Gospel Story Finder

Susy went to church after her Primary teacher invited her. Susy’s mom and dad did not go to church, but every Sunday they drove her there. Susy liked Primary.
One day Susy was outside playing dolls with her next-door neighbor Mary. When they went home for lunch, the girls left the dolls there. Later that afternoon the girls returned to get their dolls. But Susy’s doll was missing. She looked and looked, but could not find it. After supper she came back to look for it again. Still, she could not find it.
Then Susy remembered what her Primary teacher had told her about Heavenly Father and how He loves all His children and will answer their prayers. Susy decided to kneel and ask Heavenly Father to help her find the doll. When she stood up, she had a feeling that she should look behind the tallest pine tree. Sure enough, the doll was there! Susy ran quickly home to tell her mother that she had prayed and found the missing doll.
“Maybe I should go to church and learn how to pray to Heavenly Father, too,” her mother said. Susy’s mom and dad did go to church. And her mother learned how to pray to Heavenly Father and was baptized and confirmed a member of the Church.

In school, if the children had been well-behaved, the teacher might reward them by having a railroad spelling bee after the afternoon recess. All the children lined up next to the wall. One day little Mary was at the front of the line, so she could spell any word that she wanted to. She correctly spelled cat. Then Charles, who was next in line, had to spell a word beginning with t, the last letter in Mary’s word. He spelled tail. Laura was next, and she had to spell a word beginning with l. She slowly spelled, “l-i-v-e-l-e-e.” Then, because she had misspelled lively, she had to sit down. The game continued as Henry correctly spelled a word beginning with y. All too soon the railroad spelling bee ended—it was time for the children to go home. But the next day they would return to the one-room schoolhouse to study and play again.

It doesn’t sound like something that would lure youth to Mutual, but cleaning the meetinghouse every week is what they’ve been asked to do, and the youth keep coming.
When the bishop first asked the youth in the Bloomfield Hills First Ward to clean the stake center, they didn’t exactly shout with joy. Who wants to finish off each activity night by scrubbing the building? There are more exciting ways to end Mutual activities, like shooting hoops or just chatting with friends.
But after the youth had cleaned the building for several weeks, they realized it wasn’t as bad as they thought it would be. And after a few more weeks, they even began to enjoy it. Now they say cleaning the church has changed the way they feel about the building and about themselves.
Three years ago, the First Presidency requested that ward members take more responsibility for cleaning Church meetinghouses. They recommended that the youth take on the responsibility as part of their weekly activities. The Bloomfield Hills youth knew this meant them.
“It cuts costs so we can provide more money for missionary work and temples,” says Rob Montierth, a priest who helps clean the building each week. “But it also teaches us responsibility and to respect the house of the Lord.”
Rob’s words echo the promise the First Presidency gave in a letter sent to bishops and stake presidents in the United States and Canada when they requested that youth clean the buildings. “From this service, young people can deepen their reverence and feelings of respect for the house of the Lord.”
Christina Wirthlin, a Laurel, says taking the call from the prophet seriously and cleaning each week makes her feel personally responsible for the cleanliness of the building. “It just makes me look out for things more. When I see papers on the floor and when I see things that need to be put away, I feel more responsibility to do those things. Before, I would just look past it because I figured someone else would do it.”
The Bloomfield Hills stake center isn’t a small building. The task of cleaning it seems a bit overwhelming. There are windows to polish, carpets to vacuum, hymnbooks to straighten, floors to mop, chalkboards to dust, a courtyard to sweep and weed—the list goes on and on. But the youth are not only willing to clean; they’re anxious to get started.
It’s almost like a tornado has hit the inside of the stake center. But unlike other tornadoes, this whirlwind of activity puts things in place.
The storm of activity is intense for about 15 minutes as the sound of vacuums squealing adds to the chorus of a squeaky wheel on the mop bucket and the rhythmic sweeping from the brooms in the courtyard. People are wiping down cabinets in the kitchen, making sure there are hymnbooks at every bench, pushing mops across the gym floor, and pulling tiny weeds out of the cracks in the courtyard cement.
Then, just as quickly as the cleaning supplies came out of the closet, the activity settles, and Mutual is over. When the youth leave, the stake center is spotless. Everything is in its place, and the building is ready to welcome them on Sunday morning.
As people file into the meetinghouse on Sunday morning, everything is in its place. And if something is out of line, or there’s a scrap of paper on the floor, you don’t have to tell the youth to take care of it; it has become instinct.
“I think that since we’ve been cleaning the building, I notice more when it’s clean,” says Diana Parker, a Mia Maid. “And I think the fact that the youth clean it makes a big difference because it’s something we can do to help invite the Spirit into the building.”
All the youth agree that it’s easier to feel the Spirit in a clean place. “When the building is clean, it just makes a better feeling, and the Spirit is stronger,” says Christina. “The Spirit is more willing to come in when it’s clean.”
Cleaning the building in preparation for Sunday has taught the youth respect for the building, but they have also learned that the building isn’t the only thing that needs Sunday preparation.
Just as the building needs to be cleaned, so do the people attending church, says Kay Smith, a Laurel. “We don’t just come to church in regular clothes; we come in Sunday clothes.”
Rob says that, as well as cleaning up our appearances, we have to do some deep cleaning. “We clean up our thoughts and our minds so that when we come to church we can have more of a spiritual experience.”
Although the meetinghouse only takes a short time to clean each week, the youth have learned an important principle from doing it—respect.
“There are places in the world where they don’t even have ward buildings,” says Laura Hansen, a Mia Maid. “We are so blessed to have this building, and I think we should feel some responsibility, even if a janitor did what we do, because it is the house of the Lord.”
Just like the building, the youth know that their appearance can be a reflection of what they value and can influence how they behave. And they know that it’s more than just coming with a clean appearance to church; they also try to come spiritually clean. Cleaning the stake center has helped teach them this lesson. That’s why, when it’s time to get ready for church, they are eager to come clean.

When these five deacons heard how President Russell M. Nelson climbs stairs two at a time1, they decided to start jogging stairs at their school’s bleachers. Can you figure out how many stair flights each deacon could do that first Saturday morning?
Clues:
Jian did six more flights of stairs than Mason.
Garret did two more flights than Jian.
Mason did half as many flights as Hector.
No two friends did the same number of flights.
# of Flights of Stairs
2
4
6
8
10
Garret
Hector
Jian
Mason
Sam
Garret, 10; Hector, 4; Jian, 8; Mason, 2; Sam, 6

When Tommy’s family left Sugar Creek camp, Tommy was driving one team of oxen and his father was driving another. It was the first time Tommy had ever driven, and he was so intent on what he was doing that he did not notice how bright the sun was shining nor how warm it was getting. He did not even notice that his mother had replaced her heavy winter coat with a light shawl. He only knew that it was necessary for him to crack the whip more often to keep the oxen moving. Suddenly he realized that this was because the ground was thawing; the wheels of the wagon were sinking deeper and deeper into the soft prairie mud, and it was harder and harder for the oxen to pull the load.
Tommy was afraid that they would never catch up with the main wagon train that had left Sugar Creek the day before. He was surprised and happy when late that afternoon he heard the sound of voices and knew that the camp was not far away. He coaxed the oxen on in soft, soothing tones.
“Steady now,” he said. “P-u-l-l together.” The oxen responded as if they understood every word. They lurched forward with such power that the wheels rolled easily, and soon Tommy found himself in camp surrounded by admiring friends.
“You drove all the way from Sugar Creek?” one asked.
“That’s great,” said another. “I wish my father would let me drive.”
Suddenly it started to rain. At first it was a soft, gentle rain that did not bother Tommy as he milked the cow and helped his father feed the oxen. Later, when they started to pitch the tent, the rain came down in fierce, angry sheets that bit into Tommy’s shoulders. The wind blew so hard that it wrenched the tent out of their hands.
“We’ll have to do without the tent tonight,” Father finally decided.
“Where will you and Mamma sleep?” asked Tommy. “My wagon is too full of corn and wheat for anybody to sleep there.”
“You and Betsy can sleep with Mamma in the other wagon,” answered his father, “and I will make a bed underneath it for me.”
“I will sleep under the wagon,” said Tommy quietly.
Father did not answer at once, but Tommy knew by the pressure of his hand that he was proud that his son had offered. Finally Father quietly said, “I’ll help you gather pine boughs to put on the ground so your bed won’t sink into the mud.”
Tommy was glad when they had enough pine boughs, because it was difficult to cut them in the stinging rain. Over these pine boughs he and his father put the folded tent, leaving enough of it free on each side to pull over the bedroll so Tommy would not get wet.
When the bed was ready, Tommy crawled into it. At first it was frightening to be alone in the storm. Never had he heard such loud thunder, and the lightning flashes were so close that he could see small fires appear in the tops of the trees where lightning had hit. Even though he knew the heavy rain would soon put them out, Tommy was afraid. What if the lightning should strike the wagon where the others are sleeping? he asked himself. He wanted to call out to his father for comfort, but he didn’t want anyone to know that he was afraid.
I’ll ask Heavenly Father to help me, he said to himself. And he did. Tommy almost expected his prayer to be answered by the thunder and the lightning stopping. Instead it was answered by Tommy not being afraid any more.
Then Tommy began to enjoy the storm. It was almost as if giant fireworks were everywhere. Instead of wanting to go to sleep, he wanted to stay awake so he would not miss any of it. But since the storm lasted all night, Tommy’s eyes finally closed. He did not open them again until he felt water lapping at his feet and discovered that the little creek beside which they had camped had become a raging torrent during the night.
Excitedly Tommy called out to his father, “The creek has overflowed and the back wheels of the wagon are standing in the water!”
Tommy’s father was out of the wagon in an instant. When he saw the situation, he helped Tommy pull the bed out from under the wagon and then hitched up both teams of oxen to pull the wagon out of the water. The ground was so slippery the oxen could not get a foothold.
“We will have to build a corduroy road,” said Tommy’s father.
To do this, Tommy and his father cut down many trees. They trimmed off the limbs and laid the poles side by side, close to and in front of the wagon; then with willows they bound each log tightly to the next one so they would not roll. When this was finished, they packed tough grass and pine needles on top of the poles so the oxen’s hoofs could not slip into the cracks.
Finally they coaxed the frightened oxen up onto the corduroy road and hitched them to the wagon. Father spoke to the oxen in soothing tones, “S-t-e-a-d-y now, p-u-l-l together.”
The oxen did pull together. The heavy wagon wheels rolled out of the mud, onto the tough grass, over the corduroy road, and up onto the road that the Camp of Israel would be traveling that day.
Tommy shouted, “Hooray!” But his mother cried because she was so proud of her two “men.”

They aren’t great basketball players, but they are determined, I thought as I watched the opposing team run up and down the court.
They were younger, less experienced, and shorter than our basketball team. But they kept on trying, even when it was clear that they didn’t have a chance of winning.
Randy, a boy with sandy-blond hair, played like he didn’t know what the score was. Although he rarely had possession of the ball, he chased it up and down the court as if the whole game depended on him.
When his teammates did pass him the ball, he would carry it four steps, stop, bounce it, and pass it to another player. But the referees didn’t call a penalty, and no one complained. Randy, who is mentally handicapped, was doing his best.
With seconds left on the clock, he got the ball and his teammates yelled for him to shoot. Concentrating so hard that his tongue hung out of his mouth, he shot—and missed. One of our players rebounded the ball, hesitated, and then tossed the ball to Randy.
“Shoot the ball!” our player yelled, and members of both teams joined in the cheer.
The ball went up, hit the rim, and bounced off. Again, Randy was given the ball, and again he missed. Time had run out, but the buzzer didn’t sound, and the referees stayed at half court. Everyone yelled for him to try again. This time the ball arched and swished the net, and the last two points of the game belonged to Randy.
The crowd went wild, and the members of both teams surrounded Randy to congratulate him. He jumped up and down as though he had won the game. And I realized that he had.
And so had every player in that game. They had been true sportsmen: fair and generous. That night no one went home feeling angry or disappointed. There was no bragging or teasing. There were no losers, only winners.

Primary lessons can sure change things! Last week Sister Pierson said that since we were all getting baptized this year, we should try to do what Jesus would want us to do and follow his example. “Melissa,” she asked me, “why did Jesus do things for other people?”
I said, “Because he loved them.”
So we talked about serving people out of love, not for thanks. Then Sister Pierson’s eyes started to sparkle, and Josey groaned because she knew that meant Sister Pierson had an assignment for us. “I would like each of you to do something for someone without their knowing every single day this week,” she challenged us. “Small acts of service can make a big difference in peoples’ lives.”
Boy, would that be hard in my family. Mom and Dad notice everything we do, especially since they usually have to ask many times before it gets done. They’d be really suspicious if things just started happening.
Monday after school, Mom said she had to take Jeanette, my big sister, to the doctor. As soon as she left, I peeked outside to see my brother, Billy, playing basketball. I knew he wouldn’t be coming into the house for a while. I did the dishes and put everything away exactly right. It was really Billy’s turn to do the dishes, but he waits until Mom is practically yelling before he does it. This time Mom wouldn’t yell, and Billy would think Mom had done the dishes for him. No one would guess that I had washed them.
It felt strange that evening—sort of peaceful. Billy did his homework without being told to, and Jeanette and Mom cheerfully cleared up after dinner. No one said anything about the dishes having been done.
On Tuesday we made cookies. After we were finished, I took six out of the cookie jar, wrapped them in a napkin, and put them into a small paper bag. Mrs. Henderson next door is a widow and lives by herself. I know that she loves Mom’s cookies, so I put them on her doorstep, rang the bell, and ran behind some bushes to watch. She was really pleased when she found the cookies.
On Wednesday after school, I noticed Jeanette hadn’t made her bed, so I made it for her. It was hard because I had to get the bedspread tucked under the pillow just right so that there was still enough to pull over the top. I finally did it, but when I took one last look, there was a whole bunch of extra sheet hanging down on one side. I almost cried. I tucked it under the mattress, because I didn’t want to start all over again, and I just hoped she wouldn’t guess that it was me who had made the bed. When she came home that night, Jeanette didn’t say anything about it.
I got up the next morning wondering if it was even worth doing anything, since nobody seemed to care. I mean, nobody had noticed anything enough to even ask who had done it! But I wanted to tell Sister Pierson that I had done what she asked the entire week, so I kept going.
Dad still had mud caked on his boots from last weekend, and I knew he would need them again this Saturday, so when I got home from school, I found the old knife he uses as a scraper and spent a whole hour getting them clean again. Most of that time I was hoping he would appreciate it.
Friday morning my lunch was all fixed and ready to go when I got downstairs. I guess Mom did it—I even got cheese crackers! So I gave her an extra-big hug and felt good again. In the afternoon I quietly put all the clean clothes away while she was peeling carrots and potatoes for dinner, and I felt even better.
Saturday morning Billy and I got up early to watch television. We get to do that until everybody is up and it’s time to do chores. Dad came in with his boots on and gave Mom a kiss. “Thanks for cleaning these off, Honey,” he said. “I’ve been putting it off all week.” Morn looked surprised. “But I didn’t. I—”
But Dad had gone out the door already. I just kept my eyes on the television and smiled inside, where Mom couldn’t see.
Mom let us watch TV an extra half hour before she turned it off and said, “Get dressed—time for chores.” Her voice was happy, so we knew that it would be a fun workday.
I got all the way across my room to the dresser before I realized that someone had already made my bed—corners tucked up, sheets and blankets perfectly even, and my pillow all smoothed out. Downstairs, Mom was whistling. I smiled, inside and out. Little things do make a big difference. I’d have a lot to tell Sister Pierson on Sunday.

When I was a junior in high school, I was wrestling in a state tournament against an opponent that I had previously defeated twice during the year. As we met at the center of the mat with the referee before the match, my rival looked at me and said, “Today is my day, Pinegar.” I assured him that it was not, that I had already beaten him twice during the year, and this would be the third time.
As the match began, we circled each other and then clashed. We wrestled very, very hard. He was serious about wanting to defeat me, and in fact was so serious that he turned me every way but loose. As I would go down to the mat with him, I realized I had mat burns all over my body.
In the third round, he had me in a position where my head was twisted in the three-quarter Nelson, and he had a leg hold on me. I realized if I moved any farther he would pin me. At that moment, I looked into the crowd, and several rows into the bleachers I saw a very large man, probably six feet, five inches tall and about 280 pounds. From the expression on his face, it looked like he was trying to help me. So I watched him for just that brief second, and I realized that if he was trying to help me the two of us could surely defeat this fellow who was about to pin me.
I don’t know if it was because of that, but almost immediately after I had turned my face away from him I noticed my opponent had slipped his right arm over a little bit too far. If I could hook his elbow, I could reverse the hold and pin him instead of being pinned. Without hesitating I quickly pulled on his elbow. Over he went and I had him pinned.
Following my win, I was anxious to let the man know I appreciated his help. As I stood waiting for the referee to raise my hand, I looked around to see if I could find the man. In the same place I had seen him before I saw him standing very straight with a satisfied, if not proud, look on his face. He looked at me and smiled. I guess I can confess that this man was my father.

While newlywed undergraduates at BYU, Christy and I learned valuable lessons about recognizing this type of prompting.

After my mission to Taiwan, I thought international law would be a good career choice. As Christy and I considered that possible future, we understood that five more years of expensive education lay ahead. The United States economy was in a deep recession and our funds were limited, so we reasoned that joining the air force ROTC would be a wise choice to pay for my schooling. But as I took the required tests and filled out the paperwork, we just could not get comfortable about making that commitment. No stupor of thought or dark feelings came—only an absence of peace. While joining the air force is a great option for some, we determined this was not the right course for us. Looking back, that seemingly illogical financial decision was inspired, in part, because I would have been a horrible lawyer!

The youth I saw confined to a wheelchair was a startling contrast to the boy I remembered from the year before. I remembered him as a happy, 18-year-old Indian boy whose swift, strong legs had carried him up and down the basketball courts. But that was yesteryear. Today he was in a wheelchair. Today his dark eyes and handsome smile caused me to stand in awe of his youthful courage.
I first met Don a couple of years ago and learned that he was a convert to the Church. His widowed mother lived in a remote section of the Navajo Indian reservation, and he was a participant in the Indian student placement program. His school work was excellent; he played the piano skillfully; and with the same slim, brown fingers he could paint beautiful pictures or strum the guitar in accompaniment to his clear soft voice. Don’s personality was pleasant, his standards were high, his testimony strong. He was soon to graduate from high school, and his plans were to spend a short time with his people on the reservation before returning to live with his foster parents, where he would work preparatory to receiving his expected call to the mission field.
Life seems to have a way of changing the most carefully made plans, but no one would have expected the traumatic experience that awaited Don. His fun on the reservation was cut short by painful events, and his mission began in a much different way than one would have imagined.
While riding in the back of a pickup with some of his friends, Don accidentally fell out onto the hard, black pavement and skidded painfully along its rough surface. That was the last thing he remembered until he awoke in a hospital bed, his body in physical torment.
An excruciating pain in his back persisted through the long night, and as the new day began, Don found himself unable to move his arms, hands, or legs. He was paralyzed from his neck down!
Following an emergency operation, he awoke in a recovery room conscious that the pain in his mended back was subsiding; but he was also painfully aware of his helpless limbs that refused to respond to his efforts to move them.
Don’s concerned doctors had little hope that this condition would ever change. As he lay helpless in his hospital bed, fighting back the tears of discouragement, he poured out the feelings of his heart to his Heavenly Father, asking for strength to endure and for a recovery from his affliction if it were His will.
Night after night while others slept, Don struggled through the long, dark hours attempting to move his helpless hands that lay inertly by his side. He would pray and try, pray and try, repeating over and over in his mind, “I can do it, I can do it, I can do it!” Then, as the early morning light filtered softly through the blinds of his window, he would surrender himself wearily to a merciful sleep.
On one such interminable night, Don’s heart suddenly pounded with excitement as an almost imperceptible movement was made by one of his fingers! Holding his breath in suspense, he moved his finger again!
There was no sleep for Don that night. A wonderful, elated feeling of hope buoyed his troubled spirit and gave him renewed determination to regain the use of his hands.
Each night became a new adventure as gradually, with great effort and perseverance, the use of his hands and arms slowly returned to him.
In the meantime, Don’s doctor had procrastinated the unwelcome task of informing him that he must mentally prepare himself to accept his paralysis as an unalterable fact of his young life.
With great difficulty, the doctor broke this news to Don. It was a poignant moment for the good doctor who turned quickly to leave the room to conceal his emotion. As he made his exit, he stole a last glance at Don lying quietly in his bed. Just at this moment, Don reached his arm up to the head rail of his bed and pulled himself into a more comfortable position. The startled doctor could not contain himself. “Do that again, Don! Do that again!” he shouted with excitement. Soon the room was swarming with nurses and doctors who came running to learn the cause of the great commotion. It was a moment to be remembered.
Although Don was happy to feel the strength gradually return to his arms and hands, he had to fight back the tears when he looked down at his helpless legs.
In these trying circumstances he began to fulfill his desire to be a missionary. He told his roommate about the Book of Mormon and gave him a copy to read. Charles, a Hopi Indian boy, immediately became engrossed in the book, and, when darkness came at the close of the day, he continued reading. He devoured the words of this book for three days and two nights, jealous of the time it took to eat or rest. Finally, when he had turned the last page, he rose from his bed and walked over near Don’s side and asked, “Don, where did you get this book? I have shared in the traditions of my people that we hold to be sacred. Many of our traditions are written in this book. Where did you get it?”
Don happily shared his testimony with this new friend as he told him of the restoration of the gospel and of its special meaning to them as Lamanites, a covenant race and descendants of the Book of Mormon people.
Soon after this Charles was released to go home, anxious to share this new message with family and friends. Don was moved to a rehabilitation center in Denver, Colorado. He was quite unprepared for what he encountered at his new residence in the paralytic ward. Everyone seemed depressed, discouraged, and despondent. Patients could not understand how Don, who was in an equally distressing condition, could seem so happy. Some of them asked, “Why are you always so happy and smiling?” Don replied, “My smile keeps the tears from my eyes, and my laughter keeps the lump from my throat.”
With courageous determination Don took advantage of the special care he now received. Long after others would tire and leave the gymnasium, he would remain—trying, trying, trying. Through his valiant effort, accompanied by humble petitions to his Heavenly Father, he was finally strong enough to go up and down the parallel bars alone; and then he was able to walk with braces and crutches. His new mobility permitted him to attend church services. This spiritual comfort brought him great joy, but he was totally surprised by the reception he was given upon his return to the hospital. Everyone teased him for going to church! In his characteristic way, Don’s smile merely broadened at their taunting. He resolved to do something about the gloomy atmosphere in this, his new home, so he happily embarked upon the next chapter of his mission.
In the days that followed, he could be seen wheeling himself down hallways and into every room where patients would receive him, preaching the gospel to all who would listen. He became known good-naturedly as “the prophet,” a title that he accepted graciously.
In the evenings he often lifted his voice in song as he accompanied himself with his guitar. Others began to join in, and the spirit spread. Friday nights soon became known as the time for a hootenanny, and patients joined together with voices raised in song and laughter. Patients began to smile and call each other by name. This new spirit extended into other activities as well.
One of the more dramatic examples was the organizing of a wheelchair olympics.
On the day agreed upon, patients wheeled excitedly from place to place as they marked out a course for the coming events. Wheelchairs were lined up at a starting line, while occupants leaned forward, intently waiting for the starting signal. The signal was given, and they were off in a flurry of wheels and laughter. After a breather and an untangling of wheels, patients were given a chance to challenge another wheelchair. Don looked around, and pointing his finger at one of the chairs, said, “I challenge that chair.”
“Don, you can’t do that,” the astonished attendant replied. “That chair has a motor!”
The competitive young man was undaunted and remained firm; so a course was set and an eager audience waited expectantly for the signal to begin this most unusual race. Soon the signal was given and Don’s hands fairly flew as he propelled his chair toward the finish line. When he had gained full momentum, he ventured a cautious look toward his opponent, only to discover that he was shifting to a higher gear! To complicate matters further, a woven wire fence was stretched a few short feet behind the finish line.
With the heart of a champion, Don ducked his head and gave it everything he had. He crossed the line only inches ahead of his opponent and crashed happily into the wire fence. He was picked up and dusted off amid excited expressions of admiration. He had won!
All was not happiness for Don, however, for he longed to see his home, his family, and his friends. In spite of his high resolve, his vision clouded when he looked down at his crippled legs. Wonderful Church members tried to fill his hour of need, and Don said, “Through their kindness they put a smile on my face and laughter in my mouth.”
As time drew near for him to be released, he began to worry about his acceptance by friends and family upon his return.
The day finally came when his foster parents arrived. It was an ordeal for Don to muster up enough courage to direct the question that had filled his mind completely. “Do you want me to come back?” he asked apprehensively. They softly replied, “Of course, Don. We have a bed waiting for you.” The kind response was too much for him! This time his tears flowed freely and mixed with theirs in a demonstration of joy and love.
On the night of Don’s departure, a special hootenanny was held in his behalf. His many new friends shook the rafters with a song rendered in his honor: “Too Many Chiefs and Not Enough Indians Around This Place.”
The courage and spirit of this young man had touched the lives of others and left an indelible impression.
Two of the residing patients and two members of the nursing staff who waved good-bye to Don had embraced the gospel of Jesus Christ as a result of his influence. Many looked to the future with new hope, and each felt a personal loss at his departure.
Upon his return home, Don’s numerous friends were out to greet him and welcome him back into their circle of friendship. Don soon found a job at an LDS mailbox bookstore that enabled him to meet the payments on his car, a vehicle equipped with special controls that would carry him to his work and to the Mesa Community College where he was enrolled for classes.
As I concluded my visit with him, he handed me a letter. “What is this?” I asked. “It’s a letter from my physical therapist in Denver,” he smiled in reply.
I unfolded the pages and began to read. “Dear Don,” the letter began, “I don’t know how to thank you. Yesterday was the happiest day of my life. It was the day I was baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
I hope I will remember the example of Don. I hope I will remember his parting words when I asked about his future. He looked directly at me and spoke with conviction: “I’ll wipe away my tears and let the winds of discouragement blow. I cannot fail, for God is with me.”

A young boy and his parents are on the Brooklyn with other Latter-day Saints going to California in 1846. A storm so terrible that the captain of the ship told them to prepare to die was followed by being stuck under a blazing sun in the Doldrums. Finally a wind came up and blew the Brooklyn around Cape Horn—but it wouldn’t let them land in Chile! So they sailed 360 miles away from South America to an island where they got—for free—all the supplies needed to finish their voyage. Papa said that it was one of the times that God worked in a mysterious way to bless them.

Eliza wiped her brow as she began the evening meal. It seemed only yesterday that she had been in the cool, green Sussex countryside of England, among her beloved family and friends. Her husband, Edward, had owned a large fishing boat. Life had been pleasant and secure. Eliza smiled as she fixed dinner a short distance from the railway tracks. She thought back on the day the missionaries had taught her family the restored gospel. Accepting the gospel truths had added the missing spiritual knowledge their lives had lacked.
With Eliza’s conversion came an intense desire to join the Saints in the Valley of the Great Salt Lake. Whenever she had a farthing or two after meeting household expenses, she put them into her “emigration fund” and dreamed of the day they would sail to America.
Her reflections were interrupted as little Keziah and Keturah called to her to share their discovery of a pretty pebble. Her daughters, aged four and two, were truly a delight to her. Their simple joys at seeing gophers, sunflowers, and buffalo as they crossed the United States made their trip bearable. Still, Eliza worried about their future.
If not for the gospel, the future would have been very bleak the day a violent storm had sunk Edward’s boat, even though it had been secured to the dock. With the irreplaceable loss, Edward had carefully weighed their alternatives and decided to go to America. Eliza remembered how her heart had leaped at the prospect of a home where their children could grow up within the shadows of the temple that was being built.
Friends in England had scoffed at their “foolishness”. So what if they had run into a bit of bad luck. That was no reason to abandon their home and livelihood and head off to America. Didn’t they care about their children’s future? Why, Edward, Jr. was only six weeks old. Surely he would never survive such a journey! Besides, they had no money except the little that Eliza had managed to save.
But Edward and Eliza were determined. By selling their household goods, they raised enough money to travel from Sussex to Liverpool and to partially secure passage to New York aboard the Hudson. To help pay the rest of their passage, Edward worked on the ship as a cook.
Eliza’s thoughts again returned to the present as the sun began to set. She called her daughters and husband to eat the meager meal of ash cakes, jerky, and dried fruit.
Upon arriving in New York, she had written to their families in England that she and Edward and the children were all well and that the six-week crossing of the Atlantic had been uneventful, in calm weather, and with no awful sickness.
Indeed, the real challenges had begun after they’d arrived in New York. In order to get to the Missouri River, where they would be outfitted with a small wagon, they had to ride the train in open cattle cars because all other kinds of cars were being used in the Civil War. At times there was barely standing room in the cattle cars! Some passengers sat in the doorways, their legs dangling precariously over the edge. The pungent odors of so many people traveling in such crowded conditions, mixed with the stench the cattle had left behind, made the journey very unpleasant.
Not only were the cattle cars crowded and uncomfortable, but also dangers abounded. Once, sparks from the wood-burning engine flew wildly about and set some of the passengers’ clothing on fire. Fortunately the flames were quickly smothered by nearby travelers.
Times like this evening, when the train stopped for a while, were a blessing—families could eat together away from the noisy crowds and the heat and smell of the cattle cars. Keturah and Keziah especially enjoyed running and stretching their legs, breathing fresh air, and not worrying about soot or sparks from the engine. Even baby Edward cooed and smiled when Eliza placed him on a blanket in the cool shade of a bush before preparing dinner.
The call of “All aboard!” interrupted their meal. Hastily the family gathered their few belongings, and Eliza told Keziah and Keturah to take their father’s hands.
Turning to pick up baby Edward, Eliza’s heart leaped into her throat. Her precious babe was not where she had laid him just an hour earlier! Keziah and Keturah said that they hadn’t moved their baby brother while playing. Frantically the family began to search the nearby bushes. While she searched, Eliza fervently prayed for Heavenly Father’s help in finding her son.
“All aboard!” sounded in Eliza’s ears again. The train was about to leave!
Suddenly a flash of lightning lit the sky, and she saw where her sleeping son lay. Scooping him up, she gratefully thanked Heavenly Father for His loving and watchful care.
It didn’t matter to Eliza that she had sacrificed much for the gospel, or that she would ride many more miles in cattle cars before walking west alongside a wagon for hundreds of miles more. She was just grateful for the gospel and the knowledge it gave her of a loving Heavenly Father Who was watching over her and her family.

On one occasion, an ancient mathematician named Archimedes was asked by his king to determine if the king’s new crown was solid gold or if the goldsmith had dishonestly substituted some silver for gold. Archimedes pondered the solution; finally an answer came. So overjoyed was he by this discovery that, according to legend, he ran about the city crying, “Eureka! Eureka!”—meaning, “I have found it! I have found it!”

He said, “I have a book that will help you prepare, and I want you to have my copy.” It was a book by another Apostle in the Church called A Marvelous Work and a Wonder.
I studied that book along with the Bible. Through this study, I got answers to many questions, as well as a desire to pray. Based on what I’d read about Joseph Smith (see Joseph Smith—History 1:5–19), I felt sure that God would also answer my prayer.
I knelt by my bedside and called out to God with all my heart and soul. I told Him that I was seeking the truth, and then I waited for my heavenly messenger. Nothing happened. I tried again. Still nothing. Finally, I simply asked God if the things I was reading and studying were true.
After my prayer, I began thinking of all I had learned. While reading the two books my LDS friends had given me, I had discovered answers. That felt good. Ever since I went to Israel, I’d wanted to know more about Jesus. Now I did. That felt good, too. Suddenly I realized God was answering my prayer. He loved me enough to send friends and books to tell me about the Restoration of the gospel, and I felt good. How would I feel if the Lord had literally told me the same thing? I would feel the same way. That was my answer.

So is his sense of humor. There is usually a smile on Si’s face, and he loves a good practical joke. When his mother went to the hospital once for her daily visit, she was in for a shock. Two hospital orderlies with very serious faces were sitting near Si’s room, and his door was closed. She opened the door and went in.
Si’s room was darkened, and he was covered with a white sheet. Anita’s heart faltered. She walked over and pulled back the sheet. Si was laughing! Then the orderlies came in, and they were laughing too.
Si is an inspiration to his whole family. His youngest sister, Barbie, reflects, “I was only five years old when the accident happened, so to me having Si like this is just a part of our way of life. It’s not a burden for us. I guess it would be if Si made a big fuss about it, but he doesn’t, so neither do I. Sometimes I wish I could make him better, but then I think no, because he’s blessed so many people’s lives. I do hope that sometime he’ll be well again. He’s really a great guy.”
Si’s father, Dr. Frank Peterson, concludes, “It’s unfortunate that he’s immobilized, but everything else about this has been positive. I’m proud of him.”
Si has a firm testimony, and he bears it frequently. His mother reads his lips and then gives voice to his feelings to the accompaniment of the rhythmic hum of his respirator.
“One of the main purposes of this earth life is to be tried, to prove ourselves worthy to return to our Heavenly Father, and so trials that come to us are an important part of our lives. Every one of us will be tried in one way or another. The important thing is how we accept our trials and grow from them. They can be stumbling blocks or stepping stones.
“I am grateful for my membership in the true and living Church, and I am grateful for the priesthood that I hold. I am grateful for my family who loves and supports me, and for the many others who help me so much. I know that my Heavenly Father lives and that he hears and answers my prayers. I am grateful for my Savior, Jesus Christ, and for his sacrifice for me. I know that my accident had a special purpose in my Heavenly Father’s plan for me.
“I feel fortunate that the trial I have been given is so obvious that I receive a lot of encouragement and help from many people. Your trials may be just as difficult as mine, but perhaps not as obvious, and so I pray that you will be able to accept them and have the strength to endure and grow from them.”
This thought is typical of Si Peterson. Trapped inside the prison of his own motionless body, with every possible excuse to turn his thoughts bitterly inward, his mind reaches out to others in prayer and service. Even lying flat on his back, he is a giant. Si Peterson—a typical young Latter-day Saint and a unique human being.

Recently, BYU-Idaho graduate Lila Jolley was asked to speak at her convocation ceremony as she received her bachelor's degree. She said,
"I remember my very first science class here on campus... I went in thinking I had a testimony of our Savior. I came out with the knowledge that He created all things, that God is our creator... Every semester, as I took more and more advanced science classes, I was taught how the world worked, and my faith was strengthened. From physics, genetics, animal behavior, biochemistry, animal reproduction, nutrition, and organic chemistry, I began to realize that God is the ultimate scientist." [1]
Lila received one of the great blessings of attending this university and experienced, in fact, one of its great purposes: our earthly studies can, and should, strengthen our spiritual knowledge and bring us closer to God.

Such letters received President McKay's attention and concern, not only because of their fervent plea but also because of their letterhead, which read, "The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, Nigeria Branch." The Prophet did not know that there were branches of the Church in Nigeria.

In 1961 President McKay assigned LaMar Williams, secretary to the Church Missionary Department, to go to Nigeria on a month long fact finding mission, to determine if the people were sincere and willing to accept the Church without holding the priesthood. Although Brother Williams had been responding to the flood of letters from Africa, he was not prepared for what he found there. He was met at the airport in Port Harcourt, Nigeria by ten pastors with whom he had been corresponding. He was treated like royalty but surprised to discover that not only did each pastor operate independently, they were not even aware of each other. The first official church meeting in black Africa was held October 22, 1961 in a small mud hut in Opobo District, Nigeria where Brother Williams met with a pastor and 110 followers. No one came by car. Many, including eight mothers with small children, had begun their day before 4:00 a.m. and walked twenty-five miles or more to be there. After teaching them for two hours, Brother Williams prepared to end the meeting. He recorded:

Brother Williams reported to President McKay that he felt thousands were ready for baptism. For the next four years the Church made every effort to send missionaries but the Nigerian government refused to issue the necessary visas. When Africa's most devastating civil war, the Biafran war, exploded in Nigeria these efforts ceased. LaMar Williams turned over 15,000 names of unbaptized African converts to Elders Spencer W. Kimball and Gordon B.Hinckley, both of whom were on the Church Missionary Committee. The Church made every effort to establish itself in west Africa but was prevented from doing so. However, the Lord has promised that His eternal blessings will come "in his own time, and in his own way, and according to his own will."

A few years ago, one of my relatives compiled a beautiful history about my father’s ancestors, and I learned for the first time about my great-great-grandfather Robert Shipley. He was illiterate, illegitimate, and raised in a British workhouse. He was put in the workhouse with his younger brother, who later died because the conditions were so terrible. Their story reminds me of a Charles Dickens novel.

Fortunately, Robert survived. When he was older, he happened to learn about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. After he was baptized, he regularly attended church and eventually met a young woman there. Her name was Harriet, and she was educated and very cultured. I don’t know what she saw in Robert, but they got married right before they boarded a ship to sail to America to join the Saints.

While they were aboard the ship, Harriet taught Robert to read and write, using the Book of Mormon and the Bible. I take great delight in thinking about Harriet—who was thirteen years younger—teaching Robert to recognize the letters, sounds, and words of the gospel. I know that his progress would have been slow and incremental and that it would have taken a long time to see improvements. But with persistence and patience, we know “that by small and simple things are great things brought to pass” (Alma 37:6). This is the doctrine of incremental growth. Just as with the Saints in Africa who are learning to read and write, my ancestor Robert was already proficient in the most important language—the language of the Spirit.

We had completed the assignment given us by President David O. McKay to check on a site claimed to be that of the ancient city of Zarahemla.
We had located the suggested site by following the description given in a document that President McKay sent with us. All four of us agreed that this particular site was altogether too small to support a city as large as Zarahemla. Furthermore, Zarahemla had fields where crops were grown, as well as pasture lands on either side of the city for the Nephite’s flocks. According to the description given in the Book of Mormon, Zarahemla seemed to have been the largest Nephite city in ancient America.
After our return to the hotel, I became quite ill during the night. The next morning my traveling companions came to my bedroom to see why I had not come to breakfast. I told them I was too ill to get out of bed. They said that they would eat breakfast and then go down to the airstrip and look at the plane to see that everything was all right.
They soon returned and informed me that clouds had settled down on the airstrip and on Tuxtla so heavily that we would not be able to get out. We were fogged in, and they had been informed that the airstrip would probably be fogged in for a considerable time because the rainy season was beginning. They asked me what should be done.
After thinking for a few moments I was impressed by the Holy Spirit to say, “Give me a blessing and we will fly out today.” At first they replied, “President Hunter, you are too ill to fly.” But I insisted on being blessed. President Strong anointed and his son Bert sealed the anointing and gave me a blessing. I immediately got up out of bed, went in and ate breakfast, and felt completely healed.
We took our luggage and went down to the airstrip. Shortly after, the clouds lifted sufficiently for us to fly out. We heard later from the archaeological workman that several days passed before the fog and clouds lifted again. Therefore, that particular day was our time to fly out of Tuxtla.
On the way home President Strong said, “President Hunter, write an article for the Church magazines on this marvelous experience we have had. You were directed by the Holy Spirit as strongly as Wilford Woodruff was when he was told to get out of bed and move the wagon in the night. He followed the promptings of the Holy Spirit and moved the wagon just before a strong turbulence came along and pulled up the tree exactly where his wagon had been standing. He and his companion would have been killed if he hadn’t followed the promptings of the Holy Spirit. We have had a similar experience. By following the promptings of the Holy Spirit, our lives were saved.”
Youth of the Church, if you will try to keep all of God’s commandments, then through the promptings of the Holy Spirit you will be guided at critical times in your lives just as we were. Your lives may also be saved by the guidance of the Holy Spirit and by the power of the Lord.

The northern Arizona evening air had the feel and smell of autumn. The cool air felt good to Letha as she carefully guided Grandmother to the wooden chair outside the old adobe house that rose from the high rocky mesa. Grandmother’s old feet walked very slowly, and her aging body leaned heavily upon Letha’s young arm.
“Here we are, Grandmother,” Letha said gently. The old Hopi woman slowly lowered herself into the creaky wooden chair. Letha sat down on the hard, dry ground next to Grandmother’s feet. She gazed at the quiet desert far below them. A peace settled in Letha’s heart.
“Little Sister, tell me what you see.”
“The sun has painted the sky bright red, the color of your red pottery. Around the edges of red, the sky is dark blue,” Letha said, trying to describe the brilliant sunset.
Letha had become Grandmother’s eyes for her, guiding the old Hopi woman here and there, finding things for her, and, as now, trying to describe the surrounding beauty. In doing so, Letha had begun to see their desert home in a new and wondrous way. Each time she looked at the ever-changing desert floor below, she found a new color, shape, or texture and she saw fresh beauty in each tree and rock. She noticed the swift, smooth, sequential movements of the slick brown lizards on the red rocks. She studied the graceful flights of the birds overhead. All these Letha tried to describe to her beloved grandmother so that she might see them with her mind’s eye.
“Are there clouds?” Grandmother asked now.
“Yes, Grandmother. They are in long streaks, like waves in the sky, each a different shade of red or pink and each turning a new shade of pink with the setting of Brother Sun.”
The air turned cooler as the sun disappeared from sight. Still the two sat quietly, enjoying the evening and each other’s company.
“Tell me about the stars, Little Sister,” Grandmother said as the crickets started to sing.
“They are bright tonight but scattered among the clouds. Bear star is hiding.”
After a long while Grandmother spoke again. “Letha, tomorrow I want you to go down the mesa and get me some white clay.”
“Oh, Grandmother, you are going to make pottery again!” Letha’s young voice held great excitement. Grandmother was a famous potter. Her work was so well known that people had come from far away and paid great amounts of money for her beautiful pottery.
“Yes, Little Sister. I am going to make a very special piece of pottery.” The sadness that was in Grandmother’s voice confused Letha. Making pottery had always been Grandmother’s heart song. She was always happiest when she was creating a piece of fine pottery.
But Grandmother had not made any pottery since her eyes had dimmed. Her old, gnarled hands could still mold perfectly shaped vases, bowls, and pots, but her clouded eyes would not let her see to paint the beautifully intricate and unusual designs that identified her work. When she had begun to lose her sight, she had said, “I will not make pottery that is not my best,” and had put away her pottery tools.
It had broken Letha’s heart to have Grandmother put her tools away. Grandmother had taught Letha to make pottery in the traditional way. Patiently and lovingly she had taught her the ancient craft, guiding her in ways known only to a master potter.
Although Letha was still learning the art of pottery making, it was already the song of her heart too. She loved the feeling of the wet clay in her small hands as she carefully coiled, sanded, smoothed, and painted each piece of pottery. Each vase, bowl, or pot that she created had a bit of herself molded into it. But Letha still had much to learn. Tomorrow she would watch and learn more as Grandmother made her pottery.
“Come, Little Sister. It is time to go in. The air is too cool for this old woman,” Grandmother said as she started to rise from the chair.
That night, as Letha lay curled up in her blanket on the floor next to Grandmother’s bed, her heart was troubled. If Grandmother was going to make pottery again, her heart should be happy. But Grandmother had sounded sad when she asked for the clay. …
It was late in the afternoon when Grandmother sat at her old table with the clay that Letha had gathered. The gnarled old hands rolled out a long thin rope of damp clay with practiced ease. Then slowly, carefully she coiled the rope around and around. Letha watched quietly, amazed that Grandmother could still shape pottery with such ease with blinded eyes.
Grandmother worked silently as she formed a round vase about the size of a grapefruit. Next, her hands skillfully created a graceful neck at the top of the vase. The neck extended into a flat spout. Then another graceful neck with a matching spout was formed on the opposite side of the vase. Lastly a braided handle joined the spouts together.
Grandmother’s hands searched through her tools until she found her favorite dried gourd rind. With the rind she painstakingly smoothed the walls of the double-spouted vase to an even thickness. She handed it to Letha, who carefully set it on the drying shelf.
“This old woman is tired, Little Sister.”
Letha helped Grandmother to her narrow bed and covered her with a warm quilt.
“It is very good clay that you dug today, Little Sister. Thank you.”
Two days later Letha made a big pile of juniper chips outside the adobe house. She covered the pile with sheep dung, placed a flat sandstone on top of the pile, gently placed the now-dry wedding vase on the sandstone, very carefully covered the vase with large pieces of broken pottery, then started the sheep dung on fire. As the flames engulfed the pile, Letha went over to Grandmother.
Grandmother was humming the traditional “firing song.” Letha hummed also. The firing song would help protect the vase from scorching or cracking during the firing.
Much later, when Letha lifted the wedding vase from the gray ashes, she could see that it was perfect in every way. The surface was smooth and uncracked, the white color flawless. Letha carried the warm vase to her grandmother and set it in its maker’s hands. Grandmother turned the vase carefully, feeling every inch of it. A smile crossed her lips.
After holding the vase lovingly for a few minutes, she reached out and took Letha’s small hand into her old, worn one. “Sit, Little Sister. Be my eyes. Tell me what you see here.” Grandmother held out the wedding vase.
“A beautiful, perfect, white wedding vase.” Although Grandmother’s dimmed eyes had not permitted her to paint the intricate designs and lines for which her pottery was famous, to Letha it was the most beautiful piece of pottery that Grandmother had ever made.
“Yes, the traditional vase that binds two hearts together in love.” Grandmother halted for a moment, and Letha could see tears in the clouded brown eyes. “It is the last piece of pottery I shall make. This old woman will not feel the warmth of the next spring.”
“Grandmother—“
“No, Little Sister, you must listen. Soon I will leave this life. There is no sadness in it for me. It is the way of all life. But for you, Little Sister, there will be sadness, I know.” Grandmother squeezed the small hand she still held in her own. “This vase is for you, Little Sister. In it I have molded our hearts together. Each time you look at it, you will think of me and feel me near. Each time you look at it, paint it with the new eyes you have found by seeing for me. Paint it as you have painted my life—with warmth, love, and great beauty. I will continue to live on through you and your pottery making, for we sing the same heart song.”