. Antonio told me we had already received our answer, but he lovingly and patiently knelt beside me.
When we left, it was barely dawn and dark clouds hovered over us. As we drove, I could see a small bit of blue sky near the mountains. A timid ray of sun broke through the clouds.
That glimmer of sunshine strengthened my vacillating faith. Miraculously, the sun came out and the temperature rose. There was no fog, no ice, no wind—only a clear, extraordinarily warm winter day. My eyes filled with tears. It seemed that Heavenly Father had answered our prayers.
After we arrived at Bern, it began to snow heavily and continued to snow throughout our stay. As we headed to the temple before dawn the next morning, the storm turned into a blizzard. For a minute I was afraid, and I began to run along the sidewalk that leads to the temple.
Then a thought came into my mind: “This is the way it should be. The world howls at us with troubles, but we must run to the peace of the Lord found in His house.”
We had a wonderful time at the temple that Christmas season, but we worried about our trip home. The snow continued to fall, and our youngest son developed a high fever. On the day of our departure, however, the snow miraculously stopped, and our son’s fever broke after he received a priesthood blessing.
As the peace of the temple sustained us, a Bible verse came to my mind: “Is any thing too hard for the Lord?” (Genesis 18:14). With gratitude, I realized that no, it is not.

My point is only this: important texts deserve careful and close reads. When we engage in that type of study, we learn things about the text’s meaning that don’t yield themselves to casual reading and that may be somewhat surprising. I learned much about the value of close reading from two friends on the faculty at BYU. Both philosophy professor Jim Faulconer and English professor Brandie Siegfried learned how to read a text closely under the tutelage of rabbi scholars. Professor Faulconer suggested to his tutor at Penn State that they take the entire eight-week term to read the Book of Genesis. After all, Jim wanted to study the book carefully. Jim was surprised that his professor was amazed at his proposal, certain that it was impossible to read so much in so short a time. His professor suggested they could only cover the first chapter of Genesis at most. As it turned out, they made it through chapter three, but Professor Faulconer reports that his tutor clearly felt rushed. Professor Siegfried’s teacher at Brandeis wouldn’t be rushed. They spent an entire month on the first verse of Genesis.

Sounds like hard work to me, and from professors Faulconer and Siegfried we get more bad news: Not only is close reading hard work, but it takes time. Much time. Much undistracted time.

Little brothers can be such a bother, Erin thought as she knelt to pick up her scattered postcard collection. She knew how much her little brother, Evan, loved to look at all the beautiful postcards. She didn’t mind showing them to him, but she didn’t like it one bit when he went into her room and helped himself.

“What do I need a little brother for, anyway?” she said aloud as she gathered the postcards. If only she could lock him out of her room forever!

Her scowl softened as she caught sight of her most treasured postcard. She picked it up and looked at the picture of the Seattle Temple, remembering the day she got to go inside.

As she finished gathering her postcards, she suddenly realized that she didn’t feel angry anymore. Just then her mother called her into the kitchen. “I need you to do me a big favor,” her mother said. “I made these hot muffins, and I thought that it would be nice to take some to Sister Taber. She’s home from the hospital after having knee surgery, and I know that she’d enjoy them. Would you like to take Evan for a walk over to her house?”

“Sure!” Sister Taber had been her favorite Primary teacher. She wished she could go alone, because her little brother always slowed her down, but she knew how much he loved to go for walks.

“Please try to hurry, dear,” Mom said. “Dad will be home soon, and dinner is almost ready. Do you want me to draw a map for you?”

“No thanks,” Erin replied with confidence. “I’m sure I can find it just fine.” She took the basket of warm muffins in one hand and her brother’s hand in the other. As soon as they reached the sidewalk, Evan wanted to stop and look at some leaves, but Erin gently tugged on his arm to urge him forward. “This is going to take forever with him along,” she mumbled to herself.

They reached the first corner and carefully crossed the street. Then Evan saw some bright yellow dandelions growing in the corner of a yard. “Look at the pretty yellow flowers!” he said, heading toward them.

“I’m sorry,” Erin said, “but we don’t have time to stop and pick dandelions. Mom told us to hurry, remember?” She grabbed Evan’s hand again, and kept walking. When they reached the next corner, they turned right. Erin was sure she’d recognize Sister Taber’s house when she saw it.

As they passed the next house, Erin felt Evan stop. He jumped up and down, yelling, “That’s just like ours!”

Erin looked where he was pointing and saw a red, white, and blue basketball backboard identical to the one Dad had put on their own garage. She and Mom loved to watch Evan and Dad play basketball. Evan always made everyone laugh.

But this wasn’t the time to be distracted. “Come on now, Evan,” Erin said impatiently, taking his hand and starting back down the sidewalk.

They crossed the street and headed for the cul-de-sac where Sister Taber lived. They were almost there when Evan began tugging at Erin’s arm and shouting, “Quack, quack, quack, quack!”

She turned around and saw him standing next to a mailbox with a painted duck on it. “Evan Michael, please come with me!” Erin scolded. “We can’t stop and look at everything!” I wish I hadn’t had to bring him along, she thought.

As they entered the cul-de-sac, Erin felt a little unsure about which house belonged to Sister Taber. She looked at each one carefully, then recognized the flower bed in front of one of the houses. This is it, she thought. This is where we had our last Primary achievement activity. She and Evan went up to the door and she let him ring the doorbell.

Sister Taber’s daughter answered the door. She thanked Erin and Evan for the muffins and told her that her mother would really appreciate them.

Erin felt good inside. Then, as she and Evan headed home, she realized that she wasn’t sure how to get there. They stood at the corner leading out of the cul-de-sac while Erin looked left and right, trying to decide which way to go. She began to feel a little panicky until she remembered something her mother had told her many times: “If you ever feel lonely or afraid, tell Heavenly Father your troubles. He always hears your prayers and will help you.”

Erin quickly and quietly asked Heavenly Father to help them find their way home again. Once more she looked up and down the street. Suddenly she spotted the duck mailbox that Evan had stopped to see. Holding her brother’s hand tightly, she left the cul-de-sac. After they crossed the street, she saw the red, white, and blue basketball backboard. We turn left at the next corner, she said to herself.

When they turned the corner, Erin saw the dandelions that Evan had wanted to pick. She realized that rather than feeling angry with him, she was grateful that he had noticed all the things that were helping them find their way back.

When they reached home, she took him inside and told her mother what had happened. Then she bent down, gave her little brother a big hug, and whispered in his ear, “Would you like to come and look at my postcard collection?”

As I began studying the Book of Mormon for seminary, I experienced the feelings Elder Parley P. Pratt (1807–57) of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles described when he first found the Book of Mormon. “I opened it with eagerness, and read its title page,” he wrote. “I then read the testimony of several witnesses in relation to the manner of its being found and translated. After this I commenced its contents by course. I read all day; eating was a burden, I had no desire for food; sleep was a burden when the night came, for I preferred reading to sleep” (Autobiography of Parley P. Pratt [1985], 18).
As I read, the Spirit of the Lord bore witness that the Book of Mormon is truly another testament of Jesus Christ. Through seminary the Book of Mormon became much easier to read. Whenever it was hard to follow, my teacher helped me understand. I received a testimony that the Book of Mormon is “the most correct of any book on earth, … and a man [will] get nearer to God by abiding by its precepts, than by any other book” (Joseph Smith, Teachings of the Prophet Joseph Smith, sel. Joseph Fielding Smith [1976], 194).
I was baptized on 5 March 1995. By the time I was 21 I was a seminary teacher myself, helping others know of the divinity and truthfulness of the book that changed my life.

Later, as I sat in sacrament meeting thinking about the dreams, I silently prayed for guidance that I might be able to find the information necessary to do my Choctaw ancestors’ temple work. I felt impressed to acquire a copy of a record I had seen some twenty years earlier at the National Archives in Washington, D.C. It was the Choctaw-Armstrong Roll of 1831, and it contained records of the Choctaw before their trek over the “Trail of Tears” to Oklahoma. This census had on record some 3,000 heads of families and represented about 17,000 people. I had photocopied the pages from it that dealt with my ancestor named Betsy.
I wrote to the National Archives, requesting a microfilm copy of the entire record. I also contacted the Church Family History Library in Salt Lake City, Utah, and asked whether temple work could be done for people listed on the record. I then asked for and obtained permission to help do name extraction work on the Choctaw-Armstrong Roll.
I also went to Philadelphia, Mississippi, as I had been prompted. There, on the Choctaw reservation, I learned the story of the Nanah-weya. Archaeologists think that the Choctaw are probably of Mayan descent—from Central America—because their language, customs, and culture are similar to those of the Mayans. Choctaw legends tell of their migration from their old lands, where they had been persecuted. A prophet had told them of a land waiting for them, where they would be safe. Two brothers, Chataw and Chickasaw, led the people out of the old land.
The people followed the “leaning pole,” a sacred pole placed in front of the leaders’ camp each night. Some legends say that a sacred medicine bag was tied to the pole. Each morning, the people traveled in the direction the pole leaned. They carried their ancestors’ bones with them.
When they reached the area that is now Northern Mississippi, there was a tremendous rainstorm. The people thought that in the morning they would find the sacred pole flat on the ground because of the rain. Instead, the pole stood straight, its shaft buried deep in the mud.
That is where the people stayed. In the new land they held a great council to decide what to do with their ancestors’ bones. The decision they made was to build a large mound and bury them there. This mound, called the Nanah-weya, means “leaning mountain,” or “mother mound.”
I asked a Choctaw from Oklahoma if he knew the meaning of the word Nanah-ku-chi. He told me that it means “to bring out of the mountain.”
“You have said it just the way the Choctaw would say it,” he told me. “Nanah means mountain; Ku-chi means to bring forth.” I concluded that the words I had heard must have meant that the names of the Choctaw dead should be brought out of obscurity so that the Choctaws’ temple work should be completed.
My trip to Mississippi bore great fruit. There, in a courthouse, a woman gave my aunt and me a copy of some family records. Later, when I read through it, I was amazed. Before, I had had only three names on that particular family. Now I had more than sixty pages of information! There, at the beginning of the line, was the name of Ikenaby, an Indian chief who had lived during the early 1800s and who had married a white woman by the name of Kearney.
I continued to help with the work on the Choctaw-Armstrong Roll. Lorraine Nievar of Ardmore, Oklahoma, whose ancestors are Choctaw and French, also helped with name extraction work on the record. When the work was complete, 1,500 names from the record were sent to the temple in Dallas, Texas, so that Sister Nievar and her family could help perform their ancestors’ temple work. Another 1,500 names were sent to the Logan Utah Temple, where many of my friends and neighbors have helped with the work.
I believe that many members of the Choctaw Nation who lived during the early 1800s have accepted the temple work completed in their behalf. As I participated in baptisms for the dead one Saturday morning, I felt their gratitude. During one particular temple session, I was asked to speak to the members of a Logan ward. While we sat together in the temple’s chapel, I told them the story behind the names they carried that night. I remember that temple session as one of the most sacred I ever attended.
I recall feeling a vivid sense of light and joy at one particular point in the session. I thought of my son’s dream. My friends and neighbors were now giving the “bread of life” to those who had asked for it. I again felt that those whose work we were performing, though unseen, were grateful for the opportunity to accept the gospel. Though they had once walked the “Trail of Tears,” now they could walk the straight and narrow path of joy that leads to eternal life.
Many native American records have been compiled by various organizations. It is now possible to do more temple work for native American ancestors than ever before; many of them are eager to receive the saving ordinances of the gospel.
I learned just how eager they were one spring day while driving to Salt Lake City to talk with a woman there. Suddenly, I felt that I could hear the sound of drums beating. I seemed to see an Indian woman, dressed in an oversize plaid shirt, a Navajo skirt, and a silver medallion belt. The seat beside me was empty, but I could sense her presence.
When I arrived in Salt Lake City, I felt prompted to ask the woman with whom I had the appointment whether she had any Indian ancestors. But Carolyn doesn’t look Indian; she’s blonde and blue-eyed, I thought to myself. She’ll think I’m crazy.
When I met Carolyn in her office, the prompting for me to ask was just as strong as it had been in the car. So I asked if she had Indian ancestors.
“Yes,” she said. “My grandmother was Cherokee and was adopted by the Navajo.” She told me about how her “Granny” had worked as a nurse for many years with the Navajo in Arizona, Oklahoma, New Mexico, and Texas. Later, I asked Carolyn about the clothing her grandmother had worn, and she described to me the clothing I had seen the woman wearing.
I told Carolyn about the temple work we had done for the Choctaw. She was thrilled about the possibility of doing the same work for the Cherokee. The Cherokee were the second nation to walk the “Trail of Tears”; there is a record of the tribe in its entirety from 1835—before they had settled in Oklahoma. Carolyn is now doing extraction work on that record, preparing names for the temple.
I know that my Choctaw ancestors desired the blessings of the gospel. My love for my ancestors has grown as I have learned about them. Though they suffered great hardship in mortality, they are now receiving the great blessings of the temple.

Recently I listened to a courageous sister share how she persevered through difficulties. She had some challenges, and one Sunday she was sitting in Relief Society, listening to a teacher who she thought lived a picture-perfect life—totally different from her own. She was tired and discouraged. She felt like she didn’t measure up—or even belong—so she got up and left, planning to never return to church again. Walking to her car, she felt a distinct impression: “Go into the chapel and listen to the sacrament meeting speaker.” She questioned the prompting but felt it again strongly, so she went into the meeting.
The message was exactly what she needed. She felt the Spirit. She knew the Lord wanted her to stay with Him, to be His disciple, and to attend church, so she did.
Do you know what she was grateful for? That she didn’t give up. She just kept going—with faith in Jesus Christ, even when it stretched her, and she and her family are being abundantly blessed as she presses forward.

It was five o’clock in the morning when my husband and I, with two of our four children, left home in our small car. A fierce downpour pummeled the windshield, making it hard to see the road. But despite the weather, we were in a state of high excitement, for this was September 1983, and we were traveling to the dedication of the temple in Santiago, Chile.
My husband, a counselor in the bishopric, had received two tickets to attend dedicatory sessions in one of the large rooms inside the temple. Our older children, Igor and Perlita, ages 10 and 9, would see the services on closed-circuit television from a meetinghouse near the temple.
Brother Basualto, the other counselor in the bishopric, and his wife were traveling with us. They would sit with our children in the meetinghouse.
As we drove, Sister Basualto recounted a dream she had had the night before. “My husband and I were in the meetinghouse with your children, waiting for the session to start,” she told us. “Suddenly, one of the ushers came up and said, ‘Follow me. There are four extra seats in the temple.’ He took us into the temple and seated us right in front. It felt so real! When it was over, the General Authorities shook hands with the people. One of them spoke to your children.” As we listened to her, a peaceful feeling came over us. The rain continued to pour down.
We arrived at the temple, which stood stately and majestic in the storm. Shielding ourselves under a huge umbrella, we left our children and the Basualtos at the meetinghouse and hurried to our seats in the temple. The dedication was an extraordinary experience, with the Spirit gloriously in attendance. Even thinking about it today, I have a sweet and peaceful feeling. After the session was over, the members of the choir continued to sing with all their hearts in hymns of praise to the Lord.
My husband and I left the temple and went to the meetinghouse to join our children and friends. They were nowhere to be found. Quite concerned, we inquired if anyone had seen them. We were told, “Just before the session began, someone took them into the temple.” We looked back toward the temple and saw the four of them walking in the gardens.
Soon we were greeting one another excitedly. “Everything was just like my dream!” exclaimed Sister Basualto with tears in her eyes. How thrilled they had been to be seated inside the house of the Lord! Then they tenderly described how, at the conclusion, President Gordon B. Hinckley, then Second Counselor in the First Presidency, came up to our son Igor and spoke to him through an interpreter.
“How old are you, son?” President Hinckley asked.
“Ten,” said Igor.
“Will you promise me, here in the house of the Lord, that when the time comes you will serve a full-time mission, no matter what the obstacles?”
“Yes,” Igor replied in a quiet voice. “I promise.”
President Hinckley then turned to our daughter Perlita. “And you, my precious child, will you promise me that you will keep yourself clean and pure so that you can be married in the house of the Lord?”
She, too, shyly responded, “Yes.” We all wept as we thought of the marvelous events we had witnessed that day and of the beautiful promises the children had made.
Now, more than 10 years have passed. During that time, President Hinckley has become President of the Church, and my husband and I have watched both our children withstand the darts of the adversary. We have watched them stand firm and keep their childhood promises. Igor served as a missionary in the Chile Viña del Mar Mission. And his sister Perlita married a returned missionary in the beautiful Santiago Chile Temple—the same temple in which she and her brother had made special promises to a servant of the Lord and had witnessed a dream fulfilled.

Not long after, it was time to serve a mission. I received my call to the Ghana Cape Coast Mission. I proudly shared the news with my family, and they were happy for me, and I thought all was well with the family about my decision to serve. But a few days before mission, my family was still opposed to my decision and requested that I postpone my mission instead of leaving in December 2019, to go in 2020. It became evident that my family was unhappy with my decision to go on a mission. I knew that the God I serve lives, He knows me, and He had called me to serve Him and that the time is now or never.
I needed to make a choice between my family and my mission. I was stuck, but I prayed fervently and amidst all that was happening, I stood firm with unwavering and unshakable faith knowing that He can see me through those trying moments.
The Lord comforted me at that time, and I knew that I was not alone, and He was there for me. I felt at peace even though things had not been settled between me and my family and with less than 24 hours left, the family accepted my decision to go and serve and I was able to leave for my mission. My family has embraced my service and I am happily serving my mission with love and a cheerful heart, knowing that all things are possible with God if we look unto Him in every thought, fearing not and doubting not with faith that whatever you ask you will receive.

When I was a boy, my family had a small farm with cows and fields. Growing up on a farm was hard work.
One hot summer day, my brother and I were working in the field. The wind was blowing hard, and there was a lot of dust in the air. I had bad allergies, and the dust from the hay sometimes made me sick. My eyes were watering. It was hard to breathe. My nose even started to bleed because I’d rubbed it so much.
When my mother came out to the field and saw me, she told me to come inside the house. She had me lie on the couch with a wet cloth on my face. A few minutes later, she came back with two farmers. They were wearing overalls covered in hay dust.
The farmers were members of our ward. They placed their hands on my head and started to give me a blessing. My dad wasn’t a member of the Church then, so he didn’t hold the priesthood. But I’ll never forget the feeling I had as those other good men blessed me. It was warm, peaceful, and calming. And I didn’t feel so sick anymore.
Later in life, I realized that feeling was the Holy Ghost. The Holy Ghost is sometimes called the Comforter. I like that name because it was the Holy Ghost that brought me comfort. It made me feel better on the outside and on the inside.

A friend and I were riding our bikes when I had a feeling that I should turn a certain way. Instead, I went a different way. I hit a bump, fell off my bike, hit my knee on the pavement, and had to get stitches. It really hurt.
I am not a member of the Church, and I didn’t know that the Holy Ghost was trying to warn me. Now I know about the Holy Ghost and I want to listen to His voice from now on. It is a voice I can trust to help me choose the right all my life.Carleen B. P., age 10, Alberta, Canada

That was five years ago. Now, Zayne is a deacon in the Lolo Ward of the Stevensville Montana Stake. When he turned 12, he wanted to fulfill his priesthood responsibilities by passing the sacrament. That was a big challenge for a boy who must use crutches to walk.

Originally, Zayne tried to pass the sacrament while balancing on his crutches. When that didn’t work, he decided to use his wheelchair instead. Now Zayne passes the sacrament by placing the trays on his lap and wheeling down the aisles.

Subject: Lisa
Age: 17 years
Event: Second conversation with Kara
“You’ve finished your painting,” Lisa said, admiring the portrait of the girl. “It’s beautiful.”
“You were right about one thing,” Kara agonized. “She is sad and lonely.”
“Why?”
“She’s found out that she’s been used,” Kara said.
“What’s wrong, Kara?”
“I’m pregnant.”
“Larry?”
“Yes.”
“Is he going to marry you?”
“Oh no, not him. He doesn’t want to be tied down,” she said bitterly. “He told me he feels responsible, and so he’ll pay for an abortion.”
“Kara, you won’t do that, will you?” Elizabeth pleaded.
“I don’t know what to do,” Kara said slowly. “Could we go somewhere and talk?”
They walked to a park near the high school and sat in the swings and talked.
“Lisa, do you remember when we were in grade school? We were such good friends, weren’t we? We were just like sisters. How have we gotten so far apart?”
“I still love you as if you were my sister,” Lisa said.
“I know, but now I’m so different from you. How have I come to the place I am now? I’ve thought about it lately.”
“What did you decide?” Lisa asked.
“The only thing that has separated us is that I’ve always done what others told me everyone else was doing, but you never did any of those things. Why didn’t you?”
“I’m a Mormon,” Lisa said simply, “and we have a prophet of God who gives us warning. I guess I’ve just listened to him.”
“I wish I could be like you, but now I feel so old. I’ll never be young again, and I’ve got a decision to make. What should I do?”
“Don’t let them kill your baby.”
“It’s not a baby yet, is it? It’s just a growth. How can you be so sure that it wouldn’t be better to just do it the way Larry wants? He calls it getting it fixed.”
“Our prophet’s warned us against abortion,” Lisa said. “Will you talk to my bishop? Maybe he can help you decide what to do.”
“Okay, I’ll talk with him.”
They talked about high school over dessert.
“I never did feel very comfortable around girls,” Dan confided.
“And I was busy with my classes and other activities,” Elizabeth recalled, “but socially it was like I was watching my friends make bad choices. Eventually their choices caught up with them.”
“Did your friends in high school learn from their bad choices?” Dan asked Elizabeth.
“I’m afraid not.”
Subject: Elizabeth
Age: 20 years
Event: Meeting Kara at the airport
Elizabeth had taken the flight from Minneapolis to Salt Lake City on her return to college. She had walked slowly past the car rental agency three times, carefully studying the features of the attractive girl at the counter. Finally she approached the girl.
“Excuse me, are you Kara?”
“Lisa?” the girl cried. “Is that you?”
They threw their arms around each other, both chattering excitedly.
“What are you doing here?” Elizabeth asked.
“I was transferred from our L.A. office six months ago. Look, I’ve got a break coming. Let’s go get something to eat so we can talk.”
They sat at a small table and talked, filling each other in on their lives since they had last been together.
“I lost track of you after you left town,” Elizabeth said. “My bishop said you never talked with him.”
“Oh, I changed my mind and just had the problem fixed,” Kara said lightly.
“Oh,” Elizabeth said, trying not to betray her disappointment.
“I guess you’re shocked, but it’s quite common these days.”
“But why did you suddenly leave town after that?” Elizabeth asked.
“I had to get away,” Kara said, pursing her lips nervously, “and so I ran away.”
“But where did you live? What did you do?”
Kara shook her head slowly. “You don’t want to hear about that.” She took a final drag on her cigarette and exhaled slowly. “But look, I’m all squared away now. I’m into group therapy, and it’s really helped me get rid of all my guilt feelings about everything. What a relief not to feel guilty about anything! But I guess you know about that, because you’ve never done anything to feel guilty about.”
A few minutes later, Elizabeth asked, “What happened to Larry Hill?”
“Last I heard he was working as a DJ in a disco in California.”
“I guess that makes him one of the real men, doesn’t it?” Elizabeth said. “He always needed that assurance.”
“I’ve heard he’s still running around just like he did in high school,” Kara added. “I guess I am, too, for that matter. I’m just not ready to settle down.”

On the night of May 22, 2011, amid the sound of blaring sirens, a massive tornado touched down in the heart of Joplin, Missouri, USA, destroying homes and lives. The Joplin First Ward was hit hard by the twister, but right away Bishop Chris Hoffman and the ward council started accounting for ward members.
“We had a response plan in place because we had talked about these preparations in ward council before they happened,” he said. “We also relied on the Spirit to know what to do. Power lines were down. Cell phones didn’t work. We prayed and listened for answers, and they came—they always came. It was gratifying for me as a bishop to hear members say, ‘This is what I’ve done,’ instead of, ‘What do you want me to do?’”

It was a fine fall day with the sun bright and the air crisp. Bear Cub was happy as he walked through the golden woods.
“Ho, Bear Cub!” cried a small voice.
Bear Cub looked down. He saw Chipmunk carrying a large pile of seeds and nuts. “Do you need help, Chipmunk?”
“Yes, thank you.” Chipmunk divided the pile in two. “I’m taking food to my home to store for the winter. It will be coming soon.”
“Winter is coming?” asked Bear Cub. “I’ve never lived through a winter. What will it be like, Chipmunk?”
“Winter? Why winter will be …” Chipmunk stopped walking and tapped his foot as he thought. “Winter will be … Hmmmm …” Chipmunk started walking again. “Come to think of it, I spend winter underground, so I don’t know too much about it.”
They stopped beside a stone wall where there was a small hole in the ground at its base. Chipmunk ran into the hole with his load of seeds and nuts, then popped out again. “Thanks for helping, Bear Cub. About winter—I hear that it gets mighty cold and that food is hard to find.” Chipmunk took the pile of food from Bear Cub and popped into the hole again.
Bear Cub saw a bird pulling up a worm. “Hello, Robin. Do you know what winter will be like?”
Robin swallowed the worm. “I don’t stay here for the winter, Bear Cub. I fly south where the weather is warm and where food is plentiful.” Robin grabbed another worm and ate it. “I can’t stay to chat, Bear Cub. I must eat lots of worms before I fly south.”
Bear Cub heard a digging sound. He followed the noise to a small hole in the ground. “Hello!” Bear Cub yelled down the hole.
A brown head with a long nose popped up. “Yo, Bear Cub! Did you come to watch me dig?”
“Is this a new tunnel, Mole?”
“Yes, Bear Cub. It’s a deeper tunnel. With winter coming, I must go deeper to keep warm.” Then Mole popped back into his tunnel.
“What will winter be like, Mole?” Bear Cub called down the tunnel.
Mole popped his head out again. “Winter will be cold.”
“And will food be hard to find?” asked Bear Cub.
“No, there’s plenty of food. I get all the worms and insects I need in my tunnel. I have to get back to digging now. Why don’t you talk to Beaver? He can tell you more about winter.”
Bear Cub found Beaver cutting up a tree limb with his sharp teeth. “What will winter be like, Beaver? I’ve heard that it’s cold and that food is hard to find.”
“Not for me,” said Beaver. “I stay warm in my lodge during the winter, and I eat the sticks that I’ve gathered and stored there.” Beaver cut another limb to size. “I don’t see that much of winter, Bear Cub. You should ask Deer. She stays above ground all winter long.”
When Bear Cub asked Deer about winter, her soft brown eyes became sad.
“Winter is short, gray days when snow covers the grass and leaves. Winter is long, dark nights huddled against the wind. Winter is always looking for food and shelter.”
Now Bear Cub was worried. What would he eat in winter? He didn’t have a tunnel in which to store his food. How would he stay warm in winter? He didn’t have a beaver lodge to keep out the cold. He couldn’t fly away like Robin. Would he be like Deer, without food or shelter? He had to find his mother. She would know what to do.
When Bear Cub asked Mama Bear about winter, she wrapped her arms around him. “Don’t worry about winter,” she said. “We will eat so much food that we will not get hungry. We will spend winter in a cave. We will be warm because our fur will be thick. We will sleep through most of the long, dark nights and the short, gray days. And when we wake up, it will be spring!”
Bear Cub was no longer afraid. He looked forward to spending the winter snuggled against Mama Bear. “Now I know what winter will be like, Mama,” said Bear Cub. “Winter will be wonderful!”