Gospel Story Finder

Baptism Then and Now
Maggie, 11, and Lily, 9, were baptized in a font near the place where the first members of the Church were baptized.
Both girls were very excited to be baptized. When it was Lily’s turn to be baptized, she had an interview with her bishop. “He asked me if I had a testimony of the prophet and if I paid my tithing,” Lily said.
The girls both have good memories of their baptismal days. “When I came out of the water, I had a feeling that I could do anything,” Maggie said.
Both girls got journals so they could record their feelings about their special days.

Elder Quentin L. Cook of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles tells the story of his father teaching him to set goals by sitting down with the children individually and offering help.

“I had the desire to engage in this practice with my children,” Elder Cook said. “When our son, Larry, was five years old, I asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up. He said he wanted to be a doctor like his Uncle Joe. …

“Several months later, I asked him again what he would like to be. This time he said he wanted to be an airline pilot. … I said, ‘Larry, last time we talked you wanted to be a doctor. What has changed your mind?’ He answered, ‘I still like the idea of being a doctor, but I have noticed that Uncle Joe works on Saturday mornings, and I wouldn’t want to miss Saturday Morning Cartoons.’

“Since that time our family has labeled a distraction from a worthwhile goal as a Saturday Morning Cartoon.

“What are some of the Saturday Morning Cartoons that distract us from attaining the joy that we desire? … If we examine the reasons we don’t do what we ought to do, we find that the list of Saturday Morning Cartoons is almost endless.”

Elder Cook’s teachings show us that we need to reflect on how we are doing, avoid distractions, and stay focused as we seek to achieve our goals.

Not long ago I attended a dance at a stake that was not my own. The friend who invited me began introducing me to a group of girls standing near the door as we entered. Since I didn’t know anyone, I was anxious to make some points with the ladies, so I said, “Wow. There sure are a lot of beautiful girls in your stake.” My friend looked around the group and, trying to be funny, said loudly, “Where? Where? I don’t see any.” Needless to say, we were not the most popular guys at the dance that night.
If the above experience had been a scene on a TV show, my friend’s “clever” comment would have been followed by laughter. In real life, the girls were offended and avoided us the rest of the evening. What many don’t realize is that those producing TV shows use a laugh track—prerecorded laughter that can be turned on and off at the touch of a button. That’s why laughter always follows sarcastic put-downs or mean jokes. It sounds like everyone enjoys the negative humor. In real life, there is no laugh track. People might put up with put-downs and manage a chuckle for the sake of saving face, but deep down, negative humor hurts. No matter how perfect the timing or how smoothly executed the joke, usually the only ones laughing are those who are afraid they may be your next targets.

Every summer Davey and his family drove to Huckleberry Hill Campground in their camper. Tim’s family went at the same time, and the boys had become good friends.
They fished and swam in the lake, picked wild huckleberries on the hill, and sometimes went to the little grocery store near the campground. They liked going to the grocery store. It had a candy case with a great many kinds of candy. They would look through the glass at pink and yellow marshmallow chicks, bananas with creamy filling, and wax bottles of cherry juice. A little bell suspended over the screen door jingled whenever it was opened.
One day as Davey went up the road to the store, he kept touching the dollar bill in his pants pocket. His mother had said, “Davey, take this money and buy two pounds of potatoes. You may have ten cents for candy, and bring back the change.”
Why did she tell me to bring back the change? he wondered. I always bring it back.
When Davey passed Tim’s camper, he called, “Tim! Want to go to the store? I have ten cents for candy!”
Tim bounded out of the camper. “Sure,” he said.
At the store Davey and Tim opened the door and smiled as the bell jingled. No one was in the store and they raced to the candy case. “Boy! I want one of those big jawbreakers,” Tim declared.
“I want a red licorice whip. Wonder where Mrs. Beady is.”
They looked toward the curtained doorway at the back of the store, which Mrs. Beady always came through when the bell jingled.
On the counter, Davey saw a huckleberry pie covered with plastic wrap. A knife lay beside it. “Wowie!” he cried hungrily. “I like huckleberry pie better than anything.”
“Not me,” Tim said. “I like huckleberries best when you eat them right off the bush.”
“I like huckleberries any way, but pie is best—even better than candy.”
Tim grinned. “I dare you to take a piece.”
“That’s stealing!”
“Double dare you!”
The pie looked so good that it made the juices in Davey’s mouth run. Oh, how he wanted a taste of that pie!
Tim said, “I don’t think Mrs. Beady is here. All you have to do is lift a corner of the plastic and take a piece.”
Maybe just one teeny slice, Davey decided. No one will know. I’ll do it! Davey had the pie about an inch from his mouth when the boys heard a rustling sound behind the curtain. He stuffed the pie into his pants pocket.
Tall, thin Mrs. Beady came through the curtain. She looked down her long nose at them. Davey wondered if she ever smiled.
“Well?” she questioned.
“T-two pounds of p-potatoes,” Davey stammered.
Picking up a bag, Mrs. Beady went over to the potato bin. She weighed the potatoes and said, “That’ll be thirty-four cents.”
Behind her, Davey wiped his sticky huckleberry fingers on the back of his T-shirt. Then he remembered that the dollar was under the pie in his pocket.
“I forgot the money,” he lied.
“Tut, tut, tut,” Mrs. Beady clicked her tongue against her teeth. “You boys from the campground?”
They both nodded and murmured, “Yes’m.”
“Then you don’t have far to go for the money.” She put the bag of potatoes under the counter.
“Yes’m. I mean no’m,” said Davey. He tried to get in front of Tim so Mrs. Beady wouldn’t see the huckleberry on the back of his shirt. They fell over each other going out the door.
“Why did you dare me to take that pie?”
“Well, I didn’t make you take it. Aren’t you going to eat it now you have it?”
Davey pulled the gooey mess from his pocket. “Right now I hate huckleberry pie,” he said. “Wonder how much a piece of pie costs.”
“A quarter. But you didn’t take a big piece. Bet Mrs. Beady doesn’t even know you took it.”
Davey said sadly, “I know I took it. And I only have the ten cents we didn’t spend for candy. Do you have any money?”
“Nope. Say, the front of your pants are beginning to turn kind of purple.” Tim pointed to the large spot soaking through Davey’s pocket.
“Wowie! My new pants! My mom’s going to be really upset.”
“Maybe she can dye your pants purple. My sis got huckleberries on a dress once and my mom dyed it purple.”
Tim’s suggestion didn’t make Davey feel a bit better.
When they reached his camper, Tim said, “Mom wants me to pick huckleberries for supper. Want to come?”
“I’m sick of huckleberries. I’ll never—” Then Davey had an idea. “Sure. I’ll get a pail. See you on the hill.” And off he ran to his camper for his mother’s largest pail.
On his way to the hill, Davey pulled out the dollar. George Washington had turned purple! Holding the bill under a campground spigot, he washed out most of the huckleberry juice. He shook it and tried to blow it dry.
Halfway up the hill, Davey could see Tim popping berries into his mouth. Not one huckleberry will I eat, Davey promised himself. I’ll bet I can pick at least half a pailful before Mom calls me home.
While he picked, Davey thought how dumb he’d been to take Tim’s dare. But I shouldn’t blame Tim, he decided. I knew better than to steal. He remembered something he had read aloud just last week in Primary, something about not stealing or lying. He felt awful. And now I’ve stolen and lied to Mrs. Beady, he worried.
Tim shouted, “The berries are thicker over here!”
But Davey wanted to pick by himself. He had to gather a lot of berries to half fill the pail, and the sun had almost dropped into the lake.
In a short time, Davey’s arms were purple and scratched from the berry bushes. And his blue pants were now huckleberry-spotted all over.
“Davey! Da-a-vey!” his mother called.
“Oh-oh,” Davey muttered. “She’ll be wanting her potatoes. I’ll have to quit. Anyway, the pail’s over half-full.” He struggled down the hill with his heavy load until he reached the road. Then he lugged the pail to the grocery store.
Mrs. Beady was still there. “Time you came back after those potatoes,” she chided.
Davey showed her the pail of huckleberries. “I picked them for you,” he said.
Mrs. Beady smiled.
Davey put the damp dollar on the counter. “Will the berries and ten cents pay for the piece of pie I took?” he asked.
She smiled again and nodded. “It wasn’t a full-size piece. You must have worked real hard picking all those berries. Just look at you! I do thank you, young man.”
“Thank you,” said Davey.
He scooped up the bag of potatoes and dashed out the door, pausing to give it an extra jingle. He felt a wonderful sense of relief as he sped back to the camper. I’ll never, ever take a dare like that again, he promised himself. then the next thought made him smile: What if I really do have to wear purple pants!

Wilford Woodruff, as President of the Church, described his experience in the offices of the priesthood:
“I heard the first sermon I ever heard in this Church. The next day I was baptized. … I was ordained a Teacher. My mission immediately commenced. … I went through that whole mission as a Teacher. … At the conference I was ordained a Priest. … After I was ordained a Priest I was sent … on a mission to the southern country. That was in the fall of 1834. I had a companion with me, and we started out without purse and scrip. I traveled alone a good many miles and preached the Gospel, and I baptized a number that I could not confirm in the Church, because I was only a Priest. … I traveled some time preaching the Gospel before I was ordained an Elder. …
“[Now] I have been some fifty-four years a member of the Twelve Apostles. I have traveled with that and other quorums now for sixty years; and I want to say to this assembly that I was just as much sustained by the power of God while holding the office of a Teacher, and especially while officiating in the vineyard as a Priest, as I ever was as an Apostle. There is no difference in this so long as we do our duty.”1

Tyler Olsen was especially unaffected by the bad weather. This would be the culmination of his Eagle Scout service project. He’d already been to sporting goods stores in the valley, distributing free backcountry safety literature for their customers. He’d helped at a special prep seminar for the Scouts, where they watched an avalanche video and received special instruction from Dan Davis, their Young Men secretary and owner of Hoover, a search and rescue dog.
So about 25 of us, including Scouts, their leaders, and a few news people, piled into four-wheel drive vehicles and headed for the hills—make that mountains. We’re talking Rockies.
Once we got up out of the Salt Lake Valley and up to Guardsman Pass where the drill was to be held, the weather wasn’t half as bad, and the scenery was incredible. Snow was everywhere, generously frosting the trees and covering the ground in a great, thick blanket. It looked soft and inviting—harmless, even. That’s probably what a lot of people think just before they put themselves in avalanche danger.
“A lot of people don’t realize that avalanches can happen so easily,” said Clark Whisenant, 13. “This project made me want to do a special research project on them for school. Avalanches are really dangerous.”
The search and rescue people had already arrived at the site. They’d brought dogs, snowmobiles, and an intimidating snow cat that moved like a tank, made strange noises, and seemed to be able to transport a number of people just about anywhere.
Before I could pull on my gloves, the Scouts were out running around with the dogs, leaping into huge snow piles and throwing snowballs at each other. “Maybe this won’t be so bad after all,” I thought, as I took a big juicy snowball right in the back of the head.
It was about a half-mile hike from the area where we left our cars into the site where the search and rescue people decided to stage the drill. Some of the Scouts walked, carrying the shovels and other equipment they’d brought along. Some went ahead on snowmobiles to prepare the site. As for me, I decided to ride the snow cat in. The dogs were riding in on it, and I wanted them to get acquainted with my scent so it wouldn’t take them long to find me when it came time for the rescue.
Once we got to the site, everyone went to work. The area was large and flat, with snow piled deep. They had been careful to select an area that really would be free of avalanche danger. The first order of the day was testing the snow, cutting a big, vertical block of it and looking at the layers for instability. If the boys were just out for a normal day of cross-country skiing, this would have determined where or if they would go in that area.
Next, they had to make the area look as if an avalanche had just occurred. That meant smearing injury makeup all over some faces, partially burying some people, and digging snow caves in which to bury others.
“It’s kind of fun to have injury makeup on your face and then be buried in the snow up to your shoulders,” said Andy Brinton. Now that’s an attitude for you! Since I was one of the lucky others who would be buried completely, I’d have to see if I could start thinking like Andy.
I’ll say this for the Scouts. All that snow camping they do every winter pays off. They dug me a snow cave about six-feet deep that was actually rather comfortable—just big enough for me to lie in. I crawled in, and then they handed me a walkie-talkie “just in case.” “Just in case of WHAT?” I wanted to ask. But they had already started filling in the entrance with snow blocks, followed by loose snow.
Now, it’s really not that bad in a snow cave. The natural insulation keeps you pretty warm. And since the snow usually has a density of 40–60 percent, there’s plenty of air. Still, I was depending on Dan to keep his promise that Hoover would have me out of there in 20 minutes at the most.
Dan O’Conner of American Search Dogs, Inc., whose dog Anderl would sniff out some of the other boys, explained to us that a dog could pick up a scent after a person has been buried only a few minutes. “The dog thinks, ‘I can smell the person, but I can’t see him, so I’d better go find him.’ That’s the name of the game.”
It wasn’t long before I heard feet crunching in the snow above me, and muffled voices talking in an excited tone. Soon I could hear frenzied digging, and then I saw the welcome sight of a pair of brown paws, then a black nose, breaking through the ceiling of my snow cave. In no time Hoover was all over me, licking my face and playing tug-of-war with my glove. He was just as happy to see me as I was to see him. He’d won the game. He scooted back up to the surface where the others were waiting, my glove in his mouth, proving that he’d found me. The others congratulated him, then helped me up and out.
What I saw when I got to the surface fascinated me. With remarkable precision, the Scouts and rescue people had organized themselves so that almost every inch of the avalanche area was being covered. The scenario was that a group of Scouts had been in the area when an avalanche occurred.
In one area, the avalanche “witnesses” were being interviewed, and the “injured” victims were being treated nearby. Another part of the area was being swept by people bearing electronic devices that would pick up signals from the transceivers that the Scouts might have been wearing at the a time of the disaster. In still another area, they’d organized a probe pole line, in which the members sank long, thin metal poles into the deep snow every foot or so, waiting for someone to sound the ominous cry, “I’ve got a hit,” if they struck something.
“I’d never been in a probe line, or anything like that, and it was really interesting,” said Joseph Mecham. “If there really was an avalanche, like at a ski resort, and you were a bystander, chances are they’d recruit you to help in the probe line if you knew what you were doing.”
When all the “victims” had been found, we gathered back at the snow cat to go over what we’d learned that day. The Scouts had been shown how to avoid avalanche-prone areas, how to be safer in winter sports, and how to assist search and rescue units if they need help when an avalanche occurs. The dogs had learned a lot too—it always helps them to sharpen their tracking skills and to be around groups of people in a rescue situation.
I’d learned all of the above, plus I’d gained a little confidence, knowing that I could handle some rather severe winter conditions.
But even with our newfound knowledge and skill, we agreed with Hoover when Dan asked him what it’s like to be caught in an avalanche.
“Rough!” Hoover responded. Or maybe that was “Ruff.”

One day Daniel’s cousin Tyler came over to play …
Don’t go near the thorn patch!
OK!
Hey, Tyler! Let’s kick the soccer ball around.
Oh, no! We’re not supposed to go near there.
I think I can reach it.
Ouch!
Hang on! I’m going to get some help!
Are you OK?
Yeah, but I wish I didn’t fall into the thorn patch!
Mom warned you about the thorn patch because we care about you and want you to be safe.
I know. Thanks for helping me.
What do you want to do now?
Let’s play in the treehouse—and stay away from the thorns!

LISA: When I walked in the door it was quite a different party than I had expected. They were drinking and smoking marijuana. Everybody in the whole place was using drugs. The right thing would have been to turn around and leave. That’s really a hard thing to do, but if I had, I probably would have avoided all the trouble that came later. I didn’t want to use any drugs. I didn’t even want to go to that party. But instead of turning around and going home, I went in. After being there 20 minutes I felt so awkward that I grabbed a beer and pretended to drink it.

As soon as I started pretending to use I was accepted by everybody and was asked out by several guys. I loved that. I wasn’t interested in the drugs and alcohol. It was the crowd, the acceptance.

LISA: I started smoking pot, and I tried LSD. A lot of the pot I smoked was laced with even worse things. I have no idea what I smoked.

Through my use, my family life completely deteriorated. I tried to avoid my family as much as possible. I wasn’t going to school. I’d make maybe two classes a day if I was lucky.

LISA: When drugs let me feel anything, I felt really guilty about what I had done. I felt worthless. I didn’t understand justice and mercy and repentance. I thought that I was bad forever. I didn’t know how to be forgiven. I just felt that I was lost.

I had heard the lessons about forgiveness, but I didn’t think it could apply to me. I thought, That’s okay for little Mary Jo over there who swore yesterday, but for me who’s been doing this and this it doesn’t work. I felt there was a certain amount of time I had to spend repenting, a certain amount of suffering I had to do, and I knew that my life wouldn’t be long enough to do it all. So why try?

On the other hand, when I got into a rehabilitation program and was taught what the Atonement means and what repentance is all about, my Father in Heaven became my greatest strength. He helped me make the painful changes that had to be made. I know that I have been forgiven, and I’ve learned how to forgive myself. Now when I look back it’s like watching a movie of someone else. The weight has been lifted, and I am a different person.

LISA: When I was using drugs I couldn’t pray. I felt that I was such an awful person that I would just be wasting my time. So I tried to push God out of my mind. I tried to tell myself that he didn’t exist. I tried to forget him because I didn’t want to feel the guilt.

I look back on what has kept me straight and why I’m sober today, and it’s because I learned how to talk to God. I didn’t know how to before. I was used to saying a kind of set prayer—“Bless us to get home in safety …” The same old stuff.

So I had to establish a relationship. Now I can come home and tell him, “Look what I did today. I was so rude.” I’m talking to him as I would talk to a friend. I really feel that he is my friend. I can just sit and talk about something that concerns me today. I sit in my bedroom with my eyes open and just talk to him. That really helped turn me around.

If I had had that relationship when I first started using, I might have gotten out in time.

LISA: Stay close to your family and maintain high self-esteem. Low self-esteem makes a person more vulnerable. In the ninth grade I had a 3.5 GPA. I modeled professionally. I was in ballet, but my self-esteem was low. I felt that whatever I did wasn’t good enough. I felt that a 3.5 GPA should be a 4.0, that I wasn’t skinny enough, that I wasn’t pretty enough. I never had the exact right clothes. I never did things exactly right. I guess I was quite self-critical.

When I was 18, I was living in Lima, Peru, where I was born and raised. At that time my father came across a good friend he hadn’t seen in a long time.
My father was impressed that his friend looked younger and was well dressed. He asked his friend what had happened to him to create this transformation. “Did you just win the lottery?” he asked. The friend responded, “Well, something better than that. Now I am a Mormon, and I want to share the gospel with you and your family.”
My father thought his friend was joking, so he said, “OK, if you want to send your missionaries, do it.” But this man was very serious about it, and within a few days the missionaries came and knocked on our door. That was the beginning of a wonderful experience.

My mother must have understood that principle of revelation. As a young man, I would close the back door very quietly when I came home late in the evening. I had to pass my mother’s bedroom on the way to mine. However quietly I tiptoed, just as I got to her half-opened door, I would hear my name, ever so quietly, “Hal, come in for a moment.”

I would go in and sit on the edge of her bed. The room would be dark. If you had listened, you would have thought it was only friendly talk about life. But to this day, what she said comes back to my mind with the same power I feel when I read the transcript of my patriarchal blessing.

I don’t know what she was asking for in prayer as she waited for me those nights. I suppose it would have been in part for my safety. But I am sure that she prayed as a patriarch does before he gives a blessing. He prays that his words will come to the recipient as the words of God, not his. My mother’s prayers for that blessing were answered on my head. She is in the spirit world and has been for more than 40 years. I am sure she has been exceedingly glad that I was blessed, as she asked, to hear in her counsel the commands of God. And I have tried to go and do as she hoped I would.

In elementary school I was overweight. I remember stepping onto the scale every morning, praying that I had lost just one pound. Sometimes I came home in tears because of my schoolmates’ cutting remarks.
My older brother and sister, David and Shannon, also had their challenges. When David was one year old, he was severely burned. Scars covered his hands, arms, stomach, and legs. Shannon had a walking disability and was born with a slower mental capacity that often made her act younger than she was. Almost daily children at school made fun of them.
Despite their trials, my brother and sister looked to Christ in everything they did. Both of them served honorable missions. Their humility, constant faith, and perseverance provided wonderful examples. They are everything I want to become.
In this life we may be criticized and persecuted. That’s part of why we came here—to rise above the persecution and become stronger because of it. David, Shannon, and I are better people today for having been faithful in difficult experiences. I often say that everything given to us in life can be either a blessing or a curse. The strength of one’s heart determines which it is.

When I was called to serve as the Mia Maid adviser in the Young Women organization, I doubted that I could fill the calling. I didn’t think the girls would like me or learn anything from me, especially when I realized how different things are for them than they were when I was their age.
That feeling changed a few weeks into my calling when I attended a Young Woman event. At the event a mother expressed how grateful she was for the Young Women program because it strengthened her daughter against temptation. Her words helped me understand just how important my role really is.
I realized that my calling was about more than teaching lessons on Sundays and helping plan activities. It was a calling to help these young women prepare for the future—to go to the temple, serve in the Church, and be good mothers. I needed to help them prepare for life.

When members of the Loganholme Ward of the Beenleigh Stake were looking for a new way to love, share and invite, they took on a tech savvy project to help family history enthusiasts all over the world.
To get the ward members excited about the project, the Loganholme Ward leaders set a goal, to index 10,000 names from April to December 2022. Excitement spread like wildfire and by mid-August, the goal was reached and extended to 20,000.
This particular service project was chosen for a number of reasons, but mainly because it is accessible for a range of ages and skill levels. Early in in the challenge, the ward gathered and learned together how to access records and correctly assess and record the information. Due to the accessibility of this project and the training that was available, many individuals have joined the cause, from children, teens and adults.
According to one participant, “To see the range of ages come together in a common goal is an incredibly unifying experience.”
Through indexing, not only have people been able to link the generations of their family together, but they have also created a greater bond with their living family.
Every Thursday evening, ward members can gather at the chapel and work together, sharing knowledge and stories. Each participant can share their knowledge and wisdom with each other. Young children have been spotted helping older participants with technology as older participants share stories of days gone by and how the world has changed. Everyone can share their knowledge and ask questions if they need assistance, and the group celebrates individual successes together.
“Everyone involved has had such an amazing experience working on these records,” one observer said.
“Many are now finding the search for their ancestors addictive, spending their Sabbath researching for new clues and preparing family names for the temple.”
One of the local Church leaders commented, “What’s great about indexing is that anyone and everyone can participate regardless of your age or experience. Testimonies were strengthened, and an increased interest in temple and family history work was established.”

I was 13 when I found myself faced with what I felt was a no-win scenario. I had been friends with this girl for a few months. She was not a member of the Church, nor did she share all of our values of always striving to be Christlike. She preferred to settle her disagreements with her fists.

During lunch that day, I had been sitting quietly, listening to the conversation around me. Then my friend suddenly started bad-mouthing another friend of mine. This other friend I knew to be a nice, polite girl, who always tried to treat everyone kindly. My heart started to pound, sounding in my ears. I knew it wasn’t right for me to sit there and say nothing; so I spoke.

“Please don’t talk about her like that.”

My friend glared at me. “I can talk about her if I want,” she responded.

“I’m asking you not to,” I said a little louder.

That’s when she stood—face flushed and eyes wide. “You want to take this outside?” she snarled.

There I sat, unsure of how to keep one friend while defending another, who I knew didn’t deserve to have her reputation slandered.

I stood up to meet my friend’s eyes, praying that Heavenly Father would help me be a peacemaker.

I spoke calmly but sincerely. “You’re my friend,” I told her, “and it hurts me to hear you talk badly about another friend I care about.”

That was all it took. The wrinkles between her brows disappeared and her eyes softened. She shrugged, “Fine.” Then, she sat back down.

That may not have been our last disagreement, but that was the last time she ever wanted to fight me. I learned then that treating others as friends and fellow sons and daughters of our Heavenly Father is the right thing to do, no matter the situation. And I’m grateful for the example that our Savior, Jesus Christ, and the Prophet Joseph Smith set for me so that I could learn this for myself.

I have one such story in my legacy. Grandmother Eyring learned from a doctor in his office that she would die of stomach cancer. My father, her oldest son, had driven her there and was waiting for her. He told me that on the way home she said, “Now, Henry, let’s be cheerful. Let’s sing hymns.” They sang “O My Father” (Hymns, no. 292) and “Come, Come, Ye Saints,” where the last verse begins, “And should we die before our journey’s through” (Hymns, no. 30).

I wasn’t there, but I imagine they sang loudly—they didn’t have very melodic voices—with faith and no tears. She spent part of her last months in the home of her oldest child, her daughter. Aunt Camilla told me that Grandma complained only once, and then it was not really a complaint but just to say that it hurt.

Now, there are many people who have been cheerful and brave in the face of death. But it means far more to her family when the person has taught and testified of the power of the Savior to succor, of the sureness of the Resurrection, and of the hope of eternal life. The Spirit confirmed to me that Grandma’s peace and her courage were signs that her testimony was true, and because of that, all was well, all was well.

Rescue and Jessica: A Life-Changing Friendship, by Jessica Kensky and Patrick Downes, illustrated by Scott Magoon. Rescue is trained to be a seeing-eye dog. Then he finds out he’s better suited to become a service dog. He’s worried that he’s not up to the task. Then he meets his new owner, Jessica, who lost both of her legs in an accident. Despite both of their challenges, Rescue and Jessica learn to help each other find happiness.

One other early claim to the presidency came from James J. Strang. A convert of just four months, Strang claimed that Joseph Smith himself, a few weeks before his death, had ordained Strang to become the next president of the Church. Strang possessed a letter, allegedly written by the Prophet, supporting his claim, but the Twelve pronounced the letter a forgery, and historical investigations since that time have confirmed this opinion. Nevertheless, Strang continued in his claim and gathered a small group of followers to his settlement on Beaver Island, in Lake Michigan, where he pronounced himself a king. He ruled the colony until he was killed by one of his own people in 1856. Elder Lyman Wight also led away a group of members into Texas in a direct challenge to Brigham Young’s counsel.

Miles practiced magic tricks at home. He did the toothpaste trick one hundred and twenty times. He did the pigeon trick one hundred and fifty times. And he practiced the newspaper trick two hundred times. He felt he was ready to perform in front of his friends.
Miles took his magic kit to school for the talent show. But when it was time for the show to start Miles was scared. He decided that he didn’t want to do his tricks in front of everyone after all, for Miles was afraid of making a mistake. He pulled his invisible magician’s hat down low over his eyes.
The first performer was a boy who played the piano.
I could never do that, Miles thought. I’d play the notes wrong with everyone watching me.
But what about Miles the Mighty? he wondered. Miles swirled his invisible cape onto his shoulders and pretended, I, Miles the Mighty, will be a piano player. Then Miles’s fingers raced along the pretended piano keys until the whole class danced on the ceiling.
Next came a girl dressed like a roly-poly clown. “HO! HO! HO! HA! HA! HA!” she laughed.
Miles shrank into his seat. I could never do that, he thought. I’d lose my stomach stuffing with everyone watching me.
But what about Miles the Mighty? he thought again. Then he waved his invisible magic wand and pretended, I, Miles the Mighty, will turn into a clown. Miles the clown performed a very funny show. The children rolled with laughter on the floor.
Miles took off his invisible hat and cape and set down his invisible wand. He was so worried that his hands were getting wet. And his feet were getting jumpy.
A boy and girl were on stage now. They did acrobatic stunts. Miles felt his stomach churn. I could never do that, he thought. I’d get all tangled up with everyone watching me.
But what about Miles the Mighty? he asked himself, thinking great magical words of encouragement, I, Miles the Mighty, will be an acrobat. He stretched himself into stupendous shapes.
Just then he heard the teacher say, “It’s your turn, Miles.” She smiled at him.
He got up slowly and picked up his magic kit. His legs were wobbling. On the way to the front of the room he got the creepy-crawly shivers. What if I do something wrong? he worried. What if everyone laughs at me? What if I left my balloon at home or my milk or pigeon or newspaper?
On stage Miles opened his magic kit. Everything was there, even his stuffed pigeon. But his legs were still wobbling.
He took out his magician’s cape and hat. When he put them on, Miles the Mighty, magically tall, looked around the room.
He showed them a toothpaste tube. He blew a whistle and out came the toothpaste all by itself. Everyone clapped.
Next he poured milk into a rolled-up newspaper. He started to spill it on the teacher. But she didn’t get wet because the milk disappeared. Everybody whistled.
For his very best trick Miles blew up a balloon. Then he popped it and there sat a pigeon. Everybody cheered.
Miles the Mighty Magician bowed in thanks to all the boys and girls, who had really enjoyed his magic tricks.

He was not very refined or well educated. His big, round tummy and bald head were pretty intimidating to a skinny wisp of a girl like me, but I knew two things about Grandpa that made it easy to trust him and love him: I knew that he had a testimony of the gospel, and I knew that he thought that I was special.
I remember recognizing these two truths at the same time. Grandpa and Grandma had come to visit. Since we lived in different states, it was a special occasion and our daily routine changed. Sometimes we went on little day trips. Sometimes we looked up relatives I had never met before. But we always went to church.
One Sunday, I was sitting beside my grandpa when it was time to sing the opening hymn. I had just recently learned how to read well enough to follow the words in the hymnbook. I opened to the right page and offered to share the book with Grandpa. He held his half with his blunt fingers, which still showed the permanent stains of his years of working on truck engines. His hands were strong yet gentle.
When we started to sing, I forgot all about his hands. “‘Come, thou Fount of every blessing … ,”* he rumbled, with a surprisingly proper pronunciation. He was in perfect tune and sang with enthusiasm. I trebled along, and Grandpa smiled at me. After the song, he patted me on the knee.
We sang the sacrament song and the closing song, too, just as if we were the only two people in the room singing. I still remember the way it felt to sing with him. It was a warm, cozy peace that filled me up inside. I knew that Grandpa believed every word he sang.
Later, after we were home again and the dinner dishes were done, Grandpa called Grandma to the piano. “Will you please play ‘Come, Thou Fount of Every Blessing,’ Margaret,” he asked her. “Linda and I are going to sing.”
He explained to me how much he loved that song. He said that it was one he had learned just after he and his family joined the Church in England, and he had loved it ever since.
Then he said, “And now I can sing it with my granddaughter, who sings as pretty as the song.” I could have burst with joy!
Many times over the years, Grandpa and I sang that hymn together, sometimes on our own, sometimes with other family members joining in. As I grew up, I came to appreciate my special heritage of testimony and music. They have always been connected.
Grandpa may not have been rich or famous or handsome, but he loved me. He loved the gospel, and when we sang the hymns of Zion, I learned to love it, too.

I’d like to tell you about a woman who grew up in a room filled with darkness—I’ll call her Jane.

From the time Jane was three years old, she was repeatedly beaten, belittled, and abused. She was threatened and mocked. She awoke each morning not knowing if she would survive until the next day. The people who should have protected her were those who tortured her or allowed the abuse to continue.

In order to protect herself, Jane learned to stop feeling. She had no hope of rescue, so she hardened herself to the horror of her reality. There was no light in her world, so she became resigned to the darkness. With a numbness that can come only from constant and unrelenting contact with evil, she accepted the fact that any moment might be her last.

Then, at age 18, Jane discovered The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The joy and hope of the restored gospel penetrated her heart, and she accepted the invitation to be baptized. For the first time, light entered her life, and she saw a bright path before her. She left the darkness of her world and decided to attend school a great distance away from her abuser. At last she felt liberated from an environment of darkness and evil—free to enjoy the Savior’s sweet peace and miraculous healing.

However, years later, after her abuser had died, Jane was again troubled by the horrible events of her youth. Profound sadness and anger threatened to destroy the wonderful light she had found in the gospel. She realized that if she allowed that darkness to consume her, her tormentor would have a final victory.

She sought counseling and medical help and began to realize that, for her, the best path for healing was to understand and accept that darkness exists—but not to dwell there. For, as she now knew, light also exists—and that is where she chose to dwell.

Given her dark past, Jane could easily have become vindictive, venomous, or violent. But she didn’t. She resisted the temptation to spread the darkness, refusing to lash out in anger, hurt, or cynicism. Instead, she held fast to the hope that with God’s help she could be healed. She chose to radiate light and devote her life to helping others. This decision enabled her to leave the past behind and to step into a glorious, bright future.

She became a schoolteacher, and today, decades later, her love has influenced the lives of hundreds of children, helping them to know that they have worth, that they are important. She has become a tireless defender of the weak, the victimized, and the discouraged. She builds, strengthens, and inspires everyone around her.

Jane learned that healing comes when we move away from the darkness and walk toward the hope of a brighter light. It was in the practical application of faith, hope, and charity that she not only transformed her own life but forever blessed the lives of many, many others.