Gospel Story Finder

“Mother and Father packed our clothes, quilts, pots and pans, dishes, food, and everything else they could into the wagon. I put in my doll and helped with some of the smaller things. Father hitched the oxen to the wagon and we started on our long journey. I’d never seen oxen before. They looked like big brown cows to me.”
“When we first came to Utah, I helped Father and Mother plant the seeds in the ground. It took Father two days to break the hard ground before we could plant the seeds. All day we worked and dropped a seed at a time on the ground.”
“You wouldn’t remember because you were only a baby then and had just learned to walk,” Louisa answered quietly. “Anyway, when the new plants were just coming up, about this high,” Louisa measured with her fingers, “some crickets came and began eating them. More and more crickets came.”
Louisa continued her story. “Everyone got sticks and shovels and whatever they could find and began beating the crickets. But more crickets came. Finally, the people gave up. They couldn’t kill all the crickets. They were going to eat up all the food we planted.”
“Father and Mother and the rest of the people prayed to our Heavenly Father that the crops would be saved from the hungry crickets. And it wasn’t long until we were surprised to hear a noise in the sky. I looked up and saw sea gulls. At first they looked like more crickets. I hadn’t seen any sea gulls here before, although I used to watch them on the ocean before we came west in the wagon.”
“The sea gulls came to the ground and ate up the crickets,” Louisa continued. “No one had really noticed them in the valley before. Some people say they were here all the time. But I think Heavenly Father sent them to us when the people prayed. What do you think, Thomas?”

President Marion G. Romney, a former member of the First Presidency, told this story:
"A few years ago as I began to practice law, members of my family were a little uneasy. They were afraid I would lose my faith. I wanted to practice law, but I had an even greater desire to keep my testimony, and so I decided upon a little procedure which I recommend to you. For thirty minutes each morning before I began the day's work I read from the Book of Mormon--I also read from all the other standard works of the Church, but I am talking now about the Book of Mormon--and in just a few minutes a day I read the Book of Mormon through, every year, for nine years. I know that it kept me in harmony, so far as I did keep in harmony, with the Spirit of the Lord."[21]

Illustration by Julie Rogers
I was excited to participate in the Church’s 2016 “Light the World” Christmas campaign. I looked forward to completing the daily challenges, particularly for day five: “Jesus helped the sick, and so can you.”
That day I left work and walked through the gray city streets planning to visit my grandparents. I felt great. It was Christmastime and the world was beautiful. The peal of a charity bell rang through the air. As I neared the streetcar platform, the sound of the bell was drowned out by a homeless woman yelling at the bell ringer.
“You’re a fake!” she screamed. “I’m hungry, I’m cold, and you take it all for yourself! You’re a fake!”
Most people ignored her, and the bell ringer continued ringing his bell. I put my headphones on, but I could still hear the woman yelling, “You’re a fake! I’m hungry. I’m cold.”
I remembered I had a 20-dollar bill in my pocket. I considered giving it to the woman. “No,” I thought. “If I’m going to give this to someone, I should give it to someone nice.” Then the Spirit reminded me of the challenge and whom I was trying to be like. Jesus was the King of kings, yet He served the lowest of the low. I knew what I needed to do.
I walked toward the woman. She wasn’t yelling now, but her eyes were closed and tears ran down her cheeks. I took the 20-dollar bill from my pocket and handed it to her.
“Rough day?” I asked.
She looked up at me. “Yeah,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” I said. I wrapped my arms around her, and she cried into my shoulder until the streetcar came.
“Thanks,” the woman said when we said goodbye. “And not just for the money. Thanks for the hug. I needed a hug.”
Hugging a random person on the street was not something I had planned on doing, but I know it’s something Jesus would have done. I am grateful the Lord gave me the opportunity to serve as He would have. Jesus helped the sick, the poor, and the needy. So can I.

Oertli turned and looked back at the rapids. Another raft, the last of seven, was moving toward the head of the rapids. Oertli rowed to the slow water on the inside of a bend. He waved his arms at the other raft.
“Left, left,” he shouted.
His arms were wet, shining in the bright sunlight.
“He’s rowed here before a couple of times, but that’s a tricky spot. I told him about the two rocks. I hope he remembers.”
He wiped his hands on his legs.
“We’ll watch in case they run into trouble,” he said.
The other raft rose and dropped suddenly, vanishing below waves and then rising up again.
“He’s missed the first rock.”
Oertli stood on the supply box in the middle of the raft waving.
“Right, right,” he shouted. He stopped and stood silent. “He can’t hear me. He’s not rowing.”
A wave suddenly sprayed up in front of the other raft. Jerking back, it stopped, pinned against the rock. Water foamed around it in a wild swirl, tipping it forward. The current caught it, turned it, and pulled It from the rock and down the river, safe.
“Someone’s in the water,” Oertli yelled.
A small orange figure bobbed in front of the raft in white water.
“Row toward her,” Oertli yelled.
Small forms on the raft moved frantically. Out of control in the turbulence, the raft came sideways down the rapids, and the distance between it and the girl in the water grew as the river swept her downstream.
Oertli grabbed the oars again and rowed toward the shore.
“We’ll stop and pick her up when she comes by. If we pick her up now, she’ll be fine. She has her life jacket on, but the water’s cold.”
The shore came up fast.
“Doug, jump out and brake the raft with the rope when we get to the shore. The current’s strong here.”
Doug jumped into the water next to the shore, holding the rope, and fell. He braced himself. The rope grew taut and jerked him down into the water. He stood, getting his footing on slick rocks, then fell again.
The raft slowed and swung in against the shore. Doug stood and brought the raft to a stop.
“Get ready to push off when I say,” Oertli said. “This is why I make sure right at the first that everyone has a life jacket on and buckled. This is a good river. It’s safe, but you can never be too careful.”
He looked up the river. The girl was coming down fast.
“Get ready,” Oertli shouted.
The girl drifted closer.
“Now!” he yelled, grabbing the oars.
Doug pushed the raft into the current and jumped in. Pumping the oars in a rhythmic motion, Oertli brought the raft to the middle of the river. The girl drifted even with the raft about ten feet away. Someone threw her a rope. Oertli hit the water hard with the oars. The raft moved next to the girl and several hands pulled her from the water.
“Are you all right?” Oertli asked.
The girl nodded.
She was clenching her fists tight to her body, shivering. Water dripped from her hair down her face.
“Cold?” Oertli asked.
She nodded again.
“We’ll fix that,” he said.
“Doug, we’re going to pull in and stop.”
He pulled out a pile of waterproof bags and undid the straps on one. He unpacked a heavy wool sweater, a pair of pants, and a thick, down jacket.
“When we get to the shore, go back in the trees and put these on,” he said.
A few minutes later the girl returned.
“Are you okay now?”
She nodded.
“Warm enough?” Oertli asked smiling.
She managed a smile and nodded.
“I keep several sets of warm clothes just for this.”
He rowed to the fast current and leaned back, tipping his head up toward the sun. It was bright and hung low in the sky.
“We’ll be in camp in about an hour,” he said.

I can vividly recall a sunny Sunday afternoon in July 1959 when Pamela and I were walking and talking together. I was contemplating becoming a member of the Church through the ordinance of baptism. Pamela said, “I can’t remember the missionaries teaching you about tithing.”
“What is this tithing?” I asked.
Pamela responded that members give 10 percent of their income in obedience to God’s law and as an expression of their gratitude for all that our Heavenly Father has given them.
There have been a few moments in my life when I felt faint as a result of shock, and this was one of them. “Ten percent!” I echoed. “That’s impossible. There’s no way I could afford to pay tithing.”
Pamela calmly replied, “My father does. He has a wife and four children, and his income is less than yours.” She followed up by mentioning another family I had come to know in the branch, informing me that they lived on less money than I did and that there were six children in the family. This proved to be a useful challenge to me. If they could manage, I thought, then so could I.
Eleven years later, faced with a real test of my commitment to that law, I realized that through the payment of tithing great faith had developed. It was no longer simply a matter of money to me. In response to that test, I followed my faith and was blessed for it (see Mal. 3:10).

It was already a bustling, growing city when the Spencer family arrived. Thousands of people lived there, and more were coming every day. There were hundreds of log cabins and many brick homes. People were building, buying and selling, planting, working everywhere! Aurelia had never seen so many people—and most of them were Latter-day Saints.
Her family had rented a room until Papa could build a house for them. He had chosen a lot on a hill above the town, a little northeast of where the temple was being built.
Their lot, like most in Nauvoo, was big enough to plant a large garden and some fruit trees. Ellen and Aurelia had helped Papa plant the trees that first spring—peach and apple trees, Papa said, although they looked like twigs to Aurelia. She had asked Papa why he planted the tiny trees so far apart.
“They are small now,” he had said, “but if we want them to grow large and give fruit, they will need space to grow.” Aurelia had watched them grow until last year they had finally blossomed and borne fruit!
All of Nauvoo blossomed in the spring. The mud in the streets was deep enough to suck the boots right off your feet, but flowers and fruit trees bloomed in every yard. Aurelia wished she could see spring come to Nauvoo again. But the Prophet Joseph was dead, and soon his beautiful city would be deserted.
George had been too young to remember the first time he and Aurelia met the Prophet. Aurelia remembered it clearly. She had met a real, living prophet! He had come to their home to visit, and he limped very slightly when he walked, just like Papa! Papa told her later it was caused by the same illness that had caused his limp—typhus fever, which had settled in his leg.
Lucy was born there, and when Joseph saw her, he exclaimed, “Oh, what a little black head!” Even as a baby, Lucy’s hair was thick and dark. Joseph had laid his hand on Lucy’s head and blessed her. Aurelia had loved the Prophet from that moment. He was God’s own prophet and the most important man in Nauvoo, yet he loved little children and liked to be with them.
Aurelia shivered as she remembered the terrible day two years later, when Joseph and his brother Hyrum were killed by a mob in the nearby town of Carthage. Aurelia could scarcely believe that anyone could be so wicked as to kill a kind man like the Prophet.
Aurelia’s Papa had taken her to the Mansion House to see Joseph’s body. A great crowd was there, all crying and crowding to look. Aurelia couldn’t see, so Papa had lifted her up to the window from where she could see Brother Joseph one last time. That had been nearly two years ago.
Things had been hard since Joseph’s death. Nauvoo wasn’t allowed to use its police force, so bad men did what they wanted. They burned farms outside town and caused trouble in Nauvoo. Then some of the Latter-day Saint boys formed the “Whittling and Whistling Brigade.” When one of the bad men came to town, the boys followed him everywhere, whistling and whittling pieces of wood with their pocketknives. There were too many boys for the man to fight, and they wouldn’t let him out of their sight long enough for him to do anything bad, so finally he would leave and look for mischief someplace else. Howard and George couldn’t wait to join the brigade, but they were only six and four then, and Mama wouldn’t let them use her knives to learn to whittle. They practiced whistling, however. Finally, though, even the brave boys couldn’t keep the bad men away.
Aurelia squeezed George’s hand and pointed to show him the temple across the river. Even on this cold, gray day, the tall building seemed to shine on the hill. She remembered when its roof had caught fire one day. She lived only a block away and had run with a bucket of water to help fight the fire. It had been put out, and work on the temple had continued. Just two months ago, Mama and Papa had gone to the temple to be sealed together. Mama said that that was the hardest part of leaving Nauvoo—leaving the temple they’d worked so hard to build. It still wasn’t quite finished. “Heaven only knows when we’ll have a temple again,” Mama had said. “We’ve been blessed to have this one.”
Aurelia looked to the left of the temple to see if their house was visible from here. She couldn’t see it. But she did see Mary Ann Stearn’s house. Mary Ann and her cousin Ellen Pratt were Aurelia’s best friends. They had gone to school together and played together. Aurelia stared at Mary Ann’s house, but she knew that Mary Ann wasn’t there. She, too, was going west with her family. Aurelia wondered if they’d meet again on the way to the Rocky Mountains. Oh, she hoped so! It was hard leaving everything and everyone to travel to a strange land. Why shouldn’t the bad men have to leave instead? It wasn’t fair to be forced to leave friends, homes, gardens, orchards, the temple!
Thinking of Mary Ann made Aurelia remember something else. At the last general conference, in October, Mary Ann’s stepfather, Parley P. Pratt had spoken to the Saints. People had crowded into the temple to listen. Elder Pratt spoke about how hard the Saints had worked to build a beautiful city and temple and how hard it was to leave it all behind. But the Lord had other plans for this people, Elder Pratt had said. He explained that a small nursery could produce many thousands of fruit trees, but that as they grew, they must be transplanted. They need room to grow if they are to produce fruit. He promised that the Lord had a place for the Saints to grow, where they wouldn’t be crowded and where they would enjoy liberty and equal rights.
Aurelia knew that it was true. She thought of those tiny twigs of fruit trees she and Ellen and Papa had planted. She had seen them grow and blossom and produce sweet fruit. It was hard to leave Nauvoo, but it was time to be transplanted to a place where she and her family and all the Saints could grow strong and bloom.
Aurelia murmured, “Farewell, Nauvoo,” and turned with George to face the west. It would be a long journey to the Rockies, but she had her family and the true gospel. She was ready.
In February 1846, more than three thousand Latter-day Saints fled nauvoo, crossing the Mississippi River into Iowa. Many left without adequate food and shelter, and suffered terribly from cold and hunger.
One of those Saints was Aurelia Spencer. When her family had traveled only thirty miles, Aurelia’s mother died. The grieving family returned to Nauvoo to bury her before continuing their journey west.
Aurelia’s father, Orson, was called to preside over the Church in Great Britain, so she, her three sisters, and her two brothers spent the next winters in Winter Quarters with only kind neighbors to keep an eye on them. During the first, harsh, winter, their horse and seven of their eight cows died. Most of the money their father sent never reached them, and they suffered great poverty.
They left for the Salt Lake Valley in May 1848 with President Brigham Young’s company. In the Valley, they lived in a log room their uncle built for them, until their father’s return.
In 1851 Aurelia married Thomas Rogers. They settled in Farmington, sixteen miles north of Salt Lake City. There Aurelia gave birth to twelve children, only seven of whom lived to adulthood.
Concerned because Farmington’s boys were often getting into mischief, Aurelia asked Eliza R. Snow, the sister of Lorenzo Snow, if there should not be an organization to help little boys grow into good men. Sister Snow relayed the suggestion to the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, the governing body of the Church following the death of Brigham Young. John Taylor, the President of the Quorum, gave his approval, and Sister Rogers was called upon to organize and serve as the president of the first Primary in the Church. She wisely decided that girls should also be part of the organization, and the first Primary was held in Farmington Ward on August 25, 1878.

1828–1905
“Nothing other than pure devotion to [my] faith has brought me here.”
He was a M?ori chief in New Zealand.
When missionaries came to their country, he and his wife, Mere, joined the Church.
He went to Utah to do temple work for his people.
He went back to New Zealand as a missionary. He did family history work there and taught the gospel.
As quoted in the Salt Lake Tribune, July 20, 1894, 8.

My father seldom went to church, even though his family had been members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints for seven generations. He and my grandfather worked together to build roads in the Mojave Desert, so my father was away from home much of the time. When I was eight months old, my mother died, and I went to live with my mother’s parents, Grandpa and Grandma Baird.
Then my father remarried, and when I was seven, we moved from California to Manti, Utah. There we lived on a big dairy farm. Most important, my Grandma and Grandpa Giles (my new mother’s parents) and several aunts and uncles and their families lived there, too. They were active in the Church, and for the first time in my life, I saw people praying and studying the scriptures in their homes.
One of the people who influenced me most was my Uncle Jimmy. He was 13, just six years older than I was, and he became like my older brother. Uncle Jimmy was lots of fun. He’d hook up a sled to our big dog, Tony, and take me for a ride over the ice and snow.
At Christmastime, we often went together to hunt for a Christmas tree. After finding the right tree, we cut it down and brought it home. Grandmother popped lots of popcorn for us to string and gave us colored paper to make into ornaments.
One of my jobs was to help Uncle Jimmy on his delivery rounds in the milk truck. One of my older uncles drove, and we would run to the doorstep of each house, pick up the empty milk bottles, and leave full bottles in their place.
Wherever Uncle Jimmy went, I went. And since Uncle Jimmy went to church, so did I. Sundays started awfully early. First I went out to help feed and milk the cows. Then I came home, cleaned up, and dressed for church. I didn’t own a suit, but my mom and dad made sure my best clothes were clean. When I turned eight, I was baptized by my Uncle Grant.
After Grandpa Giles died, there was arguing about how to operate the farm. Eventually the family business fell apart, and my family moved to Kaysville, Utah.
When I was 14, our family moved back to Manti. I had a bedroom upstairs, and my only window faced the Manti Temple. I spent a lot of nights looking at the temple, wondering what my future would hold.
When I was in my late teens, I began to think about serving a mission. By then, my father had died and my mother didn’t have very much money. I felt a lot of pressure to stay home and help my mother. Then one night I went up into the hayloft to think and pray. There I had a clear and strong impression: I needed to serve a mission.
That was the best decision I had ever made. It changed my life. Doctrine and Covenants 31:5 became a guide: “Therefore, thrust in your sickle with all your soul, and your sins are forgiven you, and … your family shall live.” I decided to trust that the Lord would take care of my family while I worked hard on my mission. And the Lord was faithful to His promise. My mother was well taken care of while I was away.
While I was on my mission, I traveled for a few days with Elder Spencer W. Kimball, then of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. I was his temporary driver and companion. It was the first time I had been so close to an Apostle of the Lord. I heard him pray and testify. I saw what he focused on, what he talked about, and what he was like when he was not in public. I saw how he treated other people and how thoughtful he was of their needs. I decided that this was the kind of man I wanted to become.
Boys and girls, if you do good things on your own, your parents will eventually praise you for it. In part because of my mission, my mother became active in the Church. Honoring your parents doesn’t always mean doing exactly what they do. It means doing what Heavenly Father wants you to do. Even if your mom and dad don’t go to church, you still can. Even if they don’t keep the Word of Wisdom, you still can. If you will stand on your own two feet and be good, you will bring great honor to your parents’ name.

I shall never forget one night almost four decades ago. My bride, Patricia, and I had been married for two years. We lived in a small duplex on Oahu’s north shore. I was an army infantry officer assigned to a unit at Schofield Barracks, Hawaii. Our brigade had been ordered to war in Vietnam. My plane was scheduled for departure after midnight, and a good Latter-day Saint friend had agreed to take me to the airfield at 11:00 p.m.
All through that long evening, Pat and I sat on the sofa in our tiny living room with our fingers intertwined, watching the hands of the clock approach the fateful hour and listening to the soft lapping of the surf against the shore. The ticking of the clock seemed a metronome of mortality in painful contrast to the muffled rushing of the eternal sea. At last the hour of parting arrived. Inside the doorway to our little home, I clutched my bride to my bosom and kissed her one last time, and then I was gone. As I closed the door, I wondered if I had seen my sweetheart for the last time in mortality. It was truly night.
My friend and I drove silently in the darkness through the sugar cane and pineapple fields of Oahu. My heart felt as though it would break. Then as we passed Schofield, an unseen infantry unit on night maneuvers fired a flare. Its brilliance momentarily lit the inky darkness and seemed to ignite a spiritual flame in the blackness that invested my soul. My thoughts were drawn away from this saddest of days to the very happiest: back to that beautiful December day when Pat and I had entered the holy temple and there were sealed to each other, not just for this life only but for all eternity. I thought of the eternal covenants we had made. Like the sunrise, it dawned on me that no matter what happened in the uncertain future just ahead, Pat would always be mine. When I reached the air base, I telephoned her. In the spirit of a renewed hope and peace born of faith and understanding, we talked and laughed softly before once more bidding each other good-bye. It was only midnight, but for me the sun was already rising.

It really is hard to not categorize others. Not long ago, a man outside the Hau’ula 7-Eleven asked my wife and I for some money. She apologized and said we didn’t have any cash but would get him some food if he liked. He declined her offer with an “it’s okay aunty.” I didn’t think anything more of this exchange. However, when we returned to the car, my wife immediately started searching through all the compartments for loose change. When I asked why she was going to all this trouble, she looked at me and asked, “Do you know whose son that is?” I didn’t, but upon learning who he was, a fond memory of his father quickly came to mind, and I immediately began searching through my wallet for anything I could give him.

Brothers and sisters, we may not have any fond memories or associations with the parents or families of those whom we are in contentious relationships with, but we do know that we have the same Heavenly Father who loves us; and we do know that we have the same Older Brother in who atoned for all of our sins. And we can be very certain that both our Heavenly Father and our Savior Jesus Christ are grieved when they see us “condemn, malign, and vilify” each other. [24]

When my older brother Andy passed away from bone cancer at age 15, I felt like a part of me also died. The week after Andy’s death, I felt sick. I couldn’t sleep. Sometimes I felt like I couldn’t breathe.
Andy and I never got along. I was the one Andy always picked on. In response to his endless teasing, I did my best to be the most annoying little brother around. So why did I feel so horrible when Andy wasn’t here anymore?
At night I spent hours tossing, turning, and staring at the ceiling. Thoughts of Andy kept going through my mind. My 12th birthday would be in a few days. I wasn’t a baby anymore, but after a short prayer, I felt Mom would know what to do.
“Mom,” I said as I gently shook her awake. “I can’t sleep. I have a headache, and it’s hard for me to breathe.”
Mom didn’t know what to say. She had lost a son a few days before. I could tell by her bloodshot eyes and sad face that she wasn’t too excited about my new problem. “We’ll visit the doctor tomorrow morning. OK, Steve?”
Morning came. My brothers and sister went to school while Mom and I left to see Dr. Freestone. He was familiar with us. With Andy, we had a family of six active boys and one girl. Dr. Freestone was the one to put arms in casts and stitch us up. He had a way of making things right.
I had visited the doctor’s office several times; the visits were not good memories. I looked around the room uneasily. Finally the doctor came.
“Hi, Steven, what seems to be the problem?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I have headaches, and sometimes I can’t breathe at night,” I mumbled.
“How long have you been feeling like this?” he asked.
“It’s been about a week,” I answered slowly.
He conducted his examination and asked many questions. After several tests, the doctor sat down. He studied his notes and then looked at me for a few seconds before he spoke. “Steven, I can’t find anything wrong with you,” he said. “You say you’ve had headaches though?”
I nodded.
“What have you been thinking about when you get these headaches?” he asked.
As I thought about the question, tears welled up in my eyes. “Well, I am usually thinking about Andy.”
“Do you miss Andy?”
I had to nod. I couldn’t speak, and my eyes had turned into waterfalls. Mom also started to cry. Dr. Freestone, getting a little teary himself, said something I’ll never forget.
“You know, Steven, Andy loves you. And just because you can’t see him anymore doesn’t mean he isn’t there. Andy is happy where he is right now, and I know he wants you to be happy too.”
Everything he said made perfect sense to me. I needed to remember that I didn’t really lose my brother. He would still be with me in spirit. Mom put her arm around me as we said thank you to Dr. Freestone, wiped our tears, and went on our way.
I had always believed in the plan of salvation, but at that moment it became real to me. I would see Andy again.
I had never even thought I liked Andy, but as soon as he was gone, I missed him more than anything.
I slept that night knowing that Andy loved me and wanted me to be happy—just as he was.

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.

When Tyler was four, he loved listening to the piano and wanted to start taking lessons. As soon as he grew tall enough for his feet to reach the pedals, he started playing the organ. He loves it!
Tyler wakes up at 5:30 every morning so he can play the organ at the Church building before school. Once Tyler got to play “We Thank Thee, O God, for a Prophet” on the Tabernacle organ on Temple Square.
Tyler also plays the prelude music for sacrament meeting. He says, “Playing music makes me happy because when I go on my mission, I’ll be able to play.”

In recent months, I have been frequently reminded of an experience that occurred when I was about the age of most of you. I was in the early days of my missionary service in Scotland with Elder Lloyd and some others, and a mission-wide meeting was called because President Henry D. Moyle of the First Presidency and the-then junior member of the Quorum of the Twelve, Elder Gordon B. Hinckley, were going to be visiting. My journal entry of that event was very sparse, and I confess that I probably missed much of what was taught and explained. I do remember, however, a couple of things that I will share as I attempt to say something of value to you today.
First, we all felt a clear manifestation of the Spirit in that meeting. I don't know that anyone saw angels or had dramatic manifestations of any sort. I do know that we felt something special in the meeting, a confirmation that what we were being taught was true and that the testimonies born by our leaders were authentic.
Elder Hinckley used as the text for his message the fourth chapter of the book of 1 Timothy. While I do not have a copy of his talk and I think he did not speak from more than a few notes, his message that day was and continues to be a blessing to me.

Some years ago in the early spring, I took my little niece Shelly’s hand in mine, and for hours we carefully picked our way from one rock to the next along a creek bed shaded by some tall trees. The gurgling water was like a musical accompaniment to the dance we were creating, as we would take a step, hesitate, reach, step forward, and then wait a moment to secure our balance.

Before long, we were drawn to an open meadow where some large cottonwood trees had been recently cut. Making my way through the tall grass, I held Shelly’s hand as she cautiously placed one foot ahead of the other, walking the full length of the tree and back again. We noticed in that springtime tender green shoots forcing their way through the earthly floor, and we saw the winter snow receding toward the mountain peaks. It seemed as though all of nature bore evidence of God’s creations and his great love for us.

Our afternoon activities continued until the evening breeze reminded us that our special day was coming to a close.

Approaching the narrow, steep garden path leading to my home, I let go of Shelly’s hand, allowing her to go first. Our hands stuck together for a moment. A bond had formed from the warmth of the day through our shared adventures.

Just before reaching the clearing near the house, we stopped. Bending down, I lifted Shelly up to see into a little nest built by a robin in the branch of a tree.

At the close of this memorable day, before tucking my little niece (whom my sister shares with me) into bed, we knelt together while she expressed her own thanks which included gratitude for the creek, the slippery rocks, the big tree, and the robin’s nest. Feeling a renewed appreciation for the same wonderful blessings, I tucked the covers around her and bent down for a goodnight kiss. Reaching up, placing both arms around my neck, and pulling me close to her, Shelly whispered, “I wish we were in the same family.”

“Shelly, my dear,” I quickly explained, “we are in the same family.”

“No, I mean the very same family. My last name is Larsen and your last name is Kapp, and that isn’t the same. I mean, if you were my sister and we had the very same last name.”

Even though she was very young, I felt that she might sense security in our eternal relationship if I could somehow awaken within her a great eternal truth.

“Shelly, we really are in the very same family. You see, we are all our Heavenly Father’s children, every one of us, and that makes us members of one great family. We are brothers and sisters, and Jesus is our brother, too, our elder brother.”

“Then what is Jesus’ last name?” she asked.

“Shelly, we know our Savior as Jesus the Christ.” With the pure innocence of youth, she began to make us all one family by linking my first name with the surname “The Christ.”

“Oh, no, my dear! We don’t put our names together like that.”

“But why not?” she asked. Wanting her to be aware of the sacredness of our relationship with the Savior, I tried to explain: “I guess maybe it’s because sometimes we are not good enough. I don’t feel worthy yet.”

With that, she raised up on her elbow. “What do you do that’s wrong? Why don’t you stop doing it, and then we can all be in the same family? We can all use His name.”

I pondered the answer to her simple questions. I heard in my mind words as though I was hearing them for the first time. And yet, it had been only two days since I had attended sacrament meeting where I had listened to the same words. I had heard them with my ears so often before, but now it seemed different. It was as though I was hearing them with my whole heart and soul: “… that they are willing to take upon them the name of thy Son, and always remember him and keep his commandments which he has given them …” (D&C 20:77).

Wasn’t this the very thing that we were talking about—the responsibility of taking upon ourselves that sacred name and committing to try always to remember Him and keep His commandments?

While Shelly seemed secure and satisfied with the explanation given her at that time, over the years I have searched for deeper understanding of this sacred ordinance in which we renew our covenant each week to take upon ourselves His name. And while that usually occurs on Sunday, what does it mean on weekdays, and what difference does it make to a child, a youth, or an adult? Does it affect how we live our lives in the summer, winter, or fall? Should it? Can we afford to consider this sacred ordinance passively and allow it to become routine in nature?

I would now say to Shelly, “Yes, my dear, put my name with the Savior’s.” He said we could. He wants us to. He wants us to feel comfortable carrying his name.

As I held Shelly’s little hand in mine for one last squeeze before tiptoeing from her room that evening some years ago, a feeling of gratitude and reverence came flooding forth as I realized that while her hand had been in mine for most of the afternoon as I helped her through the creek, across the rocks, and over the tree and lifted her up to see the miracle of life unfolding in a robin’s nest, this child led me to begin a search that would lead me to a better understanding of a great eternal truth. King Benjamin explained it for us: “And now, because of the covenant which ye have made ye shall be called the children of Christ, his sons, and his daughters; for behold, this day he hath spiritually begotten you; for ye say that your hearts are changed through faith on his name; therefore, ye are born of him and have become his sons and his daughters” (Mosiah 5:7).

We can all be members of the same family. If you’re doing something you shouldn’t, consider Shelly’s question to me: Why don’t you stop? It may not always be easy, but with his help we can overcome.

Each year the young men and young women from my ward take a caroling trip to a home for people with mental disabilities who don’t have families to take care of them. One year, the youth were split into three groups to sing carols to the residents. My group sang to a few older men, who sang along with us. One even helped conduct the songs!
After we finished singing to them, we joined another group of youth who were singing to women ranging in age from young adults to the elderly. Most of the people in our audience were smiling, and some were even singing along. We felt the Spirit as we saw the joy on their faces. They were so happy to have us there, because some of the residents had families who never visited them, even during the holidays.
After we finished our last song, our ward’s Young Women president told one of the elderly women that it was her turn. This woman had a song she liked to sing to every group that visited, and she was eager to share it with us.
As she began to sing her song, the Spirit in the room grew stronger with every word. Soon, some of the other women began to join in. I felt tears come to my eyes as we listened.
I doubt anyone in the room could deny that the Holy Ghost was present. We left with a reverent attitude and with a strong feeling of gratitude for the opportunity to serve.

The cooperative effort of both priesthood and Relief Society in these councils continues to be a significant factor in successful ward and stake welfare services operations. Such cooperation was exemplified recently when a flood swept over many of the homes in an Ogden, Utah, stake. The stake president reported, “The stake Relief Society president didn’t wait for me to go to her. She came to me first.”
At his direction, she mobilized the sisters and obtained food for the victims and their rescuers. She quickly set up serving areas in mobile “kitchens” improvised in vans and station wagons, taking hot, home-cooked food to the actual work sites. As the flood waters receded, men and women worked together to clean muddy walls and floors.

Illustration by Vlad Gusev
I was in the middle of the Forbidden City in Beijing, China. Only minutes before, I had been surrounded by friends and teachers, but I was suddenly completely and utterly alone.
I immediately understood the danger I was in. A solitary 15-year-old American stood out like a sore thumb in the bustling palace museum. I had come to China with other high school classmates on a school-sponsored trip, and our teachers and guides had warned us numerous times about the possible dangers of touring a foreign country if we were not careful.
I walked around the area, pushing through crowds of tourists—Chinese and foreigner alike—and stood on my tiptoes trying to look for the matching red and white shirts that each member of our group wore. But I saw nothing. Somehow, my group had slipped away without me and I had no idea what direction they had gone in. I sat down and watched the entrances and exits. Ten minutes passed, then 30, then 45. No one from my group appeared.
Someone grabbed my hand. I looked up to see a short woman with slightly crazed eyes and long fingernails. She pulled at my hand. “Follow me,” she said in broken English. “Pretty girl, follow me.”
I felt a sinking feeling in my stomach. “Get back,” I yelled, pulling my hand back. Before she could grab it again, I raced through an exit and entered another section of the city.
I ran for a while until I was even more lost than before. I sat on a nearby step, away from the groups of people, and started to cry. I knew a few words of Chinese but certainly not enough to get directions back to our hotel, somewhere on the other side of the sprawling city of Beijing. And at this point, I was not even sure where an exit was.
Amid tears, I started to pray. I admitted that I had been foolish to wander from the group, even for a moment, and I pleaded with Heavenly Father to help me find a way back to my group.
I stood up and walked back in the general direction I had come from. I did not receive any immediate revelation—and I was unsure of what that revelation would sound or feel like even if I did receive it. I had felt the Spirit before, a warm feeling after serving someone or hearing a talk in church, but I had never felt anything specific—certainly not directions on where to go. I started walking forward uncertainly, continuing the prayer in my heart.
I finally reached a fork in the road. I started to go right when I heard a voice whisper, “Stay.”
The voice was so soft that I almost disregarded it completely as one of my own thoughts. But it contained a sureness that I certainly didn’t feel at the moment. “Sit on that bench,” the voice said. I looked up and saw a bench in the middle of the fork. I went over and sat down. Only three minutes later, a familiar white and red shirt appeared in the crowd and waved toward me. It was our tour guide for the day.
I jumped up from the bench I was sitting on. I was so happy I almost hugged the woman.
“We have been looking for you for an hour!” she said. “Where were you?”
As she led me back to my group, I explained to her where I had been, starting with my separation from the group and ending with my decision to sit down instead of going right at the fork in the road.
“You’re very lucky,” she said. “If you had gone right at that turn, it would have taken you in the opposite direction from the rest of the group. The city is so big, I would never have been able to find you.”
I left China a few weeks later, managing to not get lost again during the trip, but I have thought back many times to the moment when I heard the voice of the Spirit whisper to me. It was not the kind of prompting I had received before, but it is what the Lord knew I needed in order to avoid going down a wrong path. I also recognized how easy it would have been to ignore it if I had not been listening.
Since that day, I have heard the Spirit many times in many different ways, warning me of both physical and spiritual danger. Sometimes I have seen the consequences of following or disobeying that voice like I did that first day in the Forbidden City. More often, I haven’t been able to see the results. But I have learned that when I humble myself and am willing to listen, the Lord will help me recognize the Spirit’s promptings and He will guide me back to where I need to be. With Him, I am never alone.
The author lives in Utah, USA.

John Wooden was perhaps the greatest college basketball coach in the history of the game. He had four full undefeated seasons. His teams won 10 national championships. At one point, he had a streak of 88 consecutive wins.
One of the first things Coach Wooden drilled into his players was something his father had taught him when he was a boy growing up on a farm. “Don’t worry much about trying to be better than someone else,” his father said. “Learn from others, yes. But don’t just try to be better than they are. You have no control over that. Instead try, and try very hard, to be the best that you can be. That you have control over.”

Many of you have filled missions. Many of you are thinking about it. One of our nephews wrote a letter home from the mission field. He and his companion were in one of these situations where two young Mormon elders had come up against a very professional scholar of the Bible, one who really knew how to spell Haggai, for example, or who knew where to find Lamentations sandwiched in there in the Old Testament.

They finally had the man convinced that he ought to read the Book of Mormon. He read the Book of Mormon, and they came back to talk to him about it. He didn’t know what to do. He really understood the Bible, but there was this other book that he didn’t know what to do with. As he began to give way to that feeling, confusion took over; darkness and depression enveloped him. The missionaries decided to give him a blessing, and the feeling lifted.

As they were marveling about this, there came a knock at the door, and two other missionaries from another church (that some of you may have tangled with) were there. They were invited in, and the man excitedly told them what happened to him. Immediately there was rancor. The two other missionaries began to protest: “There is no revelation and there is no other word but the Bible.” Well, the whole tone of the gathering had changed. The missionaries kept very quiet. They knew when they were being intimidated. Then, as this nephew wrote home, he said, “Suddenly, as I sat there, I found myself praying to Heavenly Father. We had a golden prospect, someone that we really had in the palm of our hand for the kingdom. Why should I be sitting there intimidated?”

A little warm feeling began to creep in him: “We have the truth; they don’t.” So then he turned his thinking around and prayed, “Heavenly Father, help me, help me, guide me.” And the little warm feeling grew and became a big feeling, he said, and “I felt the Spirit grow within me until I took courage.” This young elder then spoke forth with power of the Spirit, ending by saying, “Why don’t we all kneel in prayer?”

They did and before he could pray one of those other missionaries prayed in a boisterous, multiplying-words manner. The Spirit didn’t change much. Then this young, comparatively inexperienced Mormon elder who felt the Spirit grow within him moved forward prepared now, took his turn. It was a gentle prayer—a prayer of thanksgiving for a prophet today, for an additional witness that Christ is the Redeemer, for a gospel that gives people answers when they need them. The prayer was over, the others quickly left, and the investigator made plans to join the Church.