Gospel Story Finder

The blizzard of 1831 was one of the worst ever. The people huddled by the campfires, their hands and feet blue from the freezing cold. They had little food, and tents and blankets were scarce. Most of the children were barefoot; three-fourths of them were naked.
Men, women, and children died in great numbers that winter. These people were the first of the Choctaw Indian Nation to travel the “Trail of Tears,” as it became known among the native Americans who were forced to leave their lands and relocate in Oklahoma.
Throughout that winter, the Choctaw continued to battle hunger and disease, hoping that spring would bring relief. It didn’t. Torrential rains added to their misery, swelling the rivers and turning the roads into muddy quagmires. It took them nearly five months to walk the 800 kilometers from the Mississippi-Arkansas area to their destination in Oklahoma.
A second group of Choctaw left for Oklahoma the following year. This time the United States government provided more food and supplies, alleviating the threat of starvation that had plagued the first group. But an epidemic of cholera swept down the Mississippi Valley and spread throughout the region. Heavy rains added to the suffering, and many of the Choctaw were forced through kilometers of swampland, swollen rivers, and dense forest.
They buried their dead along the way.
I had no knowledge of the pain and suffering of the Choctaw Nation until I developed an interest in family history. I learned that my Choctaw great-great-great-grandmother, Betsy Perkins, had left Mississippi with the tribe and had walked the “Trail of Tears” to Oklahoma. I placed her name in my family records, but I thought that I could do nothing further on that line. As far as I knew, no further information was available.
But on Sunday, 11 September 1983, at about three o’clock in the morning, I had a dream. I dreamed that I saw a native American woman with long braids streaked with gray. She was stirring something in a cooking pot. In my dream, I was in her home. Stretched animal skins formed the walls and roof, and poles of clean natural wood supported the walls, which were lashed together with leather strips. The home was small in circumference, but the roof was high enough for me to stand comfortably.
The woman spoke with me, and we talked for some time. I felt comfortable being with her and felt her warm hospitality. I don’t remember what was said, but she told me her name over and over again—Nanah-ku-chi. Another woman was with her, holding a child about two or three years old, with black shoulder-length hair. Their clothing, simple in design, appeared to be made from animal skins, cleaned and softened.
Three times the Spirit prompted me to get up and write, until I finally climbed out of bed and found paper and a pencil. I then sat at the dining-room table and wrote the words that came into my mind.
The Spirit made known to me that, if I were faithful, I would be led to find my ancestors’ names, and that Nanah-ku-chi, one of the women I had seen in the dream, was my ancestor. I seemed to hear in my mind, “Now is the time to labor for thy dead.”
I felt prompted to go to Philadelphia, Mississippi, where I would be given the names of those whose temple work needed to be done. “Be faithful, and it shall come unto thee line upon line,” the Spirit seemed to say. I have always believed in personal revelation, but this experience carried with it a force far beyond what I had expected.
After completing what I was prompted to write, I returned to bed. I had been asleep only a short while when Bradley, my three-year-old son, suddenly awakened me. “Indians, Indians. I dreamed about Indians,” he said. I was astonished; I felt that his words were an affirmation of my own dream. I was even more astonished when I later asked him about his dream.
“I dreamed an Indian chief came to our house,” he said.
“How did you know he was a chief?” I asked.
“He said he was a chief,” Bradley replied. “He asked me for some bread. I took him to the kitchen to get some. He said, ‘No, not that kind of bread.’”
“Were there other people with him?” I asked.
“Yes,” came the answer. “They were waiting for him.”
Later, as I sat in sacrament meeting thinking about the dreams, I silently prayed for guidance that I might be able to find the information necessary to do my Choctaw ancestors’ temple work. I felt impressed to acquire a copy of a record I had seen some twenty years earlier at the National Archives in Washington, D.C. It was the Choctaw-Armstrong Roll of 1831, and it contained records of the Choctaw before their trek over the “Trail of Tears” to Oklahoma. This census had on record some 3,000 heads of families and represented about 17,000 people. I had photocopied the pages from it that dealt with my ancestor named Betsy.
I wrote to the National Archives, requesting a microfilm copy of the entire record. I also contacted the Church Family History Library in Salt Lake City, Utah, and asked whether temple work could be done for people listed on the record. I then asked for and obtained permission to help do name extraction work on the Choctaw-Armstrong Roll.
I also went to Philadelphia, Mississippi, as I had been prompted. There, on the Choctaw reservation, I learned the story of the Nanah-weya. Archaeologists think that the Choctaw are probably of Mayan descent—from Central America—because their language, customs, and culture are similar to those of the Mayans. Choctaw legends tell of their migration from their old lands, where they had been persecuted. A prophet had told them of a land waiting for them, where they would be safe. Two brothers, Chataw and Chickasaw, led the people out of the old land.
The people followed the “leaning pole,” a sacred pole placed in front of the leaders’ camp each night. Some legends say that a sacred medicine bag was tied to the pole. Each morning, the people traveled in the direction the pole leaned. They carried their ancestors’ bones with them.
When they reached the area that is now Northern Mississippi, there was a tremendous rainstorm. The people thought that in the morning they would find the sacred pole flat on the ground because of the rain. Instead, the pole stood straight, its shaft buried deep in the mud.
That is where the people stayed. In the new land they held a great council to decide what to do with their ancestors’ bones. The decision they made was to build a large mound and bury them there. This mound, called the Nanah-weya, means “leaning mountain,” or “mother mound.”
I asked a Choctaw from Oklahoma if he knew the meaning of the word Nanah-ku-chi. He told me that it means “to bring out of the mountain.”
“You have said it just the way the Choctaw would say it,” he told me. “Nanah means mountain; Ku-chi means to bring forth.” I concluded that the words I had heard must have meant that the names of the Choctaw dead should be brought out of obscurity so that the Choctaws’ temple work should be completed.
My trip to Mississippi bore great fruit. There, in a courthouse, a woman gave my aunt and me a copy of some family records. Later, when I read through it, I was amazed. Before, I had had only three names on that particular family. Now I had more than sixty pages of information! There, at the beginning of the line, was the name of Ikenaby, an Indian chief who had lived during the early 1800s and who had married a white woman by the name of Kearney.
I continued to help with the work on the Choctaw-Armstrong Roll. Lorraine Nievar of Ardmore, Oklahoma, whose ancestors are Choctaw and French, also helped with name extraction work on the record. When the work was complete, 1,500 names from the record were sent to the temple in Dallas, Texas, so that Sister Nievar and her family could help perform their ancestors’ temple work. Another 1,500 names were sent to the Logan Utah Temple, where many of my friends and neighbors have helped with the work.
I believe that many members of the Choctaw Nation who lived during the early 1800s have accepted the temple work completed in their behalf. As I participated in baptisms for the dead one Saturday morning, I felt their gratitude. During one particular temple session, I was asked to speak to the members of a Logan ward. While we sat together in the temple’s chapel, I told them the story behind the names they carried that night. I remember that temple session as one of the most sacred I ever attended.
I recall feeling a vivid sense of light and joy at one particular point in the session. I thought of my son’s dream. My friends and neighbors were now giving the “bread of life” to those who had asked for it. I again felt that those whose work we were performing, though unseen, were grateful for the opportunity to accept the gospel. Though they had once walked the “Trail of Tears,” now they could walk the straight and narrow path of joy that leads to eternal life.
Many native American records have been compiled by various organizations. It is now possible to do more temple work for native American ancestors than ever before; many of them are eager to receive the saving ordinances of the gospel.
I learned just how eager they were one spring day while driving to Salt Lake City to talk with a woman there. Suddenly, I felt that I could hear the sound of drums beating. I seemed to see an Indian woman, dressed in an oversize plaid shirt, a Navajo skirt, and a silver medallion belt. The seat beside me was empty, but I could sense her presence.
When I arrived in Salt Lake City, I felt prompted to ask the woman with whom I had the appointment whether she had any Indian ancestors. But Carolyn doesn’t look Indian; she’s blonde and blue-eyed, I thought to myself. She’ll think I’m crazy.
When I met Carolyn in her office, the prompting for me to ask was just as strong as it had been in the car. So I asked if she had Indian ancestors.
“Yes,” she said. “My grandmother was Cherokee and was adopted by the Navajo.” She told me about how her “Granny” had worked as a nurse for many years with the Navajo in Arizona, Oklahoma, New Mexico, and Texas. Later, I asked Carolyn about the clothing her grandmother had worn, and she described to me the clothing I had seen the woman wearing.
I told Carolyn about the temple work we had done for the Choctaw. She was thrilled about the possibility of doing the same work for the Cherokee. The Cherokee were the second nation to walk the “Trail of Tears”; there is a record of the tribe in its entirety from 1835—before they had settled in Oklahoma. Carolyn is now doing extraction work on that record, preparing names for the temple.
I know that my Choctaw ancestors desired the blessings of the gospel. My love for my ancestors has grown as I have learned about them. Though they suffered great hardship in mortality, they are now receiving the great blessings of the temple.

As the breeze calms down and the fire burns brighter, Sterling Garns expresses his gratitude for the brotherhood he felt in his Aaronic Priesthood quorums before he left to attend Brigham Young University.
“A lot of us have been in this ward since we were deacons, and I feel like we’ve always been pretty close. We’ve done a lot together and our leaders have taken good care of us,” he says. “I feel blessed to have had good friends and a good family.
“Right now, you’re probably in your comfort zone with the ward, the school, your family, a lot of what you do. Until you leave, you may not realize how much you rely on your family, especially your parents, for spiritual strength. But once you are out on your own, you can feel like there is no one but yourself to rely on to stay strong in the Church. It’s so important to get close to the Savior, to read your scriptures, to pray, to do all those things you’ve been taught to do. It’s easy to drift if you don’t stay anchored. Do the right things now and it will make them easier to do later.”
Sterling also talks about his desire to serve a full-time mission.
“You talk about it your whole life, and then all of a sudden the decision is here. Like one of our ward leaders said, time passes in a blink. I think a mission is a good thing to do. There are things we can learn and do that we won’t have an opportunity to do at any other time. The rest of the world may think we are crazy to do it. But if you really believe in the Church and the Lord, it’s the right thing to do.”
Sterling sits down and hugs his younger brother Tyler, one of the graduating seniors. These are brothers who’ve been close—surfing together, quarterback and cornerback at the same high school, not a lot of fighting and disagreeing, just good interaction.
“He’s going on his mission,” Tyler says quietly. “In ten months, I’ll be going on mine.” Reality is starting to set in, that missionary service will likely separate these brothers. But the closeness they demonstrate also shows that the separation will be merely geographic, and the eventual reunion full of joy.

I recall a conversation I had with a young Northwestern University dental student while I was serving as president of the Chicago Stake. I was interviewing him to hold an office in an elders quorum presidency and learned that he was not a full tithe payer. He assured me that he kept all the other commandments required to hold office but that his income was too small to cover the expenses of going to school and supporting a wife. After counseling him at some length and explaining that if he lacked the faith to pay an honest tithing he lacked the necessary faith to hold the priesthood office or to enter the Lord’s house and receive the Lord’s blessings, our conference ended. A few days later he called and inquired as to whether the office was still open and reported that he was a full tithe payer. He was soon set apart as a quorum officer. Some time thereafter he and his lovely wife came to my home for a temple recommend. It was a joy to sign those recommends. As they left our home I counseled them to drive their car carefully and observe the traffic laws of the various states through which they must travel, for we needed them in our stake and wanted them to go and return in safety. They assured me they would, and then the young man added with a smile, “I don’t think you have to worry about our having an accident in a car we mortgaged to pay our tithing.” I love our youth for their faith and devotion.

Aghakhu Iyamu participated in the returned missionary orientation program soon after returning from his mission where he was encouraged to participate in self-reliance group meetings in his stake. He enrolled in and participated in the Education for Better Work group meeting where he learned to choose the skills that will enhance his self-reliance. He never did obtain a PEF loan but was mentored to learn air conditioning and refrigeration skills, which led to his being hired as a handyman assigned to work in New Benin Stake.

With one of my daughters, I was baptized a member of the Church on 25 July 1993. One of my other daughters, however, listened to the missionary discussions with us but was not baptized. She later took the discussions again but still was not baptized. I eventually decided to give her a subscription to the Liahona (Spanish). This added help opened the way for the Spirit to witness to her, and a few months later she was converted. Now I wait eagerly for the messages that inspire and uplift the spirit.
Mireya Josefina Almea de Rodriguez,Bolívar Branch, Barcelona Venezuela Stake

Corey’s introduction to scripture study came from his grandfather. He remembers going to visit him. Each morning at breakfast, his grandfather had them read scriptures together. “I used to dislike it,” says Corey. “But now I realize that doing it is essential to strengthen one’s testimony. My grandfather was an incredible example of adhering to the gospel and to Christ. I respect him so much for that.”

I sat uneasily in the soft chair, glancing about Mr. Blaine’s office. During four years at Canyon del Oro High School in Tucson I had been in the vice principal’s office only once before—as a representative of the Honor Society, making a request for a benefit dance.
As I waited for Mr. Blaine, I avoided casting even a cursory glance at “Rock” Broch, who sat in the chair next to me. I was still breathing heavily. Already my right eye was swelling with pain, my knuckles burned, and I suspected that there was still a little blood on my face even though I had tried to wipe it off with the back of my hand.
“Well, well,” a deep baritone boomed behind me. I stiffened as Mr. Blaine entered the office from behind. For a moment he stood behind his desk with his hands in his pockets, studying the two of us. He was a squat, muscular man with a prominent flat nose which, according to rumors, he had received as a semi-professional boxer when he was younger.
“Well, Mr. Williams, this is a surprise.” Sheepishly I returned his stare. “And you, Mr. Broch,” he added, turning from me. He rubbed his chin and then dropped into his chair. Hands behind his head, he studied us curiously. “It’s hard to tell who won,” he mused. “You both look a little worse for wear.”
I shifted nervously in my chair and glanced down at the gold carpeted floor. “Well, before I have your folks pick you up …”
“Pick us up?” I stammered, cutting in.
Mr. Blaine nodded. He glanced over at a calendar hanging on the wall. “Let’s see. Today’s Tuesday. You’ll be able to come back to school—next Monday morning.”
“Monday morning?” I rasped. “You mean we’re kicked out?” I leaned forward and wet my lips. “I have a wrestling tournament over at Flowing Wells this Friday and Saturday.”
Mr. Blaine began to chuckle dryly. He raised his eyebrows, wrinkling his brow. “You had a wrestling tournament, Mr. Williams. You just withdrew.”
His words hit me like a ton of bricks. I couldn’t miss that tournament. Last season I had taken second out of 16 guys in my weight class, behind the same kid who later beat me for the state championship. This year the Flowing Wells Tournament was all mine. And it was to be my first step to the state championship.
I coughed. “Uh, Mr. Blaine, I really can’t miss that tournament. I mean …”
“You should have been thinking of that 15 minutes ago,” he cut me short. “Before you and Mr. Broch decided to break your knuckles on each other’s jaws.”
Mr. Blaine reached for a pen and began filling out our suspension forms. I waited a moment, hoping he would change his mind, at least allow for a little discussion. He didn’t even look up.
For years I’d had a goal of taking state in wrestling. But there had always been someone better just ahead of me. As a sophomore I was forced to wrestle junior varsity behind a kid who became state champion. As a junior, when I had the varsity spot at CDO, I made it all the way to the state championship round, only to lose by three points to a kid who took state for the second year in a row. But those kids were gone now. The championship was mine. I was sure of it. And then three weeks ago Rock Broch had moved in from Tucson High and challenged me at 145. Everybody called him “Rock” because he was hard and muscular. The year before he had taken state at 132.
Broch was a quiet kid with blond hair, a beach tan, and blue eyes. Every girl at CDO thought he was Tucson’s answer to Tom Cruise. Broch really wasn’t set on himself. But he was definitely set on my spot at 145. Under other circumstances we could have been good friends. I could get along with most anyone. But my senior year I couldn’t afford to have anybody between me and the state championship.
In order for anybody at CDO to nail down the varsity spot, he had to win two out of three matches against any challenger. The first time Broch and I wrestled in a challenge match I beat him seven to five. The next afternoon he beat me three to two. The following practice we wrestled to a two-two draw before Coach Rencher called us aside and made us a proposition.
“You know, guys,” Coach Rencher started out, “this is crazy. We’ve got the two best kids in the state, wrestling for the same spot. We’re going to be the only school in Arizona with a state champion wrestling JV. One of you ought to go to 155. There’s nobody in the state that can beat either one of you in either weight class.
“Broch can go to ’55 any time,” I said stubbornly.
“Don’t bet on it, Williams,” Broch muttered.
“It would be better for the team,” Coach Rencher pointed out. We didn’t listen. “All right, tomorrow you wrestle until one of you wins. There won’t be a draw. And every week for the rest of the season we’re going to go through these same challenges. It’s a lousy waste!”
I was convinced I could beat Broch. I might have done, but the next day right after my calculus class I saw Broch with Sandi Millet, a girl in my ward. We’d been friends for years. I had even dated her a few times. Nothing serious, but we were more than just good friends. During the last week or so I’d noticed Broch take an interest in Sandi. It had irritated me some, but I’d let it pass. Today had been different.
As I came down the hall, I saw Sandi and Broch together. They were laughing and talking, and for a moment he held her hand. Instantly I was furious. It was like he was trying to push his way into everything I did. Something snapped inside of me, and I stomped over to Broch.
“You don’t waste time, do you?” I growled, pushing myself into his face before he hardly knew I was there.
“What’s your problem, Williams?” he answered, taking a small step backward.
“I’m looking at him,” I retorted.
“Michael,” Sandi burst out. “Stop it!”
“You’re crowding me, Williams,” Broch muttered, his eyes locked onto mine.
“Maybe you’d better find someplace else to stand then,” I replied.
I don’t remember who pushed first. It all happened so quickly, the only thing I remember clearly was stumbling backward and bumping into two sophomore girls. From that point everything was a fast-moving blur. The fight didn’t last long, maybe 10 or 15 seconds. That’s when Mr. Raymond, the science teacher, stepped in between us and brought us to the office. When everything was over my nose and lip were bleeding, and my right eye was swelling shut. Rock had a small gash above his left eye, a raw bruise on his right cheekbone, and a puffy lower lip.
“You’ve had a little trouble?” Mom gasped on the phone when I called her from Mr. Blaine’s office. “What kind of trouble?” she pressed.
I could feel my cheeks color, and I wished that Mr. Blaine had at least allowed me a little privacy, but I had had to make the call right there with Mr. Blaine and Broch listening to me fumble for an explanation. “Just come down,” I asked.
Mom arrived before Broch’s mother. As soon as she stepped into the office her mouth dropped open and she stared aghast at my face and my shirt with the top two buttons torn off. She spotted Broch and the angry glare on his face. “What—” She couldn’t even finish.
“It wasn’t anything, Mom,” I tried to explain calmly.
Mom looked toward Mr. Blaine for an explanation. “It seems that your son and Mr. Broch had a difference of opinion,” he said casually. “As a result both boys have chosen to take a short vacation from school. Until next Monday.”
“Yes, I understand how fights start,” Dad nodded somberly that evening when I tried to explain what had happened between Rock Broch and me. “Over stupid little nothings that don’t make any difference at all the next morning when you have time to think about them. There are better ways of solving your differences than resorting to your fists.”
“It was that Broch kid,” I argued, still not wanting to admit any blame. “He’s been trying to squeeze me out since he came.”
“I thought you were going to settle that issue on the wrestling mat—where it meant something to both of you. Now neither one of you wrestles.”
“There is one good thing,” I came back sullenly. “I can get caught up on some of my schoolwork.”
But Dad had other plans. From five-thirty to eight in the morning I studied. From eight until five I was cleaning the yard, straightening the garage, painting, mopping floors, scrubbing toilets, dusting, polishing windows. There was no end to the chores heaped on me. Then from five till nine I was back with my books. By the end of the day the only thing I wanted to do was crash into bed.
For four days, including Saturday, I maintained that rigorous routine. There was no time for diversion. It was all work and study. I did have a chance to do some thinking. The first day I insisted to myself that I would do the same thing again. The second day I admitted to myself that I might have been a little rash. By Saturday night I really felt stupid about the whole thing.
I had never looked forward to Sunday with anything close to wild anticipation, but after four days of hard labor I was grateful that Mom and Dad believed firmly in Sunday being a day of rest. Sunday morning, while I was still enjoying the luxury of sleeping past five-thirty, Bishop Morris called and asked if I would go over to the Thurman’s in the afternoon and take them the sacrament. Sister Thurman had been bedridden for almost a year, and each month the priests were assigned to take her the sacrament.
“I’d like you to go with a new boy in the ward,” the bishop told me over the phone. “The Pankratz family moved into the Stromeyer’s place two or three weeks back. They have a boy who’s a senior. Maurice is his name. He’s been going to his old ward, but I’d like to get him involved in things over here. Brother Pankratz isn’t a member. Sister Pankratz is partially active. But Maurice has been a real stalwart according to his old bishop. I’d like to keep him that way. I talked to Maurice this morning and told him you’d pick him up and take him with you to the Thurman’s. It will give you a chance to get him involved in the ward.”
That afternoon I drove over to where the Stromeyers had lived. The woman who answered the door looked too old to be Maurice’s sister and too young to be his mother. For a moment I wasn’t sure I had the right place. “Mrs. Pankratz? Is—is Maurice here?” I finally managed to stammer. “I was supposed to pick him up.”
“Oh,” she said, smiling warmly, “so you’re the one the bishop called about. Come in. I’ll call Maurice.”
We started in, and then she stopped and studied my eye. Instinctively my hand shot to my face. I grinned sheepishly and shrugged.
“That’s a nasty bump,” she said.
I coughed to hide my embarrassment. “Oh, it’s nothing,” I muttered.
She led me into the living room and I sank into a large, cream-colored sofa. I spotted a news magazine on the coffee table in front of me and reached or it. Just then someone came down the hall and entered the room. Rock Broch!
The magazine dropped from my hands, and immediately I was on my feet. His shock was as sudden and as unexpected as mine. I noticed the dark slash just above his right eye, and I could see he had had stitches. For a short moment the two of us stared at each other, and then I blurted out, “What are you doing here?” Rock stared at me a moment and then answered coolly, “I live here. What’s your excuse?”
I swallowed and fidgeted anxiously. “I came to pick up Maurice,” I explained hoarsely.
“For what?” Rock demanded.
“Bishop Morris sent me over to pick him up.”
“Oh, you made it,” Mrs. Pankratz said cheerily as she came up behind Rock. “Have you two introduced yourselves?”
“We’ve run into each other at school,” Rock answered, still glaring at me.
Mrs. Pankratz studied Rock’s cut. She glanced at me and remarked lightly, “You and Maurice look like twins.” She smiled and patted Rock’s shoulder.
I hesitated. Maurice! When the bishop had said Maurice I had expected some myopic, mousy kid in thick-lensed glasses. Not Rock Broch! Immediately I began groping for an escape. There was none. I stammered, “We won’t be long. Just a few minutes.”
Stiffly the two of us walked to the car. I could feel my cheeks grow warm with color as I dug into my pocket for the keys. I jammed them into the ignition, started the engine, and pulled onto the street. For the first two blocks neither one of us spoke.
“I had no idea you were—Maurice,” I remarked. “You don’t look like Maurice.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
I shook my head. “How was I supposed to know that you were Maurice Pankratz?”
“I’m Maurice Broch.”
I glanced over at him. “Who was that back there?”
“My mom. She and my dad were divorced when I was a kid. She married again.”
There was another spell of silence. “I didn’t know you were Mormon,” I said.
“It wasn’t exactly written all over you either. And you’re the first assistant in the priests quorum?” It was definitely an accusation of hypocrisy. Apparently the bishop had told him.
“I’m not perfect,” I answered. “But at least I go to church. I haven’t seen you lately.”
“I’ve been going to my old ward.” There was a pause and then a mumbled addition, “I was the first assistant in my old ward, and we were finishing up some …”
“You were the first assistant?” I cut in incredulously.
We drove the last nine blocks in baffled silence. When we did reach the Thurman’s place, I drove right past it with a quick comment, “That’s the Thurman’s place.”
“Why didn’t you stop?”
I continued down the street for half a block and then pulled over to the curb. “We really ought to get someone else to do this,” I muttered, angry and frustrated with Rock and myself. “But I don’t even know who we could get now. Brother Reynolds is already back there waiting with his wife. He’s the priests adviser. And I’ve got the sacrament things.”
Rock didn’t respond immediately. Finally he did ask, “Well, are we going to just sit here and make them wait longer?”
I glanced over my shoulder toward the modest home of the Thurmans. Taking a deep breath I slumped down in the seat. “You don’t know the Thurmans.” I shook my head. “They’re good people. It kills Sister Thurman not to be able to go to church. A lot of people look for excuses not to go. Not her. The highlight of her whole month is when we take her the sacrament. Can you imagine that? She’s back there getting excited because we’re coming. She cries every time. She fasts ahead of time.” I smiled weakly. “She’s not even supposed to fast. She eats at three instead of noon. That’s as long as she can fast. Even then it makes her sick sometimes, but she does it anyway. And so what does she get today? Us,” I muttered bitterly.
For a couple of minutes the two of us just sat there. I can’t speak for Broch, but I was on one terrible guilt trip. I kept thinking about a scripture. It was something about going before the Lord and having bad feelings toward your neighbor. The challenge was to patch things up first with your neighbor and then go to the Lord.
I kept thinking of Brother and Sister Thurman waiting. She would be propped up and wrapped in blankets on their worn brown couch. He would be dressed in his gray suit and sitting on a kitchen chair next to her. There would be a small table to their right draped with a white cloth. That was for the sacrament. Two of the Laurels and their adviser, Sister Benson, would be there, along with Brother Reynolds and his wife. All of them would be waiting for Broch and me. I knew there was no way I could go into that humble home and administer the sacrament feeling the way I had toward Broch. The Thurmans deserved more than a display of hypocrisy.
I cleared my throat and sat up, gripping the steering wheel. “I’m sorry about Tuesday,” I muttered, still looking straight ahead over the hood of the car. Rock didn’t reply. “It was—” I swallowed. “It was a dumb thing to do.” I pressed my lips together. “I guess it was—well, it was probably my fault.” For the longest time I debated and then slowly I held my hand out to Rock. “I’m sorry,” I repeated.
He looked down at my outstretched hand and then reluctantly took it briefly. “But,” he added quickly, “this doesn’t change anything where wrestling is concerned.”
“I’ll be ready.”
We were inside the Thurman’s place for almost an hour. It was a simple service with Brother and Sister Thurman holding hands the whole while. Rock blessed the bread. I blessed the water. We had a short testimony meeting. Even Rock and I bore ours. Rock spoke of his plans of going on a mission. He confided in us his desire to get his mother and stepfather active in the Church. He talked about his real dad and how he hoped that someday he’d see the importance of the gospel in his life. He mentioned a commitment that he had made to read the scriptures every day, even if it was for just a few minutes. He expressed his appreciation for the opportunity of coming into the Thurmans’ home and feeling of their spirit.
Everyone there shed a tear or two; the Spirit was so strong.
It’s strange how an experience like that can change a person. I saw a side of Rock that I’d never even suspected. At one point during our meeting I glanced over at him and saw a mist in his eyes. At the same time I noticed the dark cut above his eye. I wondered how I could have ever been that angry with him.
After the closing prayer we shook hands with Brother and Sister Thurman. They thanked us over and over.
Rock and I didn’t speak all the way to his place. When I pulled into his driveway, we sat for a few seconds and then I remarked, “You know, I’ve been doing a little thinking. There are some things I could help you with in wrestling. But the way things are right now, I never will. I’d just be beating myself if I helped you out any. You could probably help me too. You have a mean fireman’s carry. I’ve never been much good with a fireman’s carry. But you wouldn’t want to help me if I was just going to turn around and use it on you.”
“I’ll go ’55,” Broch said quietly. “It’s really no big deal to me. You had the spot last year. I guess I’ve been pretty stubborn about the whole thing.”
“No,” I came back. “I wasn’t suggesting that. I’ll take ’55. That’s what I was building up to. At the start of the season I was probably a few pounds heavier than you.”
“No, I’ll take ’55. I want to.”
I looked over at him. “Shall we fight over who goes ’55?”
We both laughed.
“I guess we’ll never know who really was—” I didn’t finish. I shrugged. “And then maybe that never was important.”
Broch grinned. “Probably not. But don’t think just because we’re not in the same weight class that I’m going to let you slide.” He shook his head. “I’m going to be pushing you all the way. The first time you start dogging it and letting up, I’m going to hammer you.”
I laughed, feeling good. And here I’d thought Rock stood between me and the championship. Now I could see he might be the one who would help me reach it.

When our children were little and we lived in San Rafael, Mendoza, Argentina, we started the tradition of making Christmas doves. Previously we had been sending so many Christmas cards to friends and family that it started to become a strain on our budget. So, instead of purchasing expensive, preprinted cards, we decided to make our own in the shape of doves, spreading a message of peace at Christmastime. In the beginning, our doves were simple and made of white cardboard, but over the years they have been adorned with a variety of colors, Christmas messages, and scriptures about the birth of Christ. The children enjoyed making them. Although our children are all grown now, the tradition continues on.
Georgina Crisman,Black Creek (Spanish) Ward, Mississauga Ontario Stake

I was five years old when our grandmother died back in 1892. We children stayed upstairs while all the neighbors gathered in the parlor below for the funeral.
“My little sister and I pressed our noses against the windowpane, and we saw horses and carriages and wagons up and down the whole lane.
“Then we saw the two black velvet horses come, pulling the shiny black hearse toward the house. The horses had gold fringes on their necks, and the high-wheeled hearse had windows on the sides with gold drapes and gold fringes.
“The horses walked slowly, and they looked sad. I was sad too because we loved our grandmother and I didn’t understand, but I did know she would not be in our house anymore.
“My mama cried, and her sister, Aunt Emily, came, and she held her little baby and cried. I felt sorry for them, but I didn’t cry.
“Mama told me grandmother was old and needed to rest, so I didn’t cry.
“It was two weeks afterward that I did cry. Just a few days after the funeral, Aunt Emily’s little baby took pneumonia. Maybe because she had been moved from her own house over in Emporia. We tiptoed around the house, my little sister Becca and I. We tiptoed, and we didn’t ask for anything. But the little baby died.
“We were back upstairs, and the carriages were again up and down the lane. This time a little white hearse came, drawn by two little white ponies.
“Now,” continued our grandmother, as the tape circled around her words. “Now we have sealed them all in the temple of the Lord, and they are together again. They didn’t know while they were on this earth that they could be together. Missionaries never came to our countryside homes.”

When I think of the phrase, “I live it,” I am reminded of a young woman I met named Karigan. She wrote: “I’ve been a member of the Church for a little over a year. … For me, when investigating, one sign that this was the true Church came because I felt I’d finally found a church that taught modesty and standards. I’ve seen with my own eyes what happens to people when they disregard commandments and choose the wrong path. I made up my mind, long ago, to live high moral standards. … I feel so blessed to have found the truth and to have been baptized. I am so happy.”

During the height of cross-country season, Heather Frushour, a two-time Utah state champion who graduated last June, used to be so busy that she barely had time to eat. She would wake up at 5:30 in the morning to run three miles with her teammates. After the 30-minute run, she rushed home to get ready for her first class that started at 7:40. Cross-country practice began at 1:00 P.M., and lasted for about three hours. Then it was time for the ice pack on sore muscles. Often Heather didn’t get home until 5:30. And by 7:00 on Mutual night, she was at the church. Then there was homework, and—finally—bedtime at 10:00 or 10:30.
“I may have been busy, but I felt incredibly organized. I definitely don’t feel like I wasted my day,” she says. “I would feel great.”

The sacrament provides a time for a truly spiritual experience as we reflect upon the Savior’s redeeming and enabling power through His Atonement. A Young Women leader recently learned about the strength we receive as we strive to thoughtfully partake of the sacrament. Working to complete a requirement in Personal Progress, she set a goal to focus on the words in the sacrament hymns and prayers.

Each week, she conducted a self-evaluation during the sacrament. She recalled mistakes she had made, and she committed to be better the next week. She was grateful to be able to make things right and be made clean. Looking back on the experience, she said, “I was acting on the repentance part of the Atonement.”

One Sunday after her self-evaluation, she began to feel gloomy and pessimistic. She could see that she was making the same errors over and over again, week to week. But then she had a distinct impression that she was neglecting a big part of the Atonement—Christ’s enabling power. She was forgetting all the times the Savior helped her be who she needed to be and serve beyond her own capacity.

With this in mind, she reflected again on the previous week. She said: “A feeling of joy broke through my melancholy as I noted that He had given me many opportunities and abilities. I noted with gratitude the ability I had to recognize my child’s need when it wasn’t obvious. I noted that on a day when I felt I could not pack in one more thing to do, I was able to offer strengthening words to a friend. I had shown patience in a circumstance that usually elicited the opposite from me.”

She concluded: “As I thanked God for the Savior’s enabling power in my life, I felt so much more optimistic toward the repentance process I was working through and I looked to the next week with renewed hope.”

Sometimes we feel that we don’t have any particularly important gifts. One day, a discouraged sister pleaded, “Lord, what is my personal ministry?” He answered, “Notice others.” It was a spiritual gift! Since then, she has found joy in noticing those who are regularly forgotten, and God has worked through her to bless many. While some spiritual gifts may not be prominent by the world’s standards, they are essential to God and His work.7

I was late! I threw on a nice dress, grabbed a hair tie, drove to church, parked, and hurried inside. Whew! I found a seat on the stand just as the bishop got up to start sacrament meeting.
I was speaking that Sunday, so I quickly looked over my notes, making sure I didn’t forget anything. In no time at all, it seemed like the sacrament meeting was over, and I was going to Sunday School. Another sacrament success!
But was it?
Over the next week I began to wonder. Another Sunday rolled around, and as I sat in sacrament meeting, considering what the sacrament meant to me, a thought hit me: I recommit each week to always remember Jesus Christ, but how seriously was I doing that?
I wanted to change, so I decided to come up with a weekly plan.
During the week, I would spend time considering my behavior and asking forgiveness for my sins. I would also make sure to arrive early to church so I could listen to the prelude music and feel the Spirit.
During the sacrament, I would remember Jesus Christ and His Atonement. I’d prayerfully review what I did right and what I did wrong. I’d ask myself, “Lord, what lack I yet?” (see Matthew 19:20).
Every day after the sacrament, I would pray for help to improve and to remember Christ.
As I followed my plan, I grew to really love the sacrament! I loved praying to Heavenly Father and talking with Him about my life. Regardless of my behavior the past week, I was always grateful for Jesus Christ’s Atonement and the opportunity to change and become better. Now I’ve learned that the sacrament isn’t just for Sundays; it’s for every day.

In April 1844, President Joseph Smith called the Twelve Apostles to serve missions in the Eastern United States.
Joseph Smith: All of the Apostles except Willard Richards and John Taylor are called as missionaries to continue preaching the gospel.
Wilford Woodruff had already served as a missionary in England and America, but he was obedient to the Prophet. He packed his things and got ready to travel.
When he went to say good-bye to the Prophet, Elder Woodruff could tell that he was sad. Elder Woodruff felt sad too even though he didn’t know why.
Joseph Smith: You are about to start upon your mission. God bless you, Brother Woodruff. Go in peace.
Two months later, Elder Woodruff was preaching the gospel in Maine when he heard some terrible news.
Woman: Have you heard, Elder Woodruff? The Prophet has been killed! Joseph Smith has been shot in Carthage Jail!
Elder Woodruff immediately left to meet with the other Apostles in Nauvoo.
Elder Woodruff: Now I know why I was so sad before. That was the last time I would ever see the Prophet Joseph Smith here on earth.
Although many Saints were worried that the Church would not be able to go on without the Prophet Joseph Smith, Elder Woodruff was not afraid. He was asked to go and comfort the Saints in Europe and lead them until a new prophet was called.
Elder Woodruff: Though our Prophet has been killed because of his testimony, the keys of the kingdom of God are still here upon earth. The heavens are not closed.
Elder Woodruff: Heavenly Father will still speak to us and direct His disciples. Be humble and faithful, and the Lord will bless you.

“Tomorrow is Sunday,” I told my five-year-old daughter as she snuggled on my lap. A smile spread over her face.
“Oh, goody,” she said. “Then I get to see Brother Jay.”
Gratitude filled my heart. How thankful I felt for a loving, caring Primary teacher who had eased our transition to a new ward following a move. Leaving our home in the U.S. Midwest and relocating 1,350 miles (2,173 km) away had been traumatic for the whole family but especially for our preschooler, Season. Shy by nature, she feared new situations and was apprehensive about attending church our first week in a new ward.
Brother Jay, a gentle, dedicated man, blended just the right touch of humor and affection to win Season’s trust. On that first Sunday he crouched down, took hold of her hand, looked into her eyes, and said, “C’mon, sweetheart. You’ll have fun in our class.”
As the weeks passed, Season looked forward to Sunday more than any other day of the week. As soon as we arrived at church, she scanned the congregation for her teacher. He would smile in greeting.
Throughout the years Brother Jay remembered each student with little gifts for holidays and birthdays. When Season’s birthday approached, the most important guest she wanted to invite to her party was Brother Jay.
Could he have any idea how influential he had become in our little girl’s life? Would he ever guess how much his words and actions were internalized by his group of five-year-old Primary students? Could he possibly know how much it meant to me, as a mother, to have him be part of my daughter’s life?
Later, Season advanced to Brother Edward’s class, and her wonderful Primary experience continued. How thankful I am for all the conscientious, well-prepared, humble men and women who had a positive spiritual influence on Season’s life.

After I graduated, I decided to do a full-time mission, which was difficult as my family initially disagreed, and I decided to apply Alma’s advice in 37:37, and I prayed to the Lord to help me, and I began to prepare for my mission by saving a little money from my odd teaching jobs to fund my mission.

In 2018 when I submitted my mission papers, President Alfred Kyungu of the Democratic Republic of the Congo Mbuji Mayi Mission explained to me the importance of doing a full-time mission and helped me with some advice to get there. I applied his advice, and it took me at least two years to get there and I saw other missionaries leaving on missions. It pained me at times, with everything, the sacrifice of cycling over 68 kilometers to get some documents I needed for my mission with other brothers with whom we were preparing together.
When we had submitted our papers, the COVID-19 pandemic had already started and foreign missionaries were forced to return home, and we were uncertain if we would serve a full-time mission. Two weeks later the prophet declared that we had to close the doors of the meetinghouses and 30 days later I received my call to serve a mission in the Kinshasa East mission with six months of preparation and saw the increase in the number of cases related to COVID-19.
I was still in a state of uncertainty, and I knelt down and asked the Lord if He wanted me to be a full-time missionary as I knew personally that He knew the situation perfectly, and my MTC date was postponed three more weeks. On Oct. 15, 2020 I started my training at Accra Ghana Missionary Training Center through technology and I experienced a most memorable experience of my life, spending the training on Zoom every day for three weeks made my faith grow and increase my trust in the Lord because He knew that He had prepared me to serve Him in this moment of technology in His work to learn the best ways to use technology and to help others to come to Him through this medium.
I am happy to serve Him in this time, I know that our Heavenly Father knows us personally and prepares us with the means to serve Him in his time by the tools He himself prepares to help us get there. Fervent prayer is the only way that can bring us closer to Him and help us prepare to become more like the Savior Jesus Christ.

Shortly after Brother Watabe joined the Church, his commitment to his faith cost him his job at the Japanese foreign office in Sendai. As a new convert, Brother Watabe stopped attending office parties, where drinking wine and pouring wine for others to drink was customary. His superior officer warned him several times that he must attend these parties and that he must stop taking part in missionary street meetings. But Brother Watabe remained steadfast. Finally his superior called him in and said, “You would rather go to your church than work here; we don’t need you anymore.” Soon Brother Watabe was offered a job in a U.S. Army camp. After working there for five years, Brother Watabe was called to the mission home in Tokyo to work as a translator for the Church.

“I thought the church I used to belong to was the only church around,” says David Falentino Benod. “But I wasn’t really satisfied with it. At school, when the rest of the class went to chapel, I used to hide in the bathroom. I’d seen the missionaries in the streets before, and one day my father invited them in to teach us. On Sunday we went to church and then to a baptism, and we felt wonderful. We set a date right there for the baptism of our family of nine.
Of course, joining the Church is not always an easy step. Many times it means leaving old friends behind, and often parents and brothers and sisters don’t understand. “The hardest thing to do,” says Llissel Ventura, “is to explain to our friends why we follow the Word of Wisdom. Many here smoke and drink and take drugs. They often tease us. But I just drink my jugo de china (orange juice), and I’m fine.”
Luis Espinal has found an interesting solution to this kind of peer pressure. “I know people who have vices and they would really like to get over them, but they don’t think they have anyone to help them. I try to be a good friend to them, and I bring them all to church. Some leave, but some continue coming, and some become members.”
All over the Dominican Republic you’ll find teens with this longing to reach out to others. In fact, when asked what they wanted the rest of the world’s youth to know about them, the Dominican teens replied:
“Tell them we love them. We want to meet them someday. We may not be very elegant, but we’re very nice and always happy.”
“Tell them we’re all a team.”
“Tell them we think it’s “bien chevere” (really cool) to be members of this church.”
“Tell them that the Church is very important in our lives. We may be different from them in some ways, but we all have the same goals and dreams.”
“Tell them we know the Church is true and that God loves us all. Christ did a very marvelous thing for us—he paid for our sins. He has given us light, and we’re trying to let our lights shine so those around us can see too.”
The light of the gospel. That’s it. That’s what enables the Dominican seminary students to “see” even when the electricity goes out. That’s what enables them to recognize the truth when it comes knocking on their doors. That’s what makes them so eager to serve missions and help their friends. It’s the light of the gospel that fuels their fires and helps them forge a republic of faith.

Some years ago a lovely young woman, Jami Palmer, then 12 years of age, was wheeled into my office by her parents. She had been diagnosed with cancer. Surgery would be required. The treatments would be many and the time of recovery long. It was a solemn moment as we visited. Father requested me to join him in blessing his crestfallen daughter who had just had her dreams, her hopes, her plans placed on hold. All of us were weeping. The priesthood blessing was provided.

I have maintained contact with Jami and her family. The years have flown by. She has rendered unlimited service to others through being a spokesperson for the Make-A-Wish Foundation, which blesses youth afflicted with life-threatening diseases. Jami has grown into a beautiful young woman. She is now a student at Brigham Young University. She is healthy. She has been through the refiner’s fire and has had her life prolonged. She gives thanks to all who aided her through these difficult years and especially to her Heavenly Father for her very life today.

A turning point in Jami’s life came early in her treatment for cancer. She and the youth in her ward had planned a hike to Timpanogos Cave. You who have made that hike know the way is steep, and it seems to take forever to reach the cave. Sadly Jami said to her friends, “I won’t be able to make the hike with you.”

“Why not?” they asked.

Jami replied, “I can’t walk.”

There was a silent moment, and then one replied, “Jami, if you can’t walk, then we’ll carry you.” And they did—up and back!