Gospel Story Finder

My paternal grandparents had two children, a son (my father) and a daughter. After serving a mission and military service in Hawaii, my father returned to the islands in 1946 to establish himself professionally and raise his family. His parents lived in Salt Lake City, as did his sister. She married in 1946 and four years later was expecting a child. There is something very special for parents to anticipate a daughter (in this instance an only daughter) giving birth for the first time. No one knew that she was carrying twins. Sadly, she and the twins all died during childbirth.
My grandparents were heartbroken. Their grief, however, immediately turned them to the Lord and His Atonement. Without dwelling on why this could happen and who might be to blame, they focused on living a righteous life. My grandparents never had wealth; they were never among the socially elite; they never held high position in the Church—they were simply devoted Latter-day Saints.
After retiring professionally in 1956, they moved to Hawaii to be with their only posterity. The ensuing decades found them loving their family, serving in the Church, and mostly, they just enjoyed being together. They never liked being apart and even spoke of whoever died first finding a way to help them reunite soon. Nearing their 90th birthdays and after 65 years of marriage, they passed away within hours of each other by natural causes. As their bishop, I conducted their double funeral.

I vividly remember one experience from my own freshman year at the University of Arizona. It was a bright, sunny day, and I was nervously preparing for my first finals. I stopped by the institute of religion to study, and while walking down the hall, I ran into a friend from my astronomy class. When I told him I was studying for our final that day, he looked at me in shock and said, “Sarah! That final was on Monday—two days ago!”

Panic set in. I grabbed my backpack and sprinted to my professor’s office. Breathless and sweating, I knocked on his door. He confirmed the worst: the time for the exam had passed and grades were due in thirty minutes. Shaking his head, he offered a last resort—an oral exam.

For the next half hour, he grilled me on the material. When I would give a shaky answer, the wrinkles on his face hinted I was off track—silently urging me to keep going. I don’t remember the grade I received, but I know I didn’t earn an A. What I did gain was far more lasting: a powerful lesson in responsibility, humility, and grace. I’ll always be grateful for that professor’s unexpected mercy.

This experience has never left me. I have picked this story up again and again in my life. It’s almost as if I have picked up a ball and turned it over and over in my hands to see if I can see something I may have missed before. Could I have really been that unorganized and forgetful? And how was the professor really that compassionate toward someone who decidedly deserved a failing grade? In fact, I have shared this story multiple times in myriad college classrooms over the years in an attempt to help my students see that I understand the pressures of college life.

Kai Fitzhugh’s motivation comes from his family. He says that having a brother with special needs has motivated him to want to serve others with disabilities. The night of the prom was no exception. Like most high school dances, there’s a photographer who takes photos of couples in front of a pretty backdrop. Prom night at special-needs Mutual was no different. Kai was more than happy to stand in line with a girl who had a disability and have his picture taken with her. “It’s hard to explain,” he says, “but whenever I’m here serving, I just feel good inside.”

Amanda had been watching through the window for what seemed like hours. Finally the car pulled into the driveway. “Daddy’s home!” she shouted as she ran out the door. Before Daddy was even out of the car, Amanda was showing him her letter.
“Look, Daddy, I got a letter from Grandma! It came in the mail today. Mommy read it to me already, but I want you to read it again.”
Letters from Amanda’s grandma are especially fun to get because Amanda’s grandma and grandpa are missionaries far, far away in Paraguay (pah-rah-gwi). Almost everyone in Paraguay speaks Spanish, so Grandma and Grandpa have learned to speak Spanish too. They teach the people there about the Church. They also teach them how to sew and how to plant gardens, and they help them to build chicken coops and other things. Grandpa is even helping to build a meetinghouse there.
As soon as Daddy had a chance to get in the house and sit down, Amanda crawled up onto his lap. “Here, Daddy. Read my letter,” she said.
Daddy gave Amanda a big hug, then read this letter:
Dear Amanda,
We had so many interesting visitors at church last Sunday that I thought you would like to hear about them. Grandpa and I went to church in a little town called Itakyrú (ee-tahk-ee-roo). We are building a nice new meetinghouse there, but for now the members come to the home of the Ugarte (oo-gar-teh) family for church. There are two rooms in the house: a bedroom, where the whole family sleeps, and a kitchen, where Sister Ugarte cooks over an open fire. Between the two rooms is a covered area for the animals. There is a big box of corn there, and the dogs and pigs and chickens and ducks go in and out whenever they wish. The Ugarte family also has a little brown burro, a calf, and a pretty gray cat.
On Sunday, however, all the animals have to go out into the yard, and Brother Ugarte sets up benches for our meetings in the area between the two rooms. It is a very cool and pretty place to have a meeting.
Sacrament meeting last Sunday started out as usual. Then, after the announcements and opening song, we heard a strange munching noise. It was the little black calf. He had come in to listen and to eat some of his corn!
A little later, during the first talk, Grandpa leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Grandma, there is a little pig between my feet!”
“I know,” I whispered back, “and there is a little spotted dog under me.”
Just at that moment the little dog under me playfully nipped the little pig under Grandpa.
“Ooee! Ooee! Ooee!” squealed the pig, and it ran into the yard.
“Woof! Woof! Woof!” barked the dog, following the pig into the yard.
“Amen,” said the speaker as he finished his talk.
Everyone stood up to sing a rest song. The little brown burro, which had been very reverent in the yard the whole time, decided he would like to sing. Have you ever heard a burro sing? They don’t stay with the music very well, and they always forget the words!
The second half of the meeting was much quieter. The pretty gray cat fell asleep outside near the burro, and the only new visitors to church were some ducks and a mother hen that came to eat the corn that the calf had spilled on the floor.
Soon the new meetinghouse in Itakyru will be finished. Then the animals won’t be able to come to church anymore, which is really too bad, because they seemed to enjoy being there with us.
Grandpa and I are very glad that we can be missionaries in Paraguay. Maybe someday you can be a missionary too. Don’t forget to be a good girl for your mommy and daddy.
Love,
Grandma

Repentance produces changes in attitudes and behavior, but simply changing attitudes and behavior is not repentance.
During my service as the president of Brigham Young University–Idaho, I talked one Sunday afternoon with a campus bishop. Without disclosing the identity of the individual, he explained to me that he had received a confession from a young person who made the following statement: “Bishop, I violated the law of chastity Friday night. Talking with you is the last thing on my list of things to do to repent. Now that I have confessed, I feel great.”
Recognizing and forsaking sin; feeling remorse and making restitution for sin; and confessing sins to God and, when needed, to our priesthood leaders are all necessary and important elements in the repentance process. However, these essential steps do not constitute a mere behavioral checklist we can mechanically, quickly, and casually complete. If we do these things and fail to recognize and depend upon the Redeemer and His atoning sacrifice, then even our best efforts are in vain.

As the usual family festivities of Christmas Eve were drawing to an end, I felt that can’t-wait-until-morning feeling of excitement!
I was eight years of age and the oldest grandchild in my large extended family. Every few minutes, a parent, aunt, or uncle would open the door and exclaim about hearing the faint sound of bells. I could hardly wait for Santa to arrive! Yet Grandpa still insisted on going caroling first—a family tradition. “Santa will never come!” I thought.
As we hopped into our frost-covered cars, we realized it was a lot later than we normally left. The small town where we lived in Idaho was very quiet and cold. Some family members worried that we shouldn’t go caroling so late, but my grandpa insisted that we should visit a couple houses.
As we drove down the small, tree-covered lane, we could see no hint of light in the tiny log cabin belonging to “Old Jim.” Jim was a good friend, and he had a big heart. He had been a widower since I could remember.
“Surely Jim wouldn’t care if we didn’t stop!” I moaned. Santa Claus would miss us for sure!
But my good grandfather persisted: “Just quietly gather by the bedroom window and start with ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem.’”
Our voices were unsteady at first, but strength lies in numbers, and it wasn’t long until the music swelled into a beautiful, harmonious melody.
Yet in thy dark streets shineth
The everlasting Light.
The hopes and fears of all the years
Are met in thee tonight.
There was still no light on in Jim’s home, but we continued to sing.
O morning stars, together
Proclaim the holy birth,
And praises sing to God the King,
And peace to men on earth 1
The cabin door opened.
In the moonlight, we could see tears run down Jim’s face. As he embraced us all, he cried—really cried. After a time, he wiped the tears of joy from his face and said to us, “I have waited all year for you to come. You are my Christmas. And when the clock turned 9:30, I thought I had been forgotten. I was so disappointed. I had gone to bed, for there was no reason to stay up anymore.”
Our hearts were filled. As Jim motioned us into his home and turned on the light, we could see that he indeed had been expecting us. His kitchen table was beautifully set, and there was everything from Christmas cake and cookies to cold meats cut and laid out waiting for us to eat. The cups had been carefully counted and lovingly filled with sweet apple cider, so as “not to miss a one of you,” Jim added.
Jim said we had been his Christmas? Not so. Jim had been ours.
The gift of love we received that cold Christmas Eve was more wonderful than anything Santa could ever have left under our Christmas tree. And it was a reminder that the Lord wants us to minister to His children as He does—one by one, bringing His love with us (see 3 Nephi 11:15–17; 17:21).

Some years ago I was invited to speak to a group of faculty and students at Harvard University. I, of course, hoped that the gospel message would be accepted and that our meeting would end in a harmony of views. As I prayed that this might result, there came to me a strong impression that this petition would not be granted.

I determined that, however preposterous the talk about angels and golden plates and restoration might be to my audience, I would teach the truth with quiet confidence, for I have a testimony of the truth. If some must come from the meeting unsettled and disturbed, it would not be me. Let them be disturbed, if they would.

It was as the Spirit foretold. Some in the group shook their heads in amazement that anyone could believe such things. But I was at peace. I had taught the truth, and they could accept it or reject it as they pleased.

I was raised in the gospel, and in my early years I owed most of my testimony to the example of my parents. For me, the critical point in the choice to believe came the year after I returned to BYU from my mission. I had a wonderful experience as a missionary and had the opportunity to teach the plan of salvation and about the Resurrection. I taught of priesthood power and blessings and did so in sincerity and faith.

However, all of this took on new meaning in the year after I came home, when the person I was closest to in all the world, my father, was diagnosed with terminal cancer. Suddenly the doctrine of the gospel became more than theory, and I had to decide what I really believed. Was there really power in priesthood blessings, even if after receiving one my Dad did not get better? Would I ever really see him again? Do the covenants we make and the blessings we are promised in the temple with regard to eternal families have meaning? I had to make that choice to believe and to go forward in faith.

I testify that my own life has been richly blessed because I chose then to believe and to try to live in accord with that belief and because I have continued to make that choice. “And,” in the simple words of the poet Robert Frost, “that has made all the difference” (“The Road Not Taken” [1916]). Quantum uncertainty may turn out to be as incomplete a view of the universe as the Newtonian determinism that came before it, but it does not matter to me—I have chosen to believe, and that choice has been confirmed by the Spirit many times over. It has made all the difference.

Once upon a time in a small village there lived an old tailor and his three sons, Judah, Yarin, and Isaac. One day the old man called his boys together. “My sons,” he said. “I have worked hard. Now I wish to spend my days resting in the shade of the olive trees. I am giving the shop to you.”
Judah stepped forward. “Thank you, Papa. We hope that we can live up to your teachings.”
The old man smiled. “How splendid it will be to see my sons working together.”
Yarin picked up some cloth. “I can design the garments,” he said enthusiastically.
“I will cut the patterns,” added Isaac happily.
“And I will sew the pieces of cloth together,” said Judah eagerly.
“Good!” said the old man, beaming. “You have made my heart sing.”
A moment later, there was a knock on the door. Judah opened it. A messenger handed him a letter for his father. “It is news from the Rabbi’s wife,” he said. Then he bowed and left.
Judah gave the letter to his father. The old man quickly opened it and read aloud:
On the first day of next week my daughter will marry Ganseh the gabbai [synagogue trustee], cousin of the hazan’s [cantor’s] daughter. A prize of fifty shekels will go to the tailor who makes the most beautiful dress in Jerusalem before sunset this Friday. The Rebbetzin.
“Our fortune will be made!” said Yarin.
“We will become known throughout the Holy Land!” exclaimed Isaac.
“Everyone will buy our finery!” rejoiced Judah. “Let’s get busy and make the dress. We have only two days’ time.”
The old man stepped forward. “I am going to the marketplace to buy more cloth. I will return tomorrow. Good luck, my sons. I know you will do well together.”
And he left.
As Yarin picked up some paper and a quill, he thought, I should win the prize because I will make the pattern. He quickly drew some sketches.
“Show us what you have drawn,” said Judah.
Yarin hid the paper behind his back. “No,” he replied. “Not unless you both agree that the prize shall be mine!”
“That’s not fair!” cried Isaac. “If anyone should have a prize, I should, because I shall cut the pattern with great precision.”
“Wait!” protested Judah. “I shall sew the fine white linen with delicate stitches, so the prize should be mine!”
The brothers argued all day and night and into the next morning. When the old man returned, he heard their angry voices and hurried inside. “What is the trouble?” he asked them.
Enraged, the sons told him that each of them felt that he deserved the prize. The old man sadly shook his head. “As of this moment, I do not even see the beginning of a dress, yet you all expect to be rewarded.”
The old man fetched a broom from the doorway and removed three twigs. “Yarin,” he asked, “can you break this twig?’
“Of course, Papa,” he said, and he did.
“What about you, Judah?” asked the old man. “Can you break a twig too?”
“Easily,” replied Judah, and he did.
“Can you do the same, Isaac?” asked the old man.
“Certainly,” replied Isaac as he snapped the twig in two, “but what does this prove?”
The old man smiled and picked up the broom. “Now,” he said, “break the twigs that are bound together.”
Each son took a turn, but not one of them could do it.
The old man held the three broken twigs in his hand.
“Surely you can see that there seems to be more glory and riches in standing alone,” he said, kindly. “But like these bound twigs, working together brings strength.”
The sons looked at each other shamefacedly.
“We have wasted precious time being greedy,” said Isaac. “Now it’s too late, Papa.”
“Nonsense!” countered the old man. “Yarin, place the pattern on the table so that Isaac can cut the cloth so that Judah can sew it. Together you will make a fine gown.”
The brothers worked together all night and most of the next day to finish the gown before the Friday deadline.
When the rabbi’s wife saw the dress, she was very pleased with it. However, she liked another gown better, and she awarded the fifty shekels to someone else.
On their way home, the sons remained silent.
“I know that you are disappointed,” said the old man, “but together you made a very fine gown. Because it is so fine, others will buy the garments you make.”
The next day, many people came to the tailor shop.
One of them was the hazan’s daughter.
“Oh,” she said, admiring the dress, “what a beautiful design! Such delicate stitches! And it is cut so beautifully that I’m sure it will fit me.”
She was so delighted with the dress that she bought it and ordered several more. So did her friends and others, until the three brothers had earned fifty shekels many times over.

Fifteen years ago, there was a quorum of priests in the Salt Lake Valley which consisted of eight members who all attended the same high school. In spite of a certain sense of unity among them, each was different—from very different family circumstances, with his own set of problems, worries, challenges, and dreams. And while they were friends and seemed to enjoy the society of their quorum, there was something lacking that would unify and bond them together.
Living within the ward boundaries at the time was a young man who was not a member of the Church. He was their age, attended their school, and was a star athlete. He was popular and well respected and enjoyed the praise and admiration that came with that kind of popularity. And although he knew and was on friendly terms with each of the priests in the quorum, he had a different set of friends, traveled in another social circle, and hung out with a different crowd.
For some weeks, this young man had been discussed in the quorum meetings in terms of his success in sports and his relative popularity at school. He was a topic of discussion at some point in almost every quorum meeting. On one such Sunday, the bishop, meeting with the quorum in his role as quorum president, suggested that they consider teaching and baptizing this popular young friend of theirs. The quorum members at first laughed at the suggestion, expressing their beliefs that this young man would never join the Church. The bishop’s encouragement was persistent over several weeks, and, finally, the group agreed that they would invite this young man to one or two of their activities. To their surprise, he agreed.
Gradually, one by one, each member of the quorum had an influence on him. He began to attend activities regularly and even came to Sunday meetings. Finally, the quorum leaders approached him about meeting with the missionaries and hearing the discussions. He agreed and received permission from his family.
At first, they took turns visiting him with the missionaries. One or two of them would accompany the elders to his home, the meetinghouse, or some other teaching location. They began to sit together at the games where their friend played, and a spirit of purpose, unity, and strength began to grow among them. They began to change in ways that everyone in the ward noticed. Their parents commented. The bishopric saw it. Other ward members mentioned it, and they themselves felt the changes that were taking place in their lives.
Finally the day of baptism came. They were all there—sitting on the front row and watching intently as one of the full-time missionaries escorted their friend into the baptismal waters. Somehow, it wouldn’t have been fair for any one of them to perform the baptism. They had all become so close and so much a team, that they agreed the elders should perform the ordinance.
Time has passed. Years have flown by. Those young men have served missions, married in the temple, become husbands and fathers, and moved away from the old ward. But every one of them remembers those days of unity, of brotherhood, of friendship, and of the joy of sharing the gospel of Jesus Christ with their friend. No matter what happens to that little group, their lives were changed forever that year. They tasted of true quorum unity and strength.

As he grew older Wilford continued doing the things he loved as a child—fishing and praying. While traveling across the plains with Brigham Young, Wilford fished at every possible spot.
Brigham: You sure love to fish, don’t you, Brother Wilford?
Wilford: It gives me time to meditate. Sometimes it gives me dinner too!
These prayers helped Wilford become a very faithful man and a Church leader. Other people noticed his good example and gave him the nickname “Wilford the Faithful.”

Their journey to the gospel began during a work trip to Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, where they were introduced to and joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. At the time, there was no Church branch in their hometown of Debra Zeit, and attending church required a 47-kilometer weekly journey to Addis Ababa. Despite the difficulty, the family made the effort to travel every week. Eventually, they were able to worship closer to home, gathering with other members in the house of President Ayele Asfaw Kelkaye, a fellow Latter-day Saint. The early years of their conversion were marked by this dedication to the gospel, but the path was not always easy.
For eight years, the Waji family rarely attended church, facing spiritual and personal challenges. It was during this time that Elder and Sister Moyer, senior missionaries, visited their home. That visit marked a turning point in their lives. Ada Worq, one of Waji and Emebet’s daughters, recalls the significance of that moment: “I will never forget what they said when they visited us. They asked, ‘What can we do for you?’ and then spoke to us about Christ’s love and faith. Everyone was crying, touched by the Spirit.”
This visit ignited a renewal of faith within the family. They recommitted to the gospel and returned to full activity in the Church. However, their path to the temple remained challenging. For Waji and Zenbech, being sealed in the temple for time and all eternity became a cherished goal, but their journey was met with multiple setbacks. Their planned trips to the temple failed three times. Despite their best efforts, unforeseen obstacles prevented them from making the journey. But through faith and divine intervention, their trip was finally made possible. With the support of the mission leaders, President Oliva Cowley and Sister Rebecca Cowley, they made their way to the Accra Ghana Temple.
On June 17, 2024, after 25 years of membership and waiting, Waji and Zenbech entered the temple and were sealed together. The day marked was filled with deep spiritual meaning. Mekonnen, their eldest son, reflected on the experience: “I saw how much the people have been blessed because of having the temple in their country.”
Waji, moved by the power of the temple, said, “The temple is like a compass—it directs us to the way of eternal life. It is my prayer that there will be a temple in Ethiopia one day.”
Sister Zenbech shared her profound feelings from their temple experience, saying, “I felt the love of Heavenly Father and the love of the people while I was in the temple.”
For both Waji and Zenbech, being sealed in the temple was not only the culmination of years of faith and sacrifice but also the fulfilment of a promise they had longed for.
Following their sealing, the family continued to grow spiritually. Their renewed dedication led them to serve in various callings in the Church, building their testimonies and further strengthening their faith. Their daughter Bemnet, inspired by her family’s experience and her own faith, began preparing to serve a mission, contributing to the ongoing legacy of commitment and service within the Waji family.
The Waji family’s journey serves as a powerful reminder that faith, patience, and perseverance in the gospel yield great blessings. Though Waji and Zenbech faced numerous obstacles, their dream of being sealed in the temple became a reality, demonstrating the power of the Lord’s timing. Their story offers hope to all those striving for the blessings of the temple, showing that through faith, anything is possible.

I'd like to add my testimony as we close our devotional and say that I know that Heavenly Father lives because I have felt his presence. I know that Jesus is my Savior because I have literally felt the healing power of the atonement in my life. I know that the gospel is true, because I have felt it's power to change lives. I come from a long line of alcoholics, and I can tell you quite truthfully that this curse of my fathers would have been mine also, had I not lived the Word of Wisdom when it was introduced to us by the missionaries. I know that the gospel of Jesus Christ is a place of refuge in every time of trouble, because it is there that I have turned and have found solace. I count it a choice blessing that our family came to Hawaii and that we were able to raise our children in the shadow of the temple. I love my associations with the students in the University Chorale, and my friends in the community. I will forever be grateful to the two elderly sister missionaries who found us by knocking doors and who taught us the gospel when we were about your age. As you leave this devotional and continue on your journey take our aloha with you and find joy.

While serving as district president on Tarawa, Tune also filled an appointment as principal of Moroni High School, an LDS high school that resulted from the missionary work of Grant Howlett and his wife, Pat. When the Howletts came to Tarawa in 1976, the AKAS school was having financial and leadership problems. The Howletts supplied the leadership and petitioned the Church to buy the school. Eventually, the Church agreed.
Unfortunately, there was some opposition from people in the government. But the Lord had an agent in place. Baitika Toun, a member of the Church elected to parliament, helped convince several key lawmakers that a school run by the Church would be of great benefit to the I-Kiribati. The Church purchased the school and called the campus Moroni Community School (now Moroni High School).

Our names are Ashley, Jessica, and Amanda Alessi. Sundays are very long because Ashley and Jessica usually go to church around 7:00 A.M. with our Dad, and church doesn’t end until 12:30 P.M. We’re always tired and hungry by that time, but for the last few years, no matter how tired and hungry we are, we visit a member of our branch, Sister Terry, each week after church.
When we visit, we like to sing songs like, “I Am a Child of God,” “Love One Another,” “I Am like a Star,” “Book of Mormon Stories,” and “Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes.” Sometimes she tries to do the hand motions, and sometimes she even smiles. We like it when she smiles. The other residents in the hall seem to like the songs, so sometimes we sing to them too. We like to share the gospel by singing.
On nice days, we take Sister Terry outside for a walk. We wheel her around and hope she enjoys the flowers, trees, and fresh air. Most of the time, we have to visit with her inside her room. Mom and Grandmother read scriptures to her, and we all pray with her. Jesus Christ said we should visit the sick, and we’re glad that we can, because it makes us happy and because we love Sister Terry. We think it makes her happy too.

Most aspiring graduates will recognize this all-too-familiar question: “What are you going to do after you graduate?” Sometimes it can be scary to think of what is next, but if we have an open mind and heart, God can lead us to great things.

During my master’s program work, I had an opportunity to intern at a federal public health agency, and I thoroughly enjoyed the work. I was excited about the impact this work could have on individuals across the nation.

During my doctoral program I had every intention of applying for employment at this agency, and I kept my contacts active within the division I had worked in as an intern. However, God had different plans for me. I knew that if I was offered a faculty position at BYU, this is where God wanted me to be. BYU extended me the job and, obviously, I accepted.

This is just one of many experiences I have had in my life when, if I have been willing to accept the Lord’s will and listen, He has guided me to the path that is best for me. He does this for all of us.

When he was fourteen, Joseph’s family moved to Manchester, New York, where they were soon caught up in the religious excitement of the period. Some of them joined the Presbyterian church, but Joseph could not decide which church was true.
One day he read James 1:5: “If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God, that giveth to all men liberally, and upbraideth not, and it shall be given him.” He decided to follow this advice.
It was a spring morning in 1820 when Joseph walked to a woods near his home to ask God which church was true. He later wrote about what happened, saying, “I saw a pillar of light exactly over my head, above the brightness of the sun, which descended gradually until it fell upon me.
“… When the light rested upon me I saw two Personages, whose brightness and glory defy all description, standing above me in the air. One of them spake unto me, calling me by name and said, pointing to the other—This is My Beloved Son. Hear Him!” (JS—H 1:16–17.)
When Joseph asked which church he should join, Jesus answered that he should join none of them.
Joseph’s family believed him when he told them what he had seen and heard, but others in the community began to persecute him because he would not deny that he had seen a vision.
Three years later, on the evening of September 21, 1823, the Angel Moroni appeared beside Joseph’s bed while the young man was praying. Moroni told Joseph, among other things, about a record written upon gold plates and hidden in a hillside. He said that Joseph was to translate it. The angel appeared to Joseph three times that night, each time repeating the same message. The next day Joseph went to the place he had seen in the vision, and there he found a stone box containing the plates.
Joseph was not allowed to take the plates and translate them until four years later. When word got out that Joseph had some gold plates, the persecutions against him increased and many people attempted to steal the plates. But Joseph always managed to keep them safely hidden.
On May 15, 1829, a part of the plates Joseph was translating was about baptism for the remission of sins. Curious, he and his scribe, Oliver Cowdery, prayed about it. John the Baptist appeared to them and conferred the Aaronic Priesthood upon them and told them to baptize each other. Joseph baptized Oliver, and then Oliver baptized Joseph. They then ordained each other to the Aaronic Priesthood. Later they received the Melchizedek Priesthood from Peter, James, and John, the ancient apostles.
On April 6, 1830, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was formally organized. Its membership grew rapidly. In 1831, Joseph and his wife Emma moved to Kirtland, Ohio, where many of the new members were gathering. While there, Joseph prepared for publication the revelations he had received so far. This Book of Commandments was later expanded and published as the Doctrine and Covenants.
On March 27, 1836, Joseph dedicated the Kirtland Temple. Only two years later he and other faithful followers were forced to flee to Far West, Missouri, because of persecutions.
When the Saints first arrived at Far West, they were accepted by the local citizens. But as their numbers and political influence grew, mobs persecuted the Saints and burned some of their homes. Governor Boggs sent thousands of troops to Far West with instructions to kill all of the Saints if necessary to restore peace. The Saints were forced to give up their guns, and mobs entered Far West and ransacked their homes. The Saints were then told to leave the state before the next spring or be killed.
Meanwhile Joseph and several other Church leaders had been taken prisoner. After spending about six months in various jails without being legally charged with any offense, the guards allowed them to escape. They fled to Quincy, Illinois, where many of the Saints had gone after being driven out of Far West.
In May 1839 Joseph directed the purchase of a large piece of swampland in Commerce, Illinois, and a great many Saints began to move into the area. Commerce was later renamed Nauvoo.
Nauvoo grew. The swampland was drained and cleared, and buildings were completed. Among other things, Joseph oversaw the building of a new temple, edited a newspaper, ran a store, and served as mayor of the city and head of the Nauvoo militia.
Once again the neighboring communities came to resent the Saints because of their strength, prosperity, and political influence. The Nauvoo Expositor, a local newspaper, added to the Saints’ trouble by printing lies about the Church leaders.
On June 10, 1844, a group of men under orders from the city council destroyed the newspaper’s press. Joseph and some of the other brethren were charged with inciting a riot, but were later found not guilty.
Governor Ford wanted Joseph to be tried again at Carthage, Illinois, Joseph felt that if he went there, he would probably be killed, so on June 23, 1844, he rowed across the Mississippi River to avoid arrest. In a letter, Emma pleaded with him to return and surrender. Joseph also learned that some of the Saints were calling him a coward for leaving. “If my life is of no value to my friends,” he said, “it is of none to myself.” He returned to Nauvoo, and on Monday, June 24, he and the others charged in the case went to Carthage to surrender.
When they got to Carthage, they were released on bail until a circuit court judge could hear the case. Joseph and Hyrum went to talk to Governor Ford. While there, they were rearrested on charges of treason.
Joseph and Hyrum were again jailed; John Taylor and Willard Richards went with them.
On June 27, 1844, shortly after 5:00 P.M., a mob rushed up the jail stairs to the room where the prisoners were being held. The culprits tried to break through the door, but were unable to. Shooting through the door, they hit Hyrum, who fell, saying, “I am a dead man.”
Joseph went to the window where he was shot twice from inside the building and twice more from outside. He fell out of the window to the ground and died. John Taylor was shot four times and lay under a bed, severely wounded. Willard Richards was not injured during the shooting.
After the martyrdom, John Taylor wrote, “Joseph Smith, the Prophet and Seer of the Lord, has done more, save Jesus only, for the salvation of men in this world, than any other man that ever lived in it. … He lived great, and he died great in the eyes of God and his people; and like most of the Lord’s anointed in ancient times, has sealed his mission and his works with his own blood …” (D&C 135:3).

In 1968 when I made my first visit to the German Democratic Republic, tensions were high. Trust and understanding did not exist. No diplomatic relations had been established. On a cloudy and rain-filled day I journeyed to the city of Görlitz, situated deep in the German Democratic Republic near the Polish and Czech borders. I attended my first meeting with the Saints. We assembled in a small and ancient building. As the members sang the hymns of Zion, they literally filled the hall with their faith and devotion.
My heart was filled with sorrow when I realized the members had no patriarch, no wards or stakes—just branches. They could not receive temple blessings—either endowment or sealing. No official visitor had come from Church headquarters in a long time. The members could not leave their country. Yet they trusted in the Lord with all their hearts.
I stood at the pulpit, and with tear-filled eyes and a voice choked with emotion, I made a promise to the people: “If you will remain true and faithful to the commandments of God, every blessing any member of the Church enjoys in any other country will be yours.” Then I realized what I had said. That night, I dropped to my knees and pleaded with my Heavenly Father, “Father, I’m on Thy errand; this is Thy Church. I have spoken words that came not from me but from Thee and Thy Son. Wilt Thou fulfill the promise in the lives of this noble people.” Thus concluded my first visit to the German Democratic Republic.

The river eddied fast and smooth around the raft and was a muddy gray color. The air was cool and smelled of snow. It was early spring, May 20. In Canada that’s a holiday celebrating Queen Victoria’s birthday, and for the LDS Branch in Banff, Alberta Province, it’s time for the annual trip down the Kootenay River.
Erwin Oertli is a member of the Banff Branch. He is also a professional river guide who has a government concession to run raft trips in Canada, and on the same weekend each spring he invites the entire Banff Branch, all interested families, on a three-day raft trip down the Kootenay River. He also invites several nonmember friends.
“It’s the best way I know of to introduce them to the Church,” he explained.
The trip began early Saturday morning. The rafts were unloaded on the river bank, inflated, and lifted into the water. Under Brother Oertli’s direction, metal platforms were placed in the rafts and lashed to the sides. Each family loaded and secured its food, supplies, and equipment onto the platforms. Brother Oertli gave final instructions on safety, the river, and handling the rafts. The river runners then buckled on life jackets, and at last the first raft was launched.
The first section of the river was fast and smooth. This gave the oarsmen a chance to get the feel of their rafts. The river reflected gray and liquid silver in the bright sun.
At noon the rafts were beached and Brother Oertli led the group up an old mining road to a ridge that overlooks the river. Below them the Kootenay snaked its way through the high Rocky Mountains of British Columbia. The tops of the mountains were still iced with snow. The long, ivory fingers of glaciers twisted down the slopes of the higher peaks.
After lunch the rafts were launched again. The river dropped faster now, turning sharply around the high slopes that walled it in. These rough-cut river canyons are bordered with stands of columnlike lodge pole pines. There were several sections of rough, white water, but by evening, with the exception of the girl who fell in, the rafts made it to the campsite with little trouble.
Equipment was unloaded and the rafts were pulled onto the shore and tipped over, allowing the water to drain out. In the blue-gray light of evening, tents were set up near a line of jagged pines that shouldered the beach. Fires were built, and the sounds of laughter and voices mixed with the savory aroma of burning pine and of frying steaks and potatoes.
The following morning a testimony meeting, held in the pines, was directed by Harlen Cahoon, a counselor in the Banff Branch presidency. In the meeting nearly everyone from the branch stood and expressed the strong feeling of closeness they felt for each other and for their Father in Heaven.
Brother Cahoon later explained that the testimony meeting on the trip was something everyone looked forward to every year.
“It’s the highlight of the trip,” he said.
After the meeting some of the families spent the afternoon hiking to a ridge that overlooked the river, while others sat by the river or in the shadows of pines, enjoying a steady flow of conversation. Fires were built with wood gathered the night before, and dutch ovens filled with chicken were buried in hot coals for dinner.
Toward evening, high-piled clouds drifted across the sky and the mountain peaks were fogged with gray-white wisps. Rain fell lightly, cooling the earth and scenting the air with the pleasant smells of wet leaves, pine, and aspen. The sky partially cleared as night came.
A cream-white moon, full and large, rose above the river, flooding it with shimmering, silver light that danced on the waves. A large bonfire was built on the beach. The group gathered around its warmth, watching fiery sparks sail up with the moon and the stars. Their soft singing filled the night air.
The next day, late in the afternoon, it was over. Under a fierce barrage of water fighting, the rafts glided into shore where the river intersected a road. The rafts were pulled onto the bank, deflated, and rolled up. Equipment was loaded into waiting cars and trucks, a prayer of thanks was said, and everyone drove for home feeling warm from the sun and from the closeness they felt for each other. Looking forward to the next trip, they left the Kootenay.

I don’t know how Randy made it into the 10th grade, but there he was the next year when we registered.
Sam Boushelle had moved to town that summer. I’d met him at church the Sunday before classes started, and we’d talked about the ward and girls and sports. But I completely forgot to warn him about Randy Herrman. Sure enough, when I got to English class on Monday morning, there was Sam, and right behind him was Randy, looking smug with a fresh year and a fresh victim in front of him.
I flopped into the desk in front of Sam and tried to explain the predicament he was in. Sam looked at me with a suspicious frown, and then turned around to face Randy. Sam nodded slightly and looked back at me.
“Seems like a nice enough guy,” Sam said.
“Just wait.”
And sure enough, I heard Randy’s whisper during the first pop quiz about a week later.
For a minute, Sam ignored the voice behind him. Then he tore a sheet of paper out of his notebook and began writing furiously. Randy waited for a second and then tried the ear-flipping thing, but Sam just shook his head and laughed and kept scribbling. Finally Sam stopped writing, folded the paper up and handed it back to Randy. Then he went back to his work.
Randy read the note and his faced turned the color of a thundercloud. He crumpled the note up, thought about throwing it, but then stuffed it into his shirt pocket. It was obvious that Randy was mad, but he didn’t pester Sam anymore.
After class I pulled my backpack on and stood up.
“You coming?” I asked my friend.
“No, you go on. I need to talk to Randy.”
I looked back at the little, dark figure of Randy Herrman, leaning back in his desk and resting his head on the back of his chair. He had his eyes closed, like he was having a nice dream and didn’t want to wake up. He was probably wondering where he could dispose of Sam’s body.
“Your funeral,” I said softly.
I didn’t see Sam again until lunch. We met near the pop machines and then went through the cafeteria line, piling our plates high with rubbery spaghetti and red sauce. We paid and found seats as close to the cool kids as we dared.
“So, you’re still alive,” I asked finally. I was dying to know what had happened.
“Yep,” said Sam. He started twirling his fork in the spaghetti.
“Well?”
Sam smiled and moved his fork to a new spot on the plate. “I think he just needs a little help.”
“I’d say.”
“No, I mean he needs a little help with schoolwork.”
I was skeptical. “So what did your note say?”
“Nothing much. I just told him I couldn’t help him during a test. But I did offer to work with him after school.”
I laughed. “He’ll work you over after school.”
Sam shook his head. “I don’t think so. I told him that if we studied together a couple of times a week, he could most likely get good grades on his own.”
“I bet he jumped at that,” I said, with a good dose of sarcasm.
Sam pinched his chin. “Ah, he complained for a while. But eventually he agreed to give it a try. He says nobody’s ever offered to help him before.”
I swallowed with guilt.
“You’re putting me on,” I said. I was incredulous.
“No, he’s actually interested,” added Sam. “We’re meeting tonight at my place to study.”
Sam twirled his fork until he had a mass of pasta the size of a pool ball. Then he forced it in his mouth. “He wants to,” he said, between chews, “get into the Air Force,” another chew, “after school.”
“Huh?”
“And he can’t get in without good grades.”
I was floored. All the time I’d been afraid and avoiding Randy Herrman, he’d been searching for help. I’d helped him cheat. Darren had ignored him. But Sam had taken a chance and found a way to serve his brother.
“I feel like a … I feel like a,” I couldn’t find the word.
“Why? You didn’t know what Randy needed?” said Sam.
“No, and I didn’t bother to find out.”
Sam smiled and shrugged. “It’s no big deal. Come over tonight and we’ll both get to know Randy.”
After lunch, I walked back to class with a weird mix of feelings running through me. For the first time in years I wasn’t afraid of running into Randy. That was a relief, I reasoned. But I couldn’t believe how blind I’d been. It’d taken Sam only seconds to do what I should have done years ago.
I closed my locker and told myself I wasn’t going to let that happen again.
I walked to biology. Under the glowing fluorescent lamps and amid the moving mass of 10th-grade students, I told myself I was ready to begin again.
I can do well here, I thought.
I just need to find a way.