Gospel Story Finder

A couple of years ago, I decided that I wanted to do something special for Christmas, something besides exchanging gifts with my family and friends. So I chose a widow in our ward and, in secret, began to take her a small gift every day of the 12 days before Christmas.
I delivered the gifts to Eleen Harris, an 85-year-old widow who always seemed cheerful and happy. Up until Christmas Eve, I had remained anonymous, but that night I couldn’t ignore the feeling that I needed to let her know who I was. Instead of setting down the package and disappearing before she could catch me, I waited for her to answer the door. She invited me into her home, where every one of my gifts sat in a perfect little row on her table. Sister Harris and I developed a friendship immediately.
From that night forward, I began scheduling time to visit Sister Harris. I cherished the hours I spent in her home, visiting in the living room or over snacks in the kitchen. We talked about school, my plans for the future, and experiences in Sister Harris’s life. The difference in our ages didn’t seem to matter, and we discovered how much we had in common.
Throughout those busy years the demands of a hectic schedule occasionally prevented me from visiting as often as I would have liked. When I returned, Sister Harris always greeted me with a playful scolding, pretending not to remember me. But I was always welcome in her home, and my absences only necessitated a need for faster talking in order to make up for lost time. Each time I visited with her I left feeling uplifted. I never heard her complain or make a negative comment. Cheerfulness was her constant companion.
Last year, Sister Harris was stricken with cancer, and after three painful weeks, she died. Our final meeting took place a few nights before her death. In the midst of her pain she expressed her gratitude for all that the Lord had given her, and then, floating in and out of consciousness, she wanted to catch up on the details of my life, just like old times.
The passing of this remarkable woman has left an ache in my heart, but the blessings I received from knowing her far outweigh any sadness I could feel at having lost her. In times of trial, the words of Sister Harris’s favorite hymn often come to my mind, “Because I Have Been Given Much I Too Must Give.” Now I try to incorporate that idea into everything I do, and perhaps touch the life of another person who will, in turn, bless my life.

For more than a century, the national bicycle racing teams of Great Britain had been the laughingstock of the cycling world. Mired in mediocrity, British riders had managed only a handful of gold medals in 100 years of Olympic competitions and had been even more underwhelming in cycling’s marquee event, the three-week long Tour de France—where no British rider had prevailed in 110 years. So sorry was the plight of British riders that some bike manufacturers refused to even sell bikes to the Brits, fearing it would forever sully their hard-won reputations. And despite devoting enormous resources into cutting-edge technology and every newfangled training regimen, nothing worked.
Nothing, that is, until 2003, when a small, largely unnoticed change occurred that would forever alter the trajectory of British cycling. That new approach would also reveal an eternal principle—with a promise—regarding our ofttimes perplexing mortal quest to improve ourselves. So what happened in British cycling that has great relevance to our personal pursuit to be better daughters and sons of God?
In 2003, Sir Dave Brailsford was hired. Unlike previous coaches who attempted dramatic, overnight turnarounds, Sir Brailsford instead committed to a strategy he referred to as “the aggregation of marginal gains.” This entailed implementing small improvements in everything. That meant constantly measuring key statistics and targeting specific weaknesses.
It’s somewhat akin to the prophet Samuel the Lamanite’s notion of “walk[ing] circumspectly.” This broader, more holistic view avoids the trap of being myopically fixated on just the obvious problem or sin at hand. Said Brailsford, “The whole principle came from the idea that if you broke down everything you could think of that goes into riding a bike, and then improved it by 1 percent, you will get a significant increase when you put them all together.”
Brailsford’s small gains began with the obvious, such as equipment, kit fabrics, and training patterns. But his team didn’t stop there. They continued to find 1 percent improvements in overlooked and unexpected areas such as nutrition and even maintenance nuances. Over time, these myriads of micro-betterments aggregated into stunning results, which came faster than anyone could have imagined. Truly, they were onto the eternal principle of “line upon line, precept upon precept, here a little and there a little.”
So, does this pocket-sized approach to repentance and real change really work? Is the proof in the pedaling, so to speak? Consider what’s happened to British cycling in the past two decades since implementing this philosophy. British cyclists have now won the storied Tour de France an astonishing six times. During the past four Olympic Games, Great Britain has been the most successful country across all cycling disciplines. And in the recently concluded Tokyo Olympics, the UK won more gold medals in cycling than any other country.

I am uncertain at what stage in my spiritual development I finally decided to stop studying on Sunday. I do remember, following my mission and attending BYU (Provo) as a married student, finally unmasking my studying for religion class as a gratuitous rationalization. But I can clearly recall my anxiety when I left for graduate school at The University of Michigan, knowing that I would be "competing" against other students who were generally brighter than me and that I would be limiting myself to only six days of studying and working in the laboratory compared against their seven. I feared that my commitment to attend church regularly, magnify my calling as Elders Quorum president, and care for the needs of our growing young family might cause me to fail in my graduate program.

My faith need not have faltered: the Lord is good and His promises are sure: "Hast thou not heard, that the everlasting God, the Lord, the Creator of the ends of the earth, fainteth not, neither is weary? There is no searching of his understanding. He giveth power to the faint; and to them that have no might he increaseth strength. Even the youths shall faint and be weary, and the young men shall utterly fall: But they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; they shall walk, and not faint." (Isaiah 40: 28-31). May your diligent efforts to keep this great commandment of keeping the Sabbath Day holy unto the Lord be answered with similar blessings upon your heads.

Gabe was in the kitchen, but he could hear Mrs. Cole at the front door talking with Mom. “I don’t know how it happened! I just noticed little scratches all over my car door, and they weren’t there this morning.”
Gabe’s heart sank. He hadn’t meant to mess up Mrs. Cole’s car. He’d been playing in the dirt next to Mrs. Cole’s driveway. He was just drawing in the dirt with a stick. But soon he found himself using the stick to draw lines up and down on the back door of the car, fascinated with how the tiny lines looked in the paint. He thought they’d go away if he just brushed over them with his hand—like the lines he made in the dirt—but they didn’t.
Gabe heard the door shut as Mom walked outside to see the scratches. He had to think fast—there wasn’t much time.
He ran upstairs to his room, shut the door, and plopped onto his bed. He closed his eyes and felt his heart thumping. Slowly he lifted his head. He glanced at the photo of Grandma on his bookcase. He was glad she didn’t know what he had done. Grandma was always honest and had taught him to be honest too. When she was young, she decided she would never tell a lie so that others would always believe her.
Slowly Gabe slid off the bed and walked over to Grandma’s picture. He wanted to be someone people could believe too. He pulled out his jar of coins. He’d been doing extra chores to earn money for a toy he really wanted. If he told the truth, he’d have to give up the money he’d saved to help fix the car.
Gabe wanted to be honest, but he didn’t want to get in trouble. He didn’t want Mom and Mrs. Cole to be mad at him. Besides, no one had seen him scratch the car. He could just say he didn’t know what happened. But that thought made him squirm inside. He knew that even though no one had seen him, Heavenly Father and Jesus knew. He couldn’t lie to Them. He didn’t want to lie to Them.
He slowly walked down the stairs to the front door. He heard his mom outside asking his older brother if he knew what had happened to the car. Gabe straightened his shoulders and stepped outside.
Mom turned as he walked toward her. “Gabe? Do you know how Mrs. Cole’s car got scraped up?”
Gabe took a deep breath and said, “I did it. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt your car.”
Mom put her hand on Gabe’s shoulder. “Thank you for being honest,” she said quietly.
She turned to Mrs. Cole and said, “We’re so sorry Gabe scraped up your car. We’ll pay for the damage.”
“I’ll help earn the money,” Gabe said quickly.
He thought about the hard-earned money in the jar on his dresser. He wished he’d never picked up that stick. But he also felt relieved. It hadn’t been easy, but he had been honest! Gabe knew Grandma would be proud. And Heavenly Father would be happy too.

I was having a bad day. I had to go to my baseball game, but my tooth was loose and hurting. I had left part of my baseball uniform at home. And I was tired. I didn’t really want to play baseball that day. But I went to the game anyway because I had to give a hat back to one of my teammates.
I sat on the bleachers instead of joining my team. My coach noticed me sitting sadly on the bench. He encouraged me to come play because the team needed me. He showed me that he cared about me, just like Jesus noticed those who were sad and needed support.
Then, one of my teammates came and stood next to me. He smiled at me and asked me when I had gotten there. He was excited to see me and wanted me to come play. This teammate was also like Jesus because he cared about me. He showed me what a good friend does when someone is having a bad day. I was really glad my coach and teammate took the time to make me feel better, and I ended up playing in the baseball game!
I have a bookmark that says, “One act of kindness won’t change the world, but it may change one person’s world.” My coach and teammate changed my world that Saturday afternoon by choosing to be kind. I know it’s important to be like Jesus and show love and kindness to everyone we meet. Heavenly Father cares about each one of us and loves us. Each of us is important to Him, so He sends kind people to show us His love.

Thirty-five years ago, when I was just your age and sitting in your seat, I had returned from my mission, my family experienced one of those ‘life-changing events’. My father was very ill and died from kidney failure. I was the oldest in my family and suddenly my whole life, and my family’s whole world was turned upside down. I was newly married, my wife was expecting our first daughter. I had a widowed mother, two younger sisters and a younger brother who were all looking at me like “What do we do now?” Well-meaning people offered their condolences and sympathies, their thoughts and prayers, and they were comforting but they also seemed to indicate that this was bad. All I knew was that it hurt, it was hard, and it seemed very, very, very bad.

In some of life’s challenges the Lord wants to see if we will just ‘hang in there with Him’…if we will just endure.

Just outside Omaha, Nebraska, in the Mormon Pioneer Cemetery stands a monument commemorating the suffering of the Saints at Winter Quarters and honoring the faith and dedication of these Mormon pioneers. These statues portray a grieving father and mother holding each other in their arms looking down at the tiny grave of their child. There were many such graves along the trail—graves of babies, little children, young adults, even mothers and fathers who were laid to rest in often hurriedly dug shallow graves or just beneath the snow when the ground was too frozen to break.

Caroline and Jedediah Grant buried their four-month-old daughter, Margaret, near the Sweetwater River in Wyoming. With the grief over the loss of her baby weighing heavily on her soul, Caroline’s health soon began to decline. Suffering from the effects of cholera, her condition rapidly became critical. The camp fasted and prayed in her behalf, but it was apparent that Sister Grant would not recover. About midnight she rallied a little and called for her husband and daughter. Susan Noble remembered that Caroline looked at her husband, Jedediah, and whispered

“All is well! All is well! Please take me to the valley—Jeddy. Get Margaret—bring her—to me!” Brother Grant answered tenderly and meaningly as he sobbed with sorrow, “Yes, yes, Caroline. I’ll do my best. I’ll do my best.”

Jedediah built a coffin, placed the body of his wife in it, and then drove day and night the last 75 miles to the Salt Lake Valley. On September 30, 1847, he buried her a short distance from the pioneer fort then under construction. The next day Jedediah Grant took with him his friend Bates Noble and headed east on his promised mission to retrieve the body of his baby daughter, Margaret, and return her for burial next to her mother. After several days on the trail they arrived in the Sweetwater region where Margaret had been buried. Bates Noble recorded:

Another day or so and we were at the end of our eastward journey. As we intended making it back to Sweet Water for the night, we stopped our rig [near the campsite] where just a month previous a terrible night had been spent [digging a grave] in a driving thunder storm. We now stepped forward, carrying the box and shovels. A few paces from the little grave we stopped hesitatingly, set down our things and stood with eyes fixed before us. Neither tried to speak. An ugly hole replaced the small mound; and so recently had the wolves departed that every sign was fresh before us. I dared not raise my eyes to look at Jedediah. From the way I felt, I could but guess his feelings. Like statues of the wilderness we stood, grown to the spot, each fully realizing that nothing more could be done. After several minutes of silent tears, we quietly withdrew, carrying away again only that which we had brought.

Jedediah Grant could do no more. He had done his best, as he had promised. But now all he had left was his faith and hope in Christ.

I once read a story about a man named Mr. Bogar and his experience with a giant wild turkey in 1925.
Mr. Bogar lived on a small farm in the Missouri foothills, and one year he decided to go turkey hunting on the day before Christmas. Now, it wasn’t any ordinary turkey he was after. He went looking for Foots, a legendary wild turkey who left enormous tracks and who was so wary that no one had ever gotten close enough to shoot him.
Setting out on the hunt, Mr. Bogar hadn’t gone far when he spotted gigantic turkey tracks in the freshly fallen snow. Only Foots could have left tracks that large, and Mr. Bogar began to follow them, higher and higher into the hills. There was no sign of Foots himself until Mr. Bogar was high up on a mountainside. Then he caught a glimpse of the giant bird.
Slowly, carefully, Mr. Bogar stalked Foots until he was about 60 yards away. At that range, this marksman could hit anything with his single-shot .22 rifle. He fired, and Foots dropped and lay still. There was Christmas dinner, just waiting to be carried home.
But, as Mr. Bogar approached the bird, it suddenly leaped up. The air was full of feathers and wings and squawks, and Foots soared out over the valley below. Mr. Bogar never saw the big turkey again.
The next summer, Mr. Bogar happened to be talking to a man who lived down in the valley and who was trying to raise a large family on a struggling farm with a few scrawny cattle. It was not an easy life, and the family didn’t have much. The man wore a coat with so many patches you couldn’t tell the original color.
“Do believe in miracles?” the man asked Mr. Bogar.
He then went on to tell Mr. Bogar about what happened the previous Christmas. Money was scarce, and it looked like Christmas dinner would consist of hominy corn and huckleberries. But as the man rode his old mare down to feed the cattle, a huge turkey crashed dead right in front of him. The man said he hadn’t been praying for a turkey, but maybe his wife had.
Mr. Bogar never told the man about Foots, and the man never knew why a giant turkey had fallen out of the sky right at his feet.

In a very memorable sacrament meeting, I felt the truly universal nature of the gospel. The sacrament was administered in French and German. Talks were given in Italian, English, and Portuguese. A verse of “I Am a Child of God,” was sung in ten languages—Japanese, Korean, German, Spanish, Italian, French, Tongan, Samoan, Dutch, and English. The whole congregation was touched through the spiritual language of the soul.
Unusual as it seemed to me at the time, this kind of sacrament meeting would become more familiar to me for I had recently been called to serve as branch president at the Missionary Training Center (MTC) in Provo, Utah. I realized that this would be a unique experience.
The missionaries in my branch came from many nations. On one occasion, we had missionaries from eighteen different countries brought together by the common cause of testimony and love for the Savior.
The excitement of seeing missionaries from many countries, interviewing them, and trying to help them, lasted throughout the time I served at the MTC. Most of all, I enjoyed getting to know the missionaries. Learning from their experiences and watching them grow in the gospel was a blessing that overwhelms my feelings and occasionally still brings me to tears when I think or speak about them.
As I interviewed missionaries and heard them speak, I learned something about their spiritual maturity, their degree of preparation, and their dedication to service. I found great variety among them. Some missionaries were well prepared, while others were not. Some were spiritually mature, and others were not spiritually minded at all. Some were very dedicated in their service, and others were not so dedicated. As I listened to them, I heard them use the words sacrifice and privilege.
I noticed that every missionary used at least one of these words and sometimes both to describe his or her feelings about serving a mission. Some said they were happy to sacrifice two years of their lives, possessions, and girlfriends in order to serve the Lord. Others said they felt it to be a privilege to serve him. I heard these two words so often that I began to watch how the missionaries matched their words to their actions.
An elder from Germany told me how he had “always known” that he did “not know the truth.” He described how he sometimes “prayed to God” to find it. After leaving the military service, he was employed in Switzerland. One day, living alone and feeling lonely, he prayed again, “Please God, send me the truth.” A few days later when he was walking down the street, a stranger approached him and said, “Young man, I am supposed to talk with you, but I don’t know why.” In this missionary’s words, “I looked into his face and knew he had the Spirit of God. His face was beautiful.” The stranger was a Church member who had been walking down the same busy street and felt inspired to speak to a young man he didn’t know. This new elder spoke of his mission as a privilege.
A sister from Spain had already completed one full-time mission and immediately went to work as a nurse in order to earn money for another. At first the local Church leaders would not let her go, but she persisted in her attempts until they finally consented. She was called to serve in Chile.
An elder from Mexico happily showed me a picture of his family. “Look,” he said, “my father saved for two months to buy me these shoes. My branch contributed money so I could have this suit.” They both described their missions as a privilege. One elder arrived from Samoa. When he introduced himself for the first time he walked to the front of the congregation holding up a copy of the Book of Mormon. He said, “I am here because this book is true.” He was one of fifteen children. He had been told by his father before leaving home that other men, Church leaders, would be his father for the next few years. He was to obey them. He thought his mission was a great privilege.
Another missionary told of hearing about the gospel in France. The missionaries were not fluent in his language, but he knew that what they were telling him was important, so he studied English in order to better understand them. After hearing the discussions, he had difficulty breaking some of his bad habits. The missionaries told him to ask the Lord for help. One night he was having extreme difficulty and, remembering their advice, went to his bedroom to pray for help. An hour or two later he heard a knock at his door. The missionaries were standing there, drenched from having walked five kilometers in a heavy rainstorm. “Why are you here?” he asked them. “We were asleep,” they said, “and woke up feeling you needed us.” He paused at this point in his talk and looked out over the audience as if looking for someone. Then he said, in a voice trembling with love and gratitude, “I want you to meet my missionaries.” They both lived near the MTC, and he had invited them to hear him speak at our meeting. He spoke of his mission as a privilege.
An elder told of traveling from Vietnam and arriving at a refugee camp near Seattle, Washington. While trying to learn English so he could live in the United States, someone gave him a small card with a picture and an address on it. He kept it for some reason. Later, when he was asked where he wanted to live he showed this card to the customs official. “I can’t send you there,” he was told “but I can send you to a place nearby.” He was sent to live with a Latter-day Saint family in Salt Lake City where he learned about the Church. As he finished telling me this story, he showed the card he had been given in the refugee camp. It was a picture of the MTC. “I am here, President,” he said. Like the others, he thought it was a privilege to go on a mission.
The privilege of serving the Lord on a mission is felt and demonstrated in many ways. One missionary had struggled with family problems since he was a boy. While still young, he was expelled from his home and went to live with another family who introduced him to the Church. The gospel gave him direction in life where his natural parents had not. A few years later, after becoming one of the best players on a college football team, he decided to serve a mission. Before leaving on his mission, he gave copies of the Book of Mormon to his friends at school. This included his team coaches, fellow players, and teachers. He distributed more than 200 copies before entering the Missionary Training Center.
The missionaries who looked upon a mission only as a sacrifice were often honestly dedicated to the Lord’s service. However, I found they had not experienced personal revelation and inspiration. They were usually less informed about the Savior. But as they studied their scriptures and came to know Him better, their hearts seemed to soften and enlarge. They began to more deeply feel His love and know of the importance of missionary work as a continuation of this love extended to others. Many of those who began by telling of their sacrifices left the Missionary Training Center talking about privilege.
During my last sacrament meeting at the MTC, an elder stood who was older than most missionaries. He apologized for his poorly-spoken English, but hoped that he would be understood. His voice was deep and strong. He told of growing up in Cracow, Poland. He felt uncomfortable attending his family’s church and said that he “instinctively” knew some of its practices were not correct. He stopped going to his church and instead began to study the Bible. As he grew he became increasingly unhappy with the government, and at age eighteen he asked for political asylum in Austria. It was granted, and he left his home to start a new life. He spent nine very difficult months in the refugee camp near Vienna before seeking permission to migrate to the United States. Once he arrived he was contacted by missionaries from many churches. “They were nice,” he said, “but I could tell they did not have the answers I was looking for.” One day he saw a television program on the Mormons. He felt good about what he saw, and he decided to learn more of the Church. He met the missionaries, heard and accepted the gospel, and at age twenty-five was serving a mission. “It is a privilege to be here,” he said softly in his deep Polish accent. “I have been looking for a long time.”
It is a wonderful privilege for anyone to serve the Savior. It is a privilege to have any part in the great missionary work of the Church. I have thought about young men who have an easy life, or who do not know of the Lord, or who are afraid, or who are uncaring. I wish they would come to understand that it is a privilege to study the words of eternal life, to learn about their Redeemer, and seek opportunities to serve him by serving their fellowmen.

“Just one more story,” Beth pleaded.
“One more?” Dad closed the picture book he had just finished reading and laughed.
“I can’t go to sleep yet. I’m not a bit tired.” Beth hated to go to bed—especially since her older sister had moved into the newly finished basement bedroom, leaving Beth alone in the room upstairs. Before, Beth hadn’t really noticed the shadowy figures and whispering noises of the night.
“Hmmm …” Dad stroked his chin. “Sometimes when I can’t sleep at night, it’s because something is bothering me. When that happens, I can always find something in the scriptures that helps me or comforts me.” He reached over to Beth’s nightstand and picked up a worn set of scriptures that used to belong to her mother. “Is anything bothering you, sweetie?”
“Not exactly.” Beth didn’t want to admit that she was scared.
Dad nodded understandingly. “It’s kind of lonely in here, isn’t it? And dark.” He flipped through the pages of the New Testament. “I think that we might just find something in here to help you feel better. Let’s see. …”
After finding the passage he wanted, he stretched his long legs and smiled at Beth. “In the scriptures, it says that Heavenly Father knows everything about each one of us, even how many hairs we have. In Luke 12:7, Jesus tells us, ‘But even the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear not therefore.’”
“Wow!” Beth’s eyes opened wide.
Dad gently touched the tip of Beth’s nose. “And, because He knows you so well, He loves you very, very much.” He thumbed through the pages again. “Here’s another scripture that was written a very long time ago but still sounds as if it’s talking just to you. This one is in the Old Testament, in Deuteronomy 31:6. ‘Be strong and of a good courage, fear not, nor be afraid of them: for the Lord thy God, he it is that doth go with thee; he will not fail thee, nor forsake thee.’” [Deut. 31:6]
“What does forsake mean?”
“It means that He will never leave you alone. He will always watch out for you and take care of you and do whatever He knows is best for you. You are tremendously important to Heavenly Father. Let’s go back to the first scripture that we read. Let me start with verse six: ‘Are not five sparrows sold for two farthings, and not one of them is forgotten before God?
“‘But even the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear not therefore: ye are of more value than many sparrows.’”
Beth was puzzled. “How can Heavenly Father know about and take care of all the little animals and birds and us too?”
“I don’t know, but I know that He does. I remember reading a story several months ago in the Ensign. It was a true story about a little sparrow that flew into the Tabernacle while the doors were open.”*
“You mean that big building on Temple Square where they hold general conference?”
Dad nodded. “The workers at the Tabernacle opened all the doors, hoping that the bird would fly out.”
“Did it?”
“No. They tried calling animal control, who brought some nets with real long handles so that they could try to catch the bird.”
Beth remembered how tall the ceiling in the Tabernacle was. Her mother and father had taken her there for a Christmas program last December. The handles on those nets must have been very, very, very long!
Dad continued. “The people ran from one end of the Tabernacle to the other, trying to catch the bird, but that just frightened the poor thing. Terrified, it flew back and forth from the pipe organ to the balcony. The people who worked in the Tabernacle were getting worried because there was an important concert scheduled for that evening and they were running out of time. They had to get the bird out.”
“What did they do?” Beth whispered.
“The animal control people couldn’t think of anything else, so they suggested that they use a pellet gun to shoot the bird.”
“Oh, no!”
“Or they thought they could put out some poisoned food that the bird would eat.”
“Oh, Daddy, they didn’t, did they?”
“Well,” Dad continued, “Brother John, the manager, wouldn’t let them hurt the bird. He thought about how important this little bird was to Heavenly Father and knew that Heavenly Father would know how to take care of the bird. So he turned around and said a quiet, simple prayer. Right away the Holy Ghost helped Brother John know what to do. He quickly gave instructions to the other workers to turn off all the lights; close the blinds, and close all but one of the doors. Soon light poured through that one single door, and the bird was finally able to find its freedom. Out it flew, safe at last.”
“I’m glad Heavenly Father helped the bird.”
Dad leaned over to kiss her on the cheek. “He’s always there to help you, too, sweetie. All you need to do is ask. Promise me that you’ll always remember that.”
“I promise.” Beth smiled and snuggled down farther in her bed.

A few months ago I had the opportunity to travel to the Big Island of Hawai'i to assist with the towing of the voyaging canoe Makali'i from Kawaihae to Hilo for a special education program and for leadership training. I had the privilege of driving the Alaka'i or the escort vessel during that first leg of our trip. The Alaka'i help save me in the stormy sea. The seas outside of Kawaihae were calm and smooth but this quickly changed as we came around the northern point of the Big Island called Upolu point. At that time my brother Luther Waiwaiole told me, "look Uncle Bill and tell me what you see?" As I looked into the thick darkness of night, I saw the salt air from the sea rising into the sky twisting in the wind heading directly towards us. The seas became extremely turbulent with waves coming from all directions. One such swell caught our escort vessel and lifted us high into the air then slamming us onto the turbulent seas below. The force and turbulence of the swells were so great that I was lifted off my feet with my head smashing against the roof of the vessel then throwing me violently onto the floor and into the hatch of the vessel below. As I lay there in great pain and agony the thought immediately came to my mind: "Master, the Tempest is Raging, the billows are tossing high! Peace Be Still, Peace Be Still." With tears in my eyes the feeling of peace did come to me and I was able to survive those high turbulent seas. As we came into Hilo Bay I gave thanks to Heavenly Father for preserving my life and allowing me to witness the power of nature for it helped me better understand my place in it and it filled my heart with sincere humility.

Katy was looking at the calendar when she saw that her mom had a birthday soon. Katy wanted to buy her mom a card, but she did not have any money. Katy looked under the couch cushions, in her drawers, and in her closet, but she could not find any money. She sat on her bed and a few tears ran down her face. Mom saw Katy crying. “Why are you crying, Katy?” Mom asked. “Because I do not have any money to buy you a birthday card,” Katy said. “Oh, Katy, it’s the thought that counts,” Mom said. Katy decided to write all her thoughts about her Mom on paper. Then Katy used her crayons to color the paper yellow and blue. Katy smiled when she saw the pretty birthday card she had made. “Mom was right. It is the thought that counts!” declared Katy.

S: I have three brothers. We are close in age and in comradery. When we were in high school together, one of my brothers lost his sense of his true identity for a season. He started hanging out with kids who weren’t doing great things. I was very concerned about their influence in his life. I wanted to talk to him about it, but I didn’t want to risk him pulling away from me and our good relationship. But he continued on with these buddies and I continued to worry. One night he was at a party where people were up to no good, and I was praying for him and about him. I wondered what I could do. As I prayed I had the distinct impression that I should go get him right then and talk to him. I was scared to follow that prompting, but I was also impelled by my love for him. When I pulled up to the house where the gathering was, I heard one of the guys yell, “Hey Winder, your sister is here.” I am sure that was embarrassing to my teenaged brother. But he came out and asked what I wanted. “I came to get you,” I said. “Come for a ride with me.” Fortunately, he came. I remember pouring out my love for him and sharing my knowledge of who he was as a Winder, and who he was as a child of God and the responsibility those identities carried with them. I said, “I want you to be true to who you really are.” Finally, after a lengthy discussion (or more like a one-sided talk), I asked him if he wanted to come home with me now or if he wanted to go back to the party. He chose to come home with me. And in a sense it was the beginning of him coming home to himself, his real self, his eternal noble spirit.
At that moment in time I was able to lift him. But over the years there have been many other times when he has been at my side to boost me through hard times. A few years ago, just before our mother died, he gave her a blessing that carried me through those difficult days of her decline, and the many moments of mourning. He has lifted me, and I have lifted him as we strive to ascend together.

Elder Pratt’s two former companions traveled on to Tahiti, where their teaching met with far less success. After a few months, Elder Rogers traveled west to the leeward islands and Elder Grouard sailed to the island of Anaa in the Tuamotus. Elder Rogers again met with little success and much opposition. When rumors finally reached him of the death of the Prophet Joseph Smith, he began to fear for the safety of his family in Nauvoo, and he returned to America. He died during the exodus from Nauvoo.

The Lord’s hand is apparent in many other callings. As leaders are needed, they are prepared, and then they are called. José Acedo was living in Lima, Perú, as a young adult. “I wanted to get married and felt the time was right,” he says. “I took time off work to go to the temple and then went out to the countryside to ponder.” Days passed, and toward the end of his vacation, he felt directed to La Paz. He made the long trip and arrived in time to attend a district conference on a Sunday. As he sat in the chapel, his attention was drawn to a certain young woman sitting in the choir. After the meeting, he met Rosaura Sainz, and the two began talking. By the end of three hours, they had begun to consider a serious relationship. Four months later, in October, they became engaged. At Christmas, they were married. “We are so grateful to the Lord for bringing us together,” José says.

When the Acedos moved to La Paz, José was called as bishop of the Norte Ward, La Paz Bolivia Constitución Stake. As bishop, he faces the ongoing challenge of helping ward members learn what it means to sustain others in callings and to give of themselves in service. “Love is the key that opens hearts,” he says. He began visiting families to help them catch the vision of Church service. “When I visit a family, I love them and teach them to love others. I pray with them. I ask for greater harmony to bless their homes. As love increases in the homes, it also increases in our ward.”

With love as a foundation, Bishop Acedo extends callings to ward members. “We work with people. We talk of accepting callings and learning to fill the callings. And we talk about what it means to support others in leadership positions,” he explains. With that basis, ward members grow and develop leadership skills.

The word come is an invitation. It suggests movement from one place to another. Taylor A. knows well the meaning of this word.
Taylor is bright, joyful, and full of the Spirit, but she would be quick to tell you that those words did not describe her two years ago. She has moved to a different place now, spiritually and physically. She is a pioneer.
“I’ve been a pioneer in my life,” she said, “because I’m a recent convert. And my journey has just been amazing. I just feel like it’s a whole new life. And once we take that first step in our journey, miracles happen.”
Not only does Taylor understand the invitation to come—she knows the source of the invitation. She observed, “In our world, we’re so disconnected with what got us here, right? We are so caught up in our jobs and technology, and a message that’s really been hitting me lately is putting Christ first. If we just connect to really what the pioneers did—[they were] centered in Christ.”
Follow is another invitation. On the pioneer trek, Ethan G. gained a greater understanding of this word. “Sometimes I haven’t felt the best on trek, or I’ve felt kind of discouraged,” he admitted. “But I realize that the pioneers also felt that way.”
Ethan used to wonder why the early pioneers were willing to do what they did. He said, “I feel like I might have just given up. But as I’ve thought about that, I kind of realized that it’s because they loved the Savior, and they have a hope they can become better through Him. I want to try that too.”
Before Ethan went on the trek, he read about pioneers from the past, felt a connection with them, and was inspired by their faith to follow Jesus Christ. And what is Ethan doing now? He is preparing to receive a call to serve as a full-time missionary. True to President Monson’s counsel, he is getting ready to show others the way to follow.
Where should we come? Who should we follow? The Savior tells us: “Come, follow me” (Luke 18:22; emphasis added). When Harmony left home for trek, she saw the Lord’s hand in her experience. She knew she was following Him.
Harmony’s path to her stake trek was different from others’ paths. At age 15 she learned that she had a rare form of skin cancer. She wasn’t able to participate in her stake trek. “I was devastated,” she recalled.
Four years later, when her stake announced another trek, Harmony was free of cancer. But at age 19, she thought she wouldn’t be able to go. Then she received a calling to participate as a leader. She said, “It’s a testimony to me that the Lord knows who we are, and He knows the desires of our hearts, and if they’re righteous and good, He’ll bless us.”
Harmony offered advice to help us when we face trials: “To anyone who’s struggling, I’d say just to lean on the Lord. He’s always there for you. He loves us, and He won’t let us fall. We just need to reach out our hand to Him, and He will help us on our pioneer journey.”
If you never go on a pioneer trek, you can still be a pioneer. You don’t have to wear a bonnet or pull a handcart. You just need to follow Jesus Christ, as the early pioneers did. In doing so, you will be, as President Monson said, “one who goes before to prepare or open up the way for others to follow.”
If you do have an opportunity to go on a pioneer trek, enjoy it! And when it’s over and you leave your handcart behind, don’t leave your pioneer testimony inside it. Bring that testimony with you.
You are a real-life, modern-day pioneer. With the ultimate Pioneer—the Savior—as your guide, you are sure to succeed!

What do you picture in your mind when you think of Wyoming? If you are driving through this part of the United States, you will not see a lot of big cities. Instead, you will see a big, beautiful sky, prairie, lots of rocky mountains, and antelope darting through the vast landscape.
But if you are driving near Independence Rock, Wyoming, during the summer, you may notice on the horizon something a little unusual—a line of handcart pioneers walking along a dry, dusty Wyoming trail. On closer examination, these “pioneers,” even though they are dressed in the style of the 1850s, are really very modern teens and their leaders. Despite the intense heat, the young men have on long trousers and long-sleeved shirts. Many of them are also wearing hats to keep the sun off their faces. The young women are in equivalent attire—long dresses, aprons, and sunbonnets.
In our day of automobiles and airplanes, it’s hard to imagine why these people have chosen to haul their food, water, and other supplies in wooden handcarts. But there they are. These young people have chosen to take time off from their summer jobs and other activities to give up the comforts of their homes and to walk as far as 30 miles under the hot Wyoming sun—all for one reason. They think it’s worth it just to have a taste of what some pioneers went through in the early days of the Church.
In 1855, Brigham Young counseled converts who were unable to outfit themselves with teams and wagons to walk the 1,300 miles across the plains pulling handcarts rather than delay, wait, and work to earn enough to buy expensive wagons. In all, 10 handcart companies traveled this way, 8 of which were very successful and had few casualties. However, two handcart companies, led by James G. Willie and Edward Martin, experienced suffering and heartache as they left too late in the year and ran into unexpectedly early snowstorms. Both companies were in grave danger of not surviving. The Willie Company was a few days ahead of the other company and was rescued first by wagons sent from Salt Lake City. Those in the company were frostbitten and starved. Sixty-eight of 404 in the company died.
The Martin Handcart Company, however, was forced by the storm to stop in a small valley on the side of a mountain with very little shelter. After wading through deep snow up to this point, the pioneers stopped in a cove, formed by rock outcroppings. Trees provided protection and fuel. There they waited for help and supplies from Salt Lake City. In just five days, 56 of the 145 total who died in the crossing perished. But thanks to heroic rescue efforts of Church members sent by Brigham Young, the majority, 431 of the Martin handcart pioneers, survived the trip.
Today the Mormon Handcart Visitors’ Center, near Martin’s Cove, is a reminder of not only the ill-fated handcart companies but also a tribute to the many pioneers who traveled with handcarts across the plains. Each summer hundreds of visitors come to learn more about these people, many of whom left their homes and relatives behind, bringing little more than the clothes on their backs. The pioneers sacrificed much in order to bring themselves and their families across the plains to Utah where they could live in peace, without persecution.
While some Church members today have direct pioneer ancestry, many do not. Yet all of us are indebted to the pioneers who helped establish the Church in its early days, and their sacrifices are part of every member’s heritage.
This debt is part of the reason the youth of many area stakes come to Martin’s Cove to walk miles through the hot desert dressed as pioneers, pulling their camping equipment and food in handcarts.
For many teens from the Pueblo Colorado Stake, for example, walking where the pioneers walked helped them realize the dedication and sacrifice of the early pioneers. Hearing the stories of the pioneers and the experiences they went through helped strengthen the testimonies of those who walked just a small part of the trail.
Other groups walking the trail at the same time had similar experiences. Christine Johnson from Orem, Utah, reflected upon the experience of the Saints as they traveled: “I wonder what they would have thought when they were looking around and saw just miles and miles of nothing.”
Adam Pinegar, also from Orem, said his trek gave him a feel for how difficult it was for the handcart pioneers. Although it was tough, Adam said he would do it again. “It was worth it. I thought of my ancestors who actually came across with the Martin Company. They suffered so much to get to the Salt Lake valley, so I could live where I do and have the gospel.”
Erin Woodward’s sixth great-grandfather walked across the plains. Erin, from Westminster, Colorado, thought of this grandfather and his family as she participated in the trek with her stake.
“Now I feel like the silliest girl in the whole world,” she said. “I mean, I have been so into my materialistic things. Seriously, I have a curling iron in my pocket. I even have makeup and everything. I feel horrible because the real pioneers didn’t live as well as I do. Before this I never really understood how blessed I am.”
These young men and women walk through the desert with a backdrop of significant Church history sites—Devil’s Gate, Independence Rock, and Martin’s Cove.
For many, Martin’s Cove is a sacred spot. It is beautiful, with many trees. The feeling is peaceful and calm. The pioneers camped on one side of the cove and buried their dead in shallow snow graves on the other. As the youth walk through the area, they take off their hats and whisper out of respect for those who died.
Tiffany Campbell from the Pueblo stake said the cove made her think a lot about those people and their determination to get to the Salt Lake valley.
The teens from Christine’s Orem ward walked to the cove last, after they had already walked the majority of their trek. “Once we got up there it hit us that this was really the place where they couldn’t go anymore, where they had to stop, and where so many died. It was amazing to be up there after doing the rest of our trek. It was kind of quiet and peaceful and spiritual.”
As their journey was ending, Stephanie Stewart, also from Pueblo, described what she learned from the miles and miles of walking: “I am going home with a better understanding of how hard it was and what the pioneers did so that we could be free of persecution.”
Many other youth echoed her feelings: “I just think it is really neat to see what they did and what they gained from it,” said Michael King from Roy, Utah. “Of course we can get a little taste of it, you know, but we cannot fully understand.”
After visiting Martin’s Cove, these young people freely admit they cannot completely comprehend what the early handcart pioneers went through. But their reenactment experience has changed their attitudes. They know they face storms of another kind in modern life. But learning to survive is a lesson that was taught by those who have suffered before us. These modern teens also learned that we can all follow the example of faith and determination set by the pioneers. The handcart companies passed their tests. Now it’s our turn.

Emily Partridge, daughter of the first bishop of the Church in this dispensation, remembered leaving their comfortable home in Painesville, Ohio, to move to Jackson County, Missouri, in 1831 when she was just seven years old.3 Not long after, her family was driven from their home by the mob and had to relocate in Clay County. She described how they eventually found an “old log cabin that had been used for a stable. … There was one large room, and a leanto, but that was not of much use, as the floor was nearly all torn up, and the rats and rattlesnakes were too thick for comfort. There was a large fireplace in the one habitable room, and blankets were hung up a few feet back from the fire and the two families, fifteen or sixteen in number, were gathered inside of those blankets to keep from freezing for the weather was extremely cold, so cold that the ink would freeze in the pen as father sat writing close to the fire.”4

The family later moved to Illinois. Emily summarized their experience: “Times were hard and we were very destitute, having been robbed and driven from our homes and possessions so many times, and having had much sickness.”5

In 1901, he was called to open and preside over a mission in Japan, and he was given one year to prepare and put his affairs in order prior to his departure. At that time, Heber was still recovering from financial difficulties. After the meeting in which he was given the assignment, a fellow Apostle told him that the President of the Church would never have given him the assignment if he had known of his difficult financial situation. Elder Grant agreed. And at that moment, he put himself completely in the hands of the Lord. Every morning, he prayed: “Please help me today to do something to help me get out of debt.” Within the year’s time, all of his creditors had been paid. He was not only completely out of debt, but also had sufficient means to sustain himself in the mission field.

Aubrey unzipped her polka-dot backpack and picked up the Book of Mormon that was lying on her bed.
“Are you almost ready?” Mom called.
“Almost!” Aubrey said.
She put the book carefully inside her backpack and knelt down.
“Heavenly Father, please help me find someone to give this to,” she prayed.
Last week the missionaries had given Aubrey’s family the challenge to give someone a Book of Mormon, and Aubrey had felt that she could help. Aubrey finished her prayer and walked into the living room.
“OK, let’s go!” Mom said.
Aubrey jumped into the backseat of the van. She was excited to be going to the temple again with Mom and Dad. She was just old enough to participate in baptisms for the dead, and she loved the peaceful feeling she got inside the temple. This time, though, she was also excited to share the gospel with someone.
But finding someone was harder than Aubrey thought it would be. The drive took three hours, but Dad didn’t stop anywhere except at a gas station, and Aubrey stayed inside the van. At the temple, everyone already knew about the Book of Mormon. Afterward, when Mom and Dad took Aubrey to a restaurant and a bookstore, Aubrey didn’t feel the Spirit telling her to share the Book of Mormon with anyone she saw.
When she got in the van to head home, Aubrey felt a little sad. But she knew that if she kept praying, someday the Lord would help her to be a missionary.
Then suddenly Dad pulled the van over. They were having car trouble.
“We’ll pull into this gas station and see if we can find help,” Dad said.
As he parked, a big white truck with a flat tire pulled up beside them. A woman got out of the truck and looked at her tire. Aubrey saw how sad she looked. The Spirit whispered that this was someone Aubrey could share the gospel with.
Aubrey got out to watch Dad help the woman change her tire. The woman said she had recently gotten divorced. She didn’t know if her children would be able to live with her. Aubrey ran to the van and pulled the Book of Mormon out of her backpack.
“Mom, will you give this to that lady?” Aubrey asked.
Mom smiled. “That’s a good idea, but I think you should give it to her.”
Aubrey felt a little shy. But then she remembered how she felt when she read the Book of Mormon. She wanted the woman to have that good feeling too.
Aubrey walked over to Dad just as the woman was getting back into her truck.
“Wait! I thought you might want to read this. It’s my favorite book, and I know it’s true,” Aubrey said.
The woman looked a little surprised, but she smiled. “Thank you,” she said, and she took the book.
Aubrey went back to the van feeling relieved. She climbed inside and told Mom what happened.
“I’m glad you prayed to be a missionary,” Mom said. “Now let’s pray for help so we can get home safely.”
“Yes,” Aubrey agreed, “because prayer works.”