Gospel Story Finder

The responsibility of an apostle of the Lord to try to be helpful to the followers of Christ is a very heavy one. I share an experience that helped develop my feelings about that subject.
Thirty-six years ago, on the day after I was called to the Quorum of the Twelve and sustained in general conference, I was alone in my home in Provo, contemplating the significance of that calling. Our youngest daughter, Jenny, then only eight years old, entered the room. As I looked at her with all the love I felt for her, I realized that she was only one of hundreds of thousands of little girls throughout the world, also children of our Heavenly Father, whom I was now responsible to try to help as an apostle of the Lord Jesus Christ. Contemplating that reality, I could not contain my feelings and did something I have rarely done in my adult years. I wept.

I am reminded of a story retold by President Howard W. Hunter:

“It told of the less-than-spectacular career of a quarterback on the football team of a small, rural high school. This young man managed to make the team, but it was clear he was not going to be all-state or all-American. Indeed, it didn’t look like he was going to be all-anything, except perhaps all battered and bruised. He was the fourth of the four quarterbacks.
By season’s end he had never been called into a game and had given up hope. During the final game of the year he pulled off his shoes, wrapped himself in a blanket, and settled down on the bench to watch his buddies play.
Midway through the game he heard the coach shout his name. He was startled and wondered if he had been mistaken. Then it came again, right from the coach’s lips, ‘Hey, you! Get in there and move the ball!’
What should he do? His first impulse was to lapse into a coma. His second was to pretend he didn’t hear. His third was to say, ‘Wait, coach. Wait while I put on my shoes.’ He did the only manly thing. Strapping on his helmet as he ran, he made straight for the huddle; his white-stockinged feet were conspicuous to the players on both teams, as well as to the spectators and the coach, who also must have been ready to lapse into a coma.
He called the play, but the shock of his first game was obviously a little disconcerting. By the time he took the snap from center he had forgotten the play he had called. His teammates moved to the right, but he gamely went left. There, alone against the world, he met the opposition head-on and was swallowed up in the snarl of the onrushing linemen.
He said later, ‘No one expected me to make a touchdown. Even running the wrong way was understandable. But there was no excuse for a quarterback without shoes.’”

I don’t think any of us had any idea how big America really was. When we landed in Boston, we didn’t realize that our long journey was just beginning, rather than nearing its end.
From Boston, we traveled to Iowa City, Iowa, by railroad. The new railroad saved us weeks of traveling by wagon. The cattle cars were crowded, but we endured the journey well. The train stopped in Buffalo, New York, on the Fourth of July. We could only watch the people celebrate. How I wanted to join them!
Finally we arrived in Iowa City. From the train station, we walked three miles in rain and mud to the place where we were to meet the Church’s agent in charge of organizing the trek. We had been assured that everything would be ready for us when we arrived, but it wasn’t. The handcarts hadn’t even been built! We camped and worked at preparing for the journey until all was ready.
Eventually the handcarts were obtained, and our family was assigned to Captain Edward Martin’s company. Near the end of July 1856, we cheerfully began our journey to Zion. Our family had three carts when we started out. Each cart could carry about 120 pounds of baggage, 100 pounds of flour, cooking utensils, and additional food. There were 576 people in our company. I’d never been with so many members of the Church!
Pulling the handcarts wasn’t bad at first. But many of them broke down because they were built of green wood. We pulled those carts three hundred miles to Florence, Nebraska. The last members of our company, and the Willie company, arrived there on August 22. As soon as we arrived, there was some disagreement as to whether we should continue on. Some said that it was too late in the year. They felt that we should set up a winter camp in Florence and wait until spring to travel to Salt Lake City. But most of the Saints were for starting immediately. After much discussion, it was decided to continue on. We were anxious to finish our long journey. About a thousand miles remained ahead of us, but we had already come so many miles that another thousand seemed like a short trip. We didn’t know that the worst part of our journey was still ahead.

Story 2: “Putting My Marriage Before My Pride”

Let me quote from the experience of a young wife:

Like any couple, my husband and I have had disagreements during our marriage. But one incident stands out in my mind. I no longer recall the reason for our disagreement, but we ended up not speaking at all, and I remember feeling that it was all my husband’s fault. I felt I had done absolutely nothing for which I needed to apologize.

As the day went by, I waited for my husband to say he was sorry. Surely he could see how wrong he was. It must be obvious how much he had hurt my feelings. I felt I had to stand up for myself; it was the principle that mattered.

As the day was drawing to a close, I started to realize that I was waiting in vain, so I went to the Lord in prayer. I prayed that my husband would realize what he had done and how it was hurting our marriage. I prayed that he would be inspired to apologize so we could end our disagreement.

As I was praying, I felt a strong impression that I should go to my husband and apologize. I was a bit shocked by this impression and immediately pointed out in my prayer that I had done nothing wrong and therefore should not have to say I was sorry. A thought came strongly to my mind: “Do you want to be right, or do you want to be married?”

As I considered this question, I realized that I could hold onto my pride and not give in until he apologized, but how long would that take? Days? I was miserable while we weren’t speaking to each other. I understood that while this incident itself wouldn’t be the end of our marriage, if I were always unyielding, that might cause serious damage over the years. I decided it was more important to have a happy, loving marriage than to keep my pride intact over something that would later seem trivial.

I went to my husband and apologized for upsetting him. He also apologized, and soon we were happy and united again in love.

Since that time there have been occasions when I have needed to ask myself that question again: “Do you want to be right, or do you want to be married?” How grateful I am for the great lesson I learned the first time I faced that question. It has always helped me realign my perspective and put my husband and my marriage before my own pride.5

I saw a wonderful example of the healing power of the atonement in the life of a fellow American a few weeks ago on TV. One of the TV news magazines was interviewing the wife of one of the heroes who stormed the cockpit of United flight 93, which was apparently intended to crash into our nation's capital. As I watched and listened to her speak of her beloved husband, I marveled at how she could maintain her composure. There was obviously a lot of love in her heart. I could see the light of Christ in her countenance, even through the television airwaves. I knew her wounds had been healed through the atonement of Christ. I just knew He had borne her grief and carried her sorrows. And uttered a prayer of thanks to Him for consoling her.

Some time ago I read the following Associated Press dispatch, which appeared in the newspaper. An elderly man disclosed at the funeral of his brother, with whom he had shared, from early manhood, a small, one-room cabin near Canisteo, New York, that following a quarrel, they had divided the room in half with a chalk line and neither had crossed the line or spoken a word to the other since that day—62 years before. What a powerful and destructive hidden wedge.

Yolanda Elsie Díaz de Vega of the Jardines Ward, Guadalajara México Reforma Stake, recalls staying up late to study the gospel with her husband after they were baptized in 1979: “It was as though we hungered for the scriptures.” But after seven months as a member of the Church, she felt that she was criticized unfairly by an older member and that she could not go to the next meeting. For four years the Vegas did not go to church—until concern for the blessings their family was missing led them back.

The Vegas have been active for many years now, sharing strength with their family, their ward, and their neighbors. There have been great blessings in learning how to be a better couple and in serving others, Brother Vega says. The gospel “changed our way of thinking, our way of living.” Their children have grown up learning and living the gospel, and now grandchildren are enjoying the same spiritual opportunities through Church activity. “I’m proud of our children because we’ve never had to worry about people knowing we are members of the Church,” Sister Vega says. Their four children respond that they live the way they do because of parental example.

Two other glimpses of his home life: When mistreated, he was inclined to “get even” by offering the hospitality of his home. That involved Emma and her talents in cooking. Often he invited people with little warning—“If ye will not embrace our religion, accept our hospitality.”64 There were times when the cupboard was bare. One day they had nothing to eat but a little corn meal. They made out of it a johnnycake, as it was called, and the Prophet offered the blessing as follows: “Lord, we thank thee for this johnnycake and ask thee to send us something better. Amen.” Before the meal was over a knock came at the door, and there stood a man with a ham and some flour. The Prophet jumped to his feet and said to Emma, “I knew the Lord would answer my prayer.”65 He shared and shared until he was utterly impoverished.

It seemed like the bell would never ring. Why does the day that Grandfather comes always seem like the longest day of the year? Alma wondered. And when will—
The clanging schoolbell interrupted Alma’s thoughts, and he quickly ran out of the classroom.
“Alma Cutler, slow down!” his teacher Miss Young called after him.
Alma barely heard her. He just had to get home in a hurry today. Grandfather was coming to visit!
Alma tripped over a rock in the dirt road and fell head over heels. His school books and papers were scattered everywhere. He jumped up and gathered his books and papers into a bunch and continued running. “Why does everything have to slow me down the day Grandfather comes?” he said to no one in particular.
As Alma ran into the kitchen where his mother was baking bread, he went so fast that he couldn’t stop, and he crashed into the table, sending the baking flour flying like a cloud into the air.
“Alma Cutler! What on earth’s wrong with you?” his mother scolded, wiping her hands on her apron.
“I’m just excited to see Grandfather,” Alma replied. “Where is he?”
“He and your father haven’t come from the railroad station yet. Now get yourself out of my kitchen and go and gather the eggs.”
Alma hurried to the chicken coop to gather the eggs. He was proud that he didn’t break any, since everything else had gone wrong. But then when he went to get some chicken feed, he leaned too far over the grain barrel, and it fell over. Alma tried to scoop up the grain, but the chickens were eager to get to the spilled feed and scrambled all over him. He had a terrible time.
Once out of the chicken coop, Alma ran back to the house and yelled, “Is Grandfather here yet?”
“Not yet,” his mother answered.
Alma sat down on an old tree stump outside the kitchen window and picked some chicken feathers off his pants. “How come Grandfather’s not on time?” he grumbled.
“Good heavens, child!” his mother said. “Finish your work and stop worrying about when your grandfather will be here. He’ll get here when he gets here.”
Alma got up and kicked at some weeds. He couldn’t understand why he was the only one who got excited when Grandfather came.
At the side of the house, Alma picked up a bucket of potato peelings and vegetable tops to feed the pigs. When he got to the pigpen, Alma used all his strength to lift the bucket up on to the fence but he wasn’t careful where he put his feet. Suddenly he slipped and fell against the fence, and some of the messy mixture spilled on him. Alma was sure the pigs were laughing at him.
Alma put the bucket away and walked back into the house. Before he could ask about Grandfather, his mother sniffed the air and groaned, “Alma, did you have to play with the pigs? Now get yourself cleaned up before your grandfather comes.”
Alma went to his room and took off his dirty clothes and began to wash himself. He was scrubbing his face when he heard his mother calling out a greeting. “Grandfather’s here!” Alma shouted, letting the soapy water run into his eyes. “Ow!” he yelled, and he quickly rinsed the soap from his eyes.
As soon as he had put on clean clothes, Alma ran to the kitchen. Just before he got there, he heard his mother say, “I’m telling you, Father, I just don’t know what happens to the boy when he knows you’re coming. He complains all day long, wondering when you’ll get here, and he can’t do anything without it going wrong.”
Alma blushed, and he wanted to hide, but there was Grandfather coming out of the kitchen. “There you are, Alma! How’s my favorite grandson?”
“I didn’t mean to complain, Grandfather,” Alma said. “I just wanted you to get here faster.”
“You heard what your mother said, didn’t you?” his grandfather asked.
“I didn’t mean to,” Alma told him, “but—”
“Now, don’t you worry,” Grandfather said. “Come and sit down next to me and let me tell you a story that taught me a lesson about complaining.
“You see, Alma, complaining about being thirsty didn’t get us to the water hole any sooner.”
Alma looked up at his grandfather and saw a smile in the old man’s eyes. The next time Grandfather comes, Alma thought, I’ll be just like Hunkup. I won’t want Grandfather to be here until he comes.

The Bengaluru Stake presidency wanted to visit members as part of their ministering efforts. One Sunday they went to a hospital to visit a member who needed a surgery. They had a pleasant visit giving hope to the family to know that all will be well. The surgery could not happen as the sugar levels were not within the level needed. A priesthood blessing and a promise was given that his surgery would take place soon. After a day, the surgery was performed and it was successful.

One sister with a large family set a goal to make better use of her husband’s salary through using her imagination and talents. One way she saved money was by sewing her small children’s clothing from remnants which she obtained without charge from fabric stores. Harvest time meant lots of free produce for her family, as they obtained permission to gather fruit that fell from the trees at local orchards and processed it for their home storage.

The ongoing family remembrance of our little Patrick began at the time I dedicated his grave on a lovely August afternoon in 1972.
Patrick was born in Abington, Pennsylvania, and because of a complication at birth he lived only six days. We lived near a lovely little cemetery, but decided that he should be buried instead in a location near where we would want our eventual home to be—or at least in an area we could easily visit, since corporate assignments might require us to move frequently for many years.
We therefore held the funeral and buried him in Utah, where we grew up and where our parents lived. Since then we have moved to two different European countries on assignment, and then back to Utah. We are grateful for having made that decision.
In the prayer of dedication at the gravesite, I asked fervently that our family might live to be worthy to join Patrick someday in that perfect place where he now is. Six years later, we still pray often for that same blessing and find that it is a significant family encouragement and challenge to work toward that goal.
We not only pray that we might someday meet and again associate with this special son and brother, but we also feel it is appropriate to pray for his current success and welfare. Nevertheless, we know that all is well with him because of the promise of the Lord that little children who die in infancy are perfect and worthy of his kingdom.
Inasmuch as we are now fortunate to live close to the cemetery where Patrick is buried, we go there from time to time to have family prayer. Sometimes one of our children will say, “Can we please stop at Patrick’s grave to have prayer?” Whenever we do, it provides us with a special teaching moment to talk with the children about things important, sacred, and eternal.
Since Patrick is, we feel, as much a part of our family as any living earthly child, we believe there is value to be gained from remembering his birthday and even in sharing a birthday cake baked in his honor. To have the children thus see our total faith as parents that Patrick is real, that his little body will be resurrected, and that we may be joined again eternally as a family is an advantage that we as parents would not want to lose.
Because four of our children have been born since Patrick died, we are grateful for the white leather book of remembrance we compiled to remember him by. In it we have his certificates, photos from the hospital and of the funeral and burial, related correspondence, and other small treasures. As we show the children this book of remembrance, Patrick remains real to those who knew him and becomes real to the children who did not meet him here.
My wife, Sandy, and I are most thankful for the fact that the Lord allowed the birth and death of this little boy to be one of the most beautiful and spiritual family experiences we have been privileged to have since our marriage. The Lord made Patrick’s presence and even his death sweet to us, and we cherish not only the memory of Patrick himself, but also the memory of those few special and sacred days we spent together. At that time we studied as thoroughly as possible the doctrines and writings of the Church regarding little children who die. As parents and as a family we cannot express how grateful we are for those promises and the future they hold. I want to say that we do not as a family constantly think and talk about Patrick, but we make a conscious effort not to forget him, nor to forget the special family challenge and promise he has given us.

Illustration by Greg Newbold
I have been active in the Church all my life. I served a full-time mission, married in the temple, and helped raise four wonderful daughters. As the years passed, however, I noticed that some of my friends had given up their Church membership. Some family members were using social media to question and criticize Church leaders. And I was beginning to have my own doubts about the Church for the first time in my life. My doubts caused me to fear the future. At times, I felt overcome with hopelessness.
During this difficult time, I forced myself to attend stake conference. As my stake president spoke, he said, “If we are to survive the difficult times ahead, we need to move from casual feasting to urgent feasting upon the word of God. We need to make regular and focused scripture study a priority in our lives. If we do, I promise that we will not fear.”
The word “fear” caught my attention. I realized that I had allowed my gospel study to become casual. As a result, fear took hold of my life. I decided to give my stake president’s counsel a try.
I went home and created a space for gospel study. In the corner of a room, I set up a small desk with a comfortable chair. I put a few pictures of the Savior on the wall. I gathered my scriptures, some pencils, and a notepad. I began my study with a prayer.
After a week or two, I developed a daily routine. I would first listen to a general conference talk and then study a particular gospel topic. Then I would read a few chapters of the Book of Mormon and finish my study with heartfelt prayer to my Heavenly Father.
Despite various distractions, I rarely missed a day of gospel study for six months. I gained a greater understanding of many gospel topics and strengthened my relationship with my Heavenly Father through regular and sincere prayer.
My testimony was again becoming something I could lean on. My doubts faded because of the new witnesses I had received of the restored gospel. I found myself worrying less because I was trusting God more. I felt fear and despair leaving me. I also lost interest in time-wasting activities and noticed that I was becoming more generous and gentle to others.
As I heeded my stake president’s counsel, God was able to transform me. I was healed and restored by the Master Himself as I feasted upon His word.

The Saints were in serious trouble in Far West, Missouri in 1838. The mob violence, instigated in part by the state government, had reached a fever pitch. The first of November found the Prophet Joseph, his brother, Hyrum, and others under arrest and sentenced to be executed. Brigadier General Alexander W. Doniphan had been ordered by his superior officer, Major General Samuel D. Lucas to execute the prisoners the following morning in the town square. General Doniphan responded:

"It is cold-blooded murder. I will not obey your order. My brigade shall march for Liberty tomorrow morning, at 8 o'clock; and if you execute these men, I will hold you responsible before an earthly tribunal, so help me God."[1]

After reading the response of General Doniphan, General Lucas thought better of his order and took the prisoners to Richmond, Missouri and later to the infamous Liberty Jail where they were confined.

At the bottom of the brassy afternoon sky an immense herd of buffalo grazed peacefully on the wind-tossed prairie grass that rolled toward the edge of the earth like a giant ocean wave.
A great bull buffalo lifted its massive head and gazed contentedly at the seemingly endless stretch of unblemished grandness. After a moment, the big head shifted toward a faint rumbling beyond the sandstone tableland.
The rumbling continued, and the great beast snorted uneasily, its round dark eyes settling on the buttes strewn across the huge yellow plains. Are the thick dark blasts of smoke rising behind them a racing prairie fire? he worried.
Now a number of feeding heads lifted and joined the big one’s stiffened gaze as the rumbling grew louder. The huffing black smoke boldly befouled the copper heavens. Calves pressed close to their mothers’ bulky, shaggy sides for safety. Young adults hoofed about, tossing their heads and snorting reckless challenges. And the aged ones, ill at ease, breathed cautioning grunts and waited faithfully on the big bull, whose heart-pounding curiosity held him fast. One ancient beast with a chipped horn and ghostly blue eyes stomped to and fro, trying to get the lead animal to hearken to the wisdom of retreat, but the goliath bison seemed rooted to the earth.
Suddenly an awesome, wood-burning monster with a boiler stack lunged out from behind the mesa, spitting darkness at the sun and roaring loudly.
Then, just as the big bull bellowed a warning to retreat, a dozen rifle barrels were thrust out the windows of the chugging steel creature. Gunfire erupted like the sound of a deadly drumroll … and several buffalo fell.
Almost as quickly as it had appeared, the locomotive was snaking its way across the sea of grass, leaving in its path a dirty sky and a sprawling sadness.
The big buffalo lay motionless a long while amidst his dead and dying companions, finally straining to sniff one last time the little purple flowers that had softened his fall. Then he seemed to give himself up to the heavens.
The October afternoon was overtaken by lengthening mesa shadows that stretched over the fallen buffalo like a giant mourning veil. And across it all, the undying wind hymned reverently, sounding like a chorus of lamenting angels.
Along the downward edge of the plateau that stood stark against a blood-red sundown sky moved the hurried gray shadows of prairie wolves. Their hungry cries blended with nature’s sorry song.
The old buffalo’s ghostly blue eyes rounded with terror as the wolves began to move toward him among the dead and the dying. He could almost feel their hot breath. He tried to lift himself up, but the pain was too intense, so he rested quietly among the scent of sweet flowers, waiting for the hungry grays to end his suffering.
A small Sioux hunting party plodded along in the blowing waves of yellow, moonlit grass. Suddenly one of the Sioux, Ten Days Walking, pulled his buffalo runner to a stop and solemnly listened. His pony jerked, but he pulled it back.
Ten Days Walking heard the sound of excited wolves, feasting. He glanced quickly at the small boy warrior who pulled his pony up beside him. It was Little Wind, his ten-year-old son, who relished being with his father more than anything else. In fact, these two Sioux were as inseparable as prairie earth and sky, their feelings running as close as the great buffalo themselves.
Little Wind continued to watch his father, his proud, tired eyes taking in—as they so often did—the horizontal smears of paint on the man’s muscled arms, lines that signified successful horse raids and noble battles won with enemy tribes. This had been the boy’s first hunt, and all the excitement had taken its toll on him. They, and the half-dozen other Indians, had been hunting buffalo for nearly a week. But Little Wind was determined to be strong like his father. He would not show his weariness by complaining.
Little Wind threw back his shoulders, followed his father’s hawk-eyed stare across the wide expanse of grass, and remembered his ailing grandfather’s wise counsel: “Each of us, my child, to be at one with manhood and dignity, must in his turn be strong. He must rise above himself … like an eagle … to the high, noble place of honor. For the best part of any of us, little one, is found in deeds that take us beyond ourselves and make of us the men we are to be.”
Ten Days Walking yelled above the rising wind and plunged his horse forward. Little Wind quickly nudged his moccasined feet into his pony’s flank and bolted after him, followed closely by the other braves who exchanged excited, curious glances.
The feeding wolves retreated reluctantly as the band of Sioux poured out of the darkness, hooting wildly and waving their spears and bows. The snarling animals seemed to dissolve in the growing darkness.
Little Wind could still hear some of them ripping and clawing and tearing at the carcasses. He slipped off his pony and walked among the carcasses. He stumbled over something in the dark … and it moved. It was the old buffalo with the cracked horn and the haunting blue eyes. Little Wind touched its deep carpet of matted fur. There was blood on his hand. It moved again! The boy jumped to his feet. “Father!” he shouted. “This old four-legged still lives!”
Ten Days Walking came to where Little Wind stood and hunkered down beside the ancient creature. He shook his head gloomily. “This one is very old, my son.” He gestured toward the deep wounds. “Its spirit anxiously awaits its journey to the green fields beyond the stars. Mother Earth offers only much pain now. Let this old four-legged be. The Great Spirit calls it home.”
Tears glowed in Little Wind’s big dark eyes. “No, Father,” he humbly objected.
Ten Days Walking looked surprised. “Do you think you know more than your father about such things?”
Little Wind could not swallow his feelings, so he meekly answered, “Was it not you, Father, who said that a man should not limit his compassion to one of his own kind?”
The Big Sioux warrior put his hand on the boy’s small shoulder and spoke softly but firmly. “Would it not be more compassionate to give this old one back to the Great Spirit? There is so little life left in him. And he suffers so.”
After a silence, Ten Days Walking drew his large bone-handled skinning knife and prepared to end the animal’s misery. But Little Wind placed his hand on his father’s arm and pleaded, “Grandfather suffers. He is very old. There is little life left in him too. But do you not go to the high mountains to pray for him every day?”
Ten Days Walking stared deeply at his small son, his dusky eyes misting with heartfelt admiration. The boy seemed suddenly far beyond his years. Little Wind’s three-day fast and sacrifice on the hilltop to purify himself in order to become fit for God’s use before leaving on the hunt now showed itself in the boy’s touching wisdom and uncommon humanity. “Such kindness,” Ten Days Walking uttered, “will one day return itself upon you, my son, whether this old four-legged brother lives or dies. And this is because of the goodness of your heart.”
Ten Days Walking instructed six of his braves to load the old buffalo onto a travois and secure it with rawhide thongs. After all had been taken from the field of death that could be carried, the party of Sioux rode off under a predawn sky. They glanced back sadly at the leavings of meat that could not be toted, but offered it up to their hungry brothers, the wolves, that crept back on the shadows of the hunters’ disappearance.
Little Wind was barely aware of the grand welcome he and his father and the other braves received two days later upon their return to the village. Nor was he aware of the fires that were lit or the prayers of gratitude that were chanted in the smoke of sacred pipes, nor even of the many buffalo paunches (stomach linings) that boiled welcome broth on that cold autumn night. He was much too busy assisting the village holy man work medicine over the old buffalo. They were all quartered in a kind of earthen lodge constructed in the manner of a dome-shaped sweathouse. Here healing vapors could work upon the afflictions of the huge beast.
All the next day Little Wind remained inside the lodge with the old buffalo. His mother, Laughing Water, periodically sent his little sister, Night Fawn, to the earthen lodge with servings of broth, pemmican, and jerky.
Ten Days Walking emerged from a purification lodge when the sun had all but completed its journey across the sky. He had entered the lodge early that morning to bathe in the smoke of sweet grass in order to cleanse himself of the evil that his growing bitterness toward his white brothers had implanted in his heart and mind. He removed a wreath of sage from his head, brushed a veil of sweat from his eyes, and peered through the windy haze of evening fires toward the earthen lodge.
The wind swept across the wintering landscape and moaned about the little hut like a dying thing, pulling at the buffalo hide door and splintering the fragile patch of light inside. Such a long, uncertain vigil for a boy so small, thought Ten Days Walking. He moved off through a maze of huge meat drying racks, taking time out of his concerns to smile at a group of playing children. He paused to better secure a rawhide rope about a pony that was picketed to pegs outside his tepee; then before disappearing inside, he looked back toward the earthen lodge in the icy blast. His heart welled up with a matchless love and reverence and a hope that the Great Spirit would either let death soon take its course or let a small boy’s prayers be answered.
Little Wind’s sore red eyes watched with fixed interest as the medicine man drew a hot coal from the fire with a small forked stick, lit a twisted piece of grass, and cleansed his hands in the smoke. He then applied healing herbs to the buffalo’s wounds.
Little Wind’s eyes followed the smoke from the fire as it lifted through the hole in the top of the lodge toward the land of the Sky People above, and somewhere within that smoke a boy’s continuing prayer ascended with it, a plea that the Great One would consider one of his lesser but noble creations and sustain its life.
The holy man rose to go, then he paused and regarded the boy. “Our work is done, small one. What is left to be done is the Great Spirit’s to do.”
Little Wind pulled his blanket up about him and put another piece of wood on the smoldering fire. The flames licked higher and burned back the edges of night. He would not leave the old buffalo—not yet. He would stay a little longer. Just a little longer.
The boy brushed his hand gently across the massive bulk that slowly rose and fell, his exhausted gaze settling on the shadows that danced giddily on the walls like memories, memories that rose and fell like the sides of the old buffalo and stole him away …
He had been only five the night his people shuffled their feet around the big village fire, making happy shadows that stomped about in the great circle under the moon. Merrily they chanted their thanks to the Great One beyond the stars for the coming of his little sister, Night Fawn, to Mother Earth.
The kindly fire and the remembrance of happy chantings disrupted his stubborn vigil, and he rested his head on the old buffalo’s soft, warm side. He listened for a long moment to the steady throb of its great heart, beating like a distant drum in the land of the Sky People beyond the wind and the night and an old four-legged’s earthly pain.
Suddenly he felt a stir beneath his cheek. The buffalo had moved. Its great body trembled, and a deep breath sighed through its nostrils.
Little Wind lifted his head. The old buffalo’s blue eyes opened and looked at him, no longer clouded with pain but clear and calm.
The boy smiled through his tears as the buffalo slowly struggled to its feet.
The holy man returned to the lodge and stood quietly in the doorway with Ten Days Walking and Laughing Water and Night Fawn.
Outside, the night wind moved gently across the prairie, and the stars glimmered like fire holes in the robe of the Great Spirit.
The old buffalo turned its head toward Little Wind once more, then walked out into the moonlit darkness, as if following a path known only to the spirits.
Little Wind watched until the great shape vanished among the shadows. Then he bowed his head and gave thanks.
Ten Days Walking put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Your prayers have been heard, my son.”
“And the Great Spirit has shown us,” said the holy man, “that even the weakest life may be renewed when met with compassion.”
Little Wind looked up at the sky and whispered a prayer of his own, his heart full and still.
And in the quiet of the night, the village slept.

A few minutes later, Tyler heard his father come home and ran out to tell him about the name tag.
“You know,” his father said, “not all missionaries wear name tags. When I was a missionary, we didn’t have name tags.”
Tyler was surprised. “How did people know you believed in Jesus Christ?”
“We told them,” Dad said. “And we tried to show them by the way we acted.”
That evening Tyler and his parents went to the stake center because one of his friends was getting baptized. During the meeting, a speaker talked about Jesus Christ. “If we try to live as He did,” the man said, “then people will know that we believe in Him.”
Tyler thought about that as they went home. Remembering what Dad had said, too, he suddenly knew what he could do.
“Mom! Dad!” he said excitedly. “There is a name tag I can wear that won’t get ruined or lost—an invisible one! If I try my hardest to live like Jesus Christ did, it’s like telling people I believe in Him. It’s like wearing an invisible name tag!”
Dad smiled. “You’re right, son.”
Mom hugged Tyler. “I’ve already seen your invisible name tag.”
“You have?” Tyler asked, looking down at his shirt.
“Yes, it’s been there,” replied his mother. “Each time you’ve been helpful and kind—like when you washed the dishes for your sister, and when you helped little Jimmy—your name tag was there.”
Tyler looked down again. He didn’t see the invisible name tag, but his mother had seen it. He hoped other people would see it, too, because he wanted everyone to know that he believed in Jesus Christ.

During her first year at school, when she lived with four roommates, Fleur had a hard time finding time alone to pray and study scriptures. “There wasn’t much privacy to pray, unless I got in the dorm early. The other option was to pray in the bathroom. It wasn’t the greatest place, but it was private.”

Fleur makes time for gospel study because, she says, “reading the scriptures daily for seminary helps me to live Church principles away from home.” Fortunately, this year Fleur has her own room, making it easier for her to pray and study.

One stormy winter night, Harold was traveling home. By the time he and his horse reached the stream, it was getting late.
As they crossed the stream, his horse tripped. Harold flew over its head and landed in a freezing, muddy pond.
He lay in the cold slush.
Harold: Please, Heavenly Father, send help. I’m hurt and can’t move. It’s so dark and cold.
Soon he heard his father.
Father: Harold? Is that you?
Harold: I’m over here!
His father helped him out of the water and wrapped a warm blanket around him.
Harold: I’m so glad you came. How did you know that I needed help?
Father: The Spirit whispered to your mother that something was wrong, and I knew that she was right.
Harold: Thank you for coming.
Harold and his father remembered to thank Heavenly Father that night, too.
Harold: I thank thee, Heavenly Father, for telling my mother that I needed help, and for sending my father to rescue me.
Harold B. Lee’s testimony that Heavenly Father answers prayers helped him throughout his life. He prayed for divine help many times as he served in stake callings, as an Apostle, and as President of the Church.

Caylen made a special fast, too. His grandmother had written a letter to us, telling how she had prayed following a Relief Society lesson and asked Heavenly Father to help her find a new way to serve. She soon met a woman who had struggled seriously with infections made worse by foods with yeast in them, like most bread. Grandma Craven makes delicious bread with hardly any yeast. She knew that this was the way Heavenly Father had answered her prayer, and she now makes bread for this sister regularly.
I had shared this with my children, showing them how Grandma Craven had received an answer to her prayer. Prior to the next Fast Sunday, Caylen said, “I want to fast for the lady Grandma bakes bread for.” So without even knowing her personally, he fasted for this sister.

Pich Sareth, a member of the Phnom Penh 12th Branch in the Phnom Penh Cambodia North District, also saw trials at a very young age. He was only five years old when he was separated from his family and forced to work in the fields. He would sometimes find crabs or frogs he could eat to quell his hunger.
Brother Pich’s wife, Seng Tha, and her family were also forced from their home. Because she was only four years old and small, she was not required to work, as other children were. She was separated from her family much of the day and was watched by elderly women who could not work.
After meeting the missionaries in 1995, Brother Pich and his wife began to learn about the love Heavenly Father has for them. “When I had problems, I could see that praying helped me get through them,” Brother Pich says. “I knew Heavenly Father cared.”
After Brother Pich decided to be baptized, his wife also gained a testimony of the gospel and was baptized.
Since their baptisms, Brother Pich and his family have recognized the joy that stems from gaining a testimony of Jesus Christ. The Pich family takes time every day to read the scriptures. As they have done this, the joy of the gospel has permeated their souls.
“We feel we are on the right path now, and we want to stay on this narrow path and continue to progress,” Sister Seng says. “I am grateful every day that we can have our children on this path with us.”