Gospel Story Finder

Of the Kenya experience, senior missionaries, Elder and Sister Moyers said, “We experienced that unexpected and drastic change presses on our emotions, intellect, and especially our faith in our purpose . . . Being relocated is either a blessing or a challenge, and each missionary has the agency to choose which it will be for him or her.”
The Moyers served as member-leader support missionaries and helped to build the Church from within. President Dudfield said, “We learned the significant value of missionary service and the great value of senior couples. This is a call for those willing and able to serve. It changes your life.”

“How long is it until my birthday?” Jonathan asked Mother one cold, snowy day when he couldn’t go outside to play.
“Four months,” Mother said. “Why?”
“Oh, I just wondered. How long is it until Susan’s birthday?”
“Don’t you remember? Susan’s birthday was just last month,” Mother said. “It will be eleven months before she has another one.”
“Oh,” Jonathan said. “Christmas was last month too.” He sighed as he walked down the hall. More than anything, he liked times like Christmas and birthdays.
“I like getting presents,” Jonathan told his dog, Wags, when he got to his room. “I like giving presents too. I wish today was Christmas or a birthday so we could have presents.”
Suddenly Jonathan realized that he hadn’t asked Mother about her birthday or Dad’s. He ran back to the kitchen.
“No,” said Mother, looking up from the big pot of soup she was stirring. “Neither Dad nor I have one today. Why do you keep asking about birthdays?”
“Oh, I just like them.” Jonathan trudged back to his room. He opened the bottom drawer of his dresser, where he kept his special treasures. “If it was Mother’s birthday,” he told Wags, “I could make her a crayon print with these leaves I saved. Mother liked the crayon print I made her at kindergarten. She liked it a lot.
“If it was Dad’s birthday,” he told Wags, “I could give him this nice block of wood I found in the park last week. Dad’s always looking for wood that he can carve into animals.
“If it was Susan’s birthday,” he told Wags, “I could give her five of my best marbles. They would look very pretty at the bottom of her fish tank.”
Jonathan gave a deep, big sigh. “Oh, Wags,” he said, “I do wish it was someone’s birthday, or Christmas, or any day at all when I could give a present!”
Then he smiled, “Maybe, just maybe, today is a day when I can give presents. He grinned a big grin. “Yes, it is!” he told Wags. Then he went to work.
First, he put his pretty leaves under a sheet of paper. Carefully he rubbed across the paper with red and yellow and orange crayons.
Next, he took out the block of wood and wiped it with tissue paper so that it would be nice and clean for Dad to carve.
Finally, he counted out five of his prettiest marbles.
“It’s time for dinner,” Mother called.
Jonathan carried his presents to the dinner table and placed them beside the right plates.
“Presents for everyone!” he exclaimed when Dad and Mother and Susan sat down.
“But it isn’t our birthdays,” said Mother. “I told you that.”
“And it isn’t Christmas,” Susan and Dad said at the same time.
“No, it isn’t a birthday or Christmas,” Jonathan said. “It’s another special day I thought of—it’s today! And I decided that today was the best day for giving ‘just because I like you’ presents!”
“What a lovely idea,” Mother said. “As soon as we’ve eaten, I’ll hang up this picture where we can all enjoy it.”
Dad said, “This block of wood is just the kind I like for carving.”
Susan said, “The marbles are really pretty. Thank you, Jonathan.”
Jonathan was smiling from ear to ear. He had more treasures in his bottom drawer, and lots of friends he could give presents to on another “just because I like you” day.

When the full-time missionaries started teaching us, I was skeptical and my husband was contentious. We didn’t really want to hear the gospel, but they were so determined to teach us that we knew they wouldn’t give up.
One Saturday night my husband, Javier, and I attended a party that lasted late into the night. Because we were up so late, we slept in and forgot about the invitation from the missionaries to attend church with them the next day.
When we heard them knocking on our door Sunday morning, Javier and I said to each other, “Let’s pretend we’re still asleep and ignore them.”
But the missionaries kept knocking. Finally they called out, “Brother and Sister Vasquez, we know you’re there. If you don’t open the door, we might just jump over your wall and help you get ready for church!”
We knew they were joking, but we decided to get up, open the door, and pretend we hadn’t heard them. We came out rubbing our eyes as if we had just woken up. They knew we were faking it, but they didn’t say anything.
“As soon as you’re ready,” they said, “we’ll go to the chapel.”
We got ourselves and our two children ready, and off we went. At church that day we were touched by the Holy Ghost. From then on, we never missed a meeting. The day we were baptized, October 17, 1976, was the happiest day of our lives. Becoming members of the Church totally changed us.

“Twelve years old—my first Church calling,” remembers Elder Robert S. Wood of the Second Quorum of the Seventy. “I was asked to be the music director in Mutual.” But he had to overcome two difficulties: one, he couldn’t sing; and two, he didn’t know anything about music. “The Young Women president took me aside and said, ‘Okay, Robert—one, two, three, four.’” His arm sweeps the air in four-four time as he recounts the story. “And so I learned how to do it.”

Michael, oldest of the three, says, “In church, everybody talks about saving money for a mission, but because the wall was up, none of the younger people believed we would be able to go on missions.”
“My parents taught me to save money to go on a mission,” says Matthias, “and I did it, too. But I never really thought I’d be able to go.” His patriarchal blessing did say he would serve a mission, but he assumed it would be later in life. When he served as a stake missionary at the open house prior to the temple dedication, Matthias thought maybe that was the fulfillment of the blessing.
Peter was the first to submit his mission papers. Matthias and Michael followed soon after. All three were called to missions in the United States: Michael in the Tennessee Nashville Mission, Matthias in the Idaho Boise Mission, and Peter in the Colorado Denver Mission.

For my whole life I prayed that my father would become a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Even as a young girl, I knew how many blessings he could receive. Our family could receive the blessings of being sealed for eternity. My family, friends, and I prayed often for him, but he didn’t join the Church. Heavenly Father does not force anyone to make a choice. He can send us answers to our prayers in other ways.

When I was old enough, I received my patriarchal blessing. In the blessing, the patriarch told me the best thing I could do to help my family be together in heaven was to be an example of the gospel of Jesus Christ. That’s what I could do!

My father lived to be 86. Five days after he died, I received a sacred feeling of joy. Heavenly Father let me know through His Spirit that my father wanted to receive the blessings of the gospel of Jesus Christ! I will never forget the day I knelt around the altar in the temple with my sister and brothers to be sealed to my parents. I had started praying for this blessing when I was in Primary, and I received it when I was a grandmother.

Rathen: Going to Camp Tatiyee gave me the chance to reflect on the many gifts I have been given from my Heavenly Father. I had never really thought about how blessed we truly are in our lives. The men and women at Camp Tatiyee were great examples to me of how to take on the challenges of life and truly love it.
In preparing for my mission, this experience has helped me see what is truly important—to be happy and positive about every opportunity, even in the midst of trials. We can all learn from our trials if we face them with a good attitude and a smile on our face.

Brigham Young sent several messengers to Washakie to assure him that the members of the Church were willing to assist the Shoshones in learning to raise crops. One of the messengers, James S. Brown, recorded the meeting with Chief Washakie. He said that they were taken to the chief’s lodge and invited to sit with a group of tribal leaders. Brother Brown read a letter from Brigham Young, proposing to furnish seed and tools and some men to demonstrate how to plant and cultivate. He also presented the group with a copy of the Book of Mormon. The leaders passed the book around the circle and declared that it was of no use to them. Washakie let the council members speak and waited until they were finished talking. Then he reached for the book, leafed through it, and spoke to his group.
You are all fools; you are blind and cannot see; you have no ears, for you do not hear; … These men are our friends. The great Mormon captain [Brigham Young] has talked with our Father above the clouds, and He told the Mormon captain to send these good men here to tell us the truth, and not a lie. They have not got forked tongues. They talk straight, with one tongue, and tell us that after a few more snows the buffalo will be gone, and if we do not learn some other way to get something to eat, we willstarve to death. Now, we know that is the truth, for this country was once covered with buffalo, elk, deer, and antelope, and we had plenty to eat, and also robes for bedding, and to make lodges. …
The time was when our Father who lives above the clouds loved our fathers who lived long ago, and His face was bright, and He talked with our fathers. His face shone upon them, and … they were wise and wrote books, and the Great Father talked good to them; but after a while our people would not hear Him, and they quarreled and stole and fought, until the Great Father got mad, because His children would not hear Him talk.
Then James Brown said that Chief Washakie drew a contrast between the Indian’s way of life and the white man’s, telling his people that they could gain much by learning from the settlers. The chief went on to say,
We feel that it is good for them to come and shake hands. They are our friends, and we will be their friends. Their horses may drink our water, and eat our grass, and they may sleep in peace in our land. We will build houses by their houses, and they will teach us to till the soil as they do. Then, when the snow comes and the game is fat, we can leave our families by the Mormons, and go and hunt, and not be afraid of our families being disturbed by other Indians, or by anybody else, for the Mormons are a good people (James S. Brown, Giant of the Lord, Salt Lake City: Bookcraft, 1960, pp. 373–74).
Brother Brown reports that without a vote being taken, each man in the group gave his assent to the chief’s decision.

When Papa went fishing, he took Caroline’s brothers, Ned and Albert. Caroline stayed home and helped Mama bake bread.
When Papa went woodcutting in the hills, he took Albert and Ned. Caroline stayed home and helped Mama braid rugs.
When Papa went in the wagon to the feed store, he took Albert and Ned. Caroline stayed home and helped Mama can tomatoes.
“I wish Papa would take me sometime,” Caroline said.
Mama smiled and patted her on the head.
Then one chilly night, Caroline was nestled deep in her feather bed when something woke her. Papa was kneeling beside her bed. “Come, little one,” he whispered. “Wake up.”
He wrapped a quilt around Caroline and carried her outside. As he softly closed the door behind them, the big grandfather clock in the hall began to chime midnight.
The cold nipped at Caroline’s nose and ears.
Papa carried her out of the yard, around the barn to the old meadow pond. “Be very still,” he whispered, “and look.”
On the pond were hundreds of geese.
“Wild geese,” Papa said very quietly. “They stopped to rest at our pond on their way south to their winter home.”
Wide-eyed, Caroline watched, snuggling against Papa’s big, warm chest.
Then, after several moments, with a flutter of wings and a honking so loud that Caroline had to cover her ears, the geese rose into the air.
Outlined against the full moon, the V-shaped flock slowly disappeared from sight.
As Papa tucked Caroline back into bed, he said, “In the morning be sure to tell your brothers what we saw”—he smiled in the almost-dark—“while they were sound asleep.”
Caroline smiled back. “I will, Papa.”
She would tell them. She would tell them about the most wonderful moment of her life that happened at midnight with Papa.

Some years ago I went for the first time to the Salt Lake City Tabernacle for a general conference of the Church. I was awed by the size of the building, but even more by the inspiring presence of the General Authorities who were gathered there.
During my childhood, many of the Brethren had visited our small branch in Montana. We had no television, nor could we receive conference on the radio. So we looked forward to each General Authority visit as a special blessing. They had, it seemed to me, a power and faith above other men.
Then on that April day many years ago, I discovered one source of a General Authority’s strength.
I was attending conference with the six children of Elder Ezra Taft Benson, one of whom was my college roommate. My interest increased when President David O. McKay announced that the next speaker would be Elder Benson. I watched respectfully as Elder Benson, whom I had not yet met, walked toward the microphone. He was a big man, well over 1.8 meters tall. He was a man internationally known as the United States Secretary of Agriculture and a special witness of the Lord, a man who seemed calm and sure, one who had addressed audiences throughout the world. Suddenly a hand touched my arm. One of Elder Benson’s young daughters leaned toward me and whispered urgently, “Pray for dad.”
Somewhat startled, I thought, “This message is being passed down the row and I am to pass it on. Shall I say, ‘Pray for Elder Benson’? Shall I say, ‘You’re supposed to say a prayer for your father’? Sensing the immediate need to act, I leaned over and whispered simply, “Pray for dad.”
I watched that whisper move along the row to where Sister Benson sat, her head already bowed in prayer.

When I was a freshman in high school, the weightlifting coach asked me to join weightlifting.
“Mmm … no thanks,” I said. “Not my thing.”
But he kept at it. For weeks.
Finally, I tried it out. He was right: I really liked weightlifting. It was definitely weird at first; my body had never done anything like it before. But I grew to love the feeling of working out. I also loved my teammates and the competitions. And I started doing really well!
Now weightlifting is a huge part of my life. I practice every day for at least two or three hours, doing back squats, clean and jerks, and snatches. (And if you don’t know what any of those things are, don’t worry—neither did I!)
Like many things, weightlifting takes time and patience, and sometimes that can be difficult. Luckily, my family is always right there encouraging me, even when I complain about how sore I am (which is often). My dad always has ice packs and pep talks ready for me when I get home from practice. And my mom always sacrifices so I can go to competitions.

Crafts are a favorite with my girls. Gluing, cutting, coloring, and pasting can create some exciting treasures and lasting memories. And Amy’s imagination is loaded with lots of fun stories they draw pictures about. Naturally artistic, Amy has spent hours drawing pictures for my children. The children she creates in her stories usually have the same names as my children, and they are involved in the same activities my children love—from helping Mom to going to Primary. We finally got a large book of used computer paper for our children to draw on. The blank sides of the pages contain many of Amy’s drawings. Now whenever they thumb through to find new pages to draw on, they are delighted again and again by pictures Amy has drawn. Pages and pages are filled with letters of the alphabet where Amy has helped the girls practice writing their names.

“They even showed us their new lime-green fire engine,” recalled Andrea Owens, Laurel class president.
The Laurels in the Wichita Kansas First Ward thought it would be a good idea to get to know the firemen in the area near the ward house. Because they know firemen spend a lot of time in the station, they chose to prepare a “goodie box” for the men.
The girls called ward members and asked them for copies of the Ensign, New Era, Book of Mormon, and other magazines or books that they might have on hand. Each girl contributed a batch of her favorite cookies. The magazines and cookies were delivered in a gaily decorated box.
Six members of the class and their adviser walked to the station during activity night. Andrea explained a little about the Church and the Young Women program. The firemen returned the favor by giving the girls a tour of the station and their equipment.
“The firemen were happy to see us,” added Andrea. “They asked us to come back any time. And we asked them to come quickly if there was ever a fire at the church!”

I live in Canberra, Australia. My dad and mum gave me my first journal as a present when I was about eight years old. I wrote in it for a couple of months; then I gave it up. A few years later when I was 12, I got it back out and read it one day. I decided I’d better start writing again, because by then I had received three other journals as presents!
About this time, a seminary teacher in our branch challenged me to write in my journal every day for 20 days. She said if I did, it would become a habit. I decided to try it.
Writing was hard at first, but it got easier. I found that by writing my feelings and thoughts, spiritual things got included too. I made my record fun by trying to include information I thought my children might be interested in someday, like how much things cost. I figured it would be interesting for them to see what it was like for me when I was a kid.
I found that a journal is a good way to express your feelings. Things you may not want to share with anyone else you can write in your journal. For example, I find it hard to bear my testimony in sacrament meeting (even though I do it sometimes). But I bear it all the time in my journal.
I really like to write on Sundays, when I’m thinking about spiritual things. And I like to go back and read what I wrote before. I can see how much I have changed; I can see that parts of my journal are much more spiritual than others. It helps me analyze my life and see what the Lord does to help me. It relaxes me and gets my mind off the world.
I received my 20-day challenge five years ago. I’m still writing in my journal every night. I get it out before I go to bed. I read my scriptures; then I write in my journal. It’s automatic. I haven’t missed an entry in five years.

“But, Mom! I don’t want to go!” There was no way she’d ever convince me. “Can you imagine what three days without showers or my cell phone will do to me? I’ll die!”
“Oh, don’t be like that.” My mother dismissed my worries like they were nothing. “It’ll be a good experience for you.” That was the end of it; my fate had been decided. I moaned and groaned for an entire month, but that didn’t change anything. I still had to go on pioneer trek with the youth in my ward.
We were scheduled for three days of wandering through what seemed a Wyoming wasteland, with only the “bare necessities” packed into a one-gallon paint bucket. I couldn’t believe other people were excited to go on a trip like this. I tried every loophole I could find to get out of going. All I got was a lecture on the “importance of my ancestors and understanding how they lived.” Personally, I appreciated the pioneers. I really did. But why did that mean going on trek? Couldn’t I appreciate them from the comfort of my own home?
The last week in June found me awake at four in the morning to help load the cars and drive across endless miles of desert for six hours into the Wyoming wilderness to reenact part of the early pioneers’ migration westward. Grumbling, I took my gallon bucket and sat sullenly with my other muttering friends.
Our leaders cheerily greeted us with a smile and handed everyone pieces of paper. Looking down, I saw a mournful face in a very bad, very old photograph on a paper. Next to the small picture was the story of Bodil Mortinsen. She had traveled with the Willie Handcart Company in October of 1856. I had been assigned Bodil’s name. I folded up Bodil’s biography and stuck it in my pocket.
“The handcarts are here!” someone called out. “Everybody get your buckets!”
I lifted my bucket into a handcart and waited for more instructions. I lost count of the number of times we were lectured on leaving the snakes alone. The phrase “DON’T GO OFF THE TRAIL” was engraved into our brains over and over again.
“And … ,” the voice of our tour guide wavered in the hot afternoon sun, “please remember why you’re here.” What could he mean by that? I knew why I was here. I was here because my parents had told me to come here. I was here because the pioneers had traveled this exact same road and apparently I had to too. I reached into my pocket and felt Bodil Mortinsen still there, limp from hours in the heat from my jeans.
“Off we go!” Brother Boulter called. He took hold of the first handcart, and moving with the methodical lethargy of a herd of cattle, the procession of teenage pioneers set off.
Nearly 48 hours later, I pushed my handcart from behind, completely exhausted. The sun hung high in the desert afternoon. It pulsed on my back, and I felt sweat trickling down my face. I felt the gritty texture of dirt mixed with the salty-sweet taste of sweat in my mouth but, surprisingly enough, didn’t complain. Suddenly, the caravan halted, and I wearily looked up. Brother Boulter had stopped at the opening of Martin’s Cove.
“We’re leaving the carts here,” he called out in a strained, hoarse voice. “Just bring your canteens and follow me.” We were led up a steep hill and came to several benches set up at the top of the mound. Gratefully, we dropped down and rested in the scorching midday sun.
“You are here,” Brother Boulter stated after a small pause, “to gain an understanding of what your ancestors went through. The Martin Handcart Company passed through this cove over 100 years ago. They suffered frostbite and scurvy and even gave their lives so that you could live in a better place. We are so proud that you have come with such a great attitude.” My friends and I exchanged sheepish looks. “You all have around half an hour to walk through the cove and see where the Martin Company took refuge from the blizzard that killed 50 people.”
A quiet stillness overtook us as we meandered along the trail. I imagined the pioneers a century ago trying to take shelter beneath their handcarts. I tried to imagine the feeling of freezing out here in the Wyoming wilderness, and my fingers became cold in the summer sun as I felt a nearness to my ancestors. Walking out of the cove, we took up our handcarts again. The story of Bodil Mortinsen was still in my pocket, growing steadily more limp.
We returned to Rocky Ridge. Here, the Willie Handcart Company had suffered a similar fate to that of the Martin Handcart Company until the rescue party from Salt Lake City found them. This time, the air hung heavy with rain, and we could smell the distant scent of wet sagebrush and sand.
Rocky Ridge was a small gully nestled between two grassy hills and cut in the middle by a quiet brook. A large boulder stood next to the trail with one word carved into it: “REMEMBER.”
“There,” Brother Boulter said, again at the front of our group and motioning to a point ahead of us, “is where the Willie Company buried their dead.”
Glancing up the trail, I saw two piles of rocks waiting at the crest of the hill. These graves were little more than two plots marked by jagged stones over their tops. The graves had been poorly dug, as it was wintertime when the Willie Company was here. The ground had been too frozen to make deep graves, and the pioneers had covered them with rocks to keep the dozen bodies from being destroyed by wild animals.
We stood there in silence. Suddenly, I realized that I had not read Bodil Mortinsen’s story. I carefully pulled out the wilted paper and looked again at the mournful black-and-white face. I read her story. I stood where she had stood and envisioned her grieving over a lost parent or brother or friend. At the bottom of the page, I read:
“Two of those buried at Rock Creek Hollow were heroic children of tender years: Bodil Mortinsen, age nine, from Denmark, and James Kirkwood, age eleven, from Scotland.
“Bodil apparently was assigned to care for some small children as they crossed Rocky Ridge. When they arrived at camp, she must have been sent to gather firewood. She was found frozen to death leaning against the wheel of their handcart, clutching sagebrush” (President James E. Faust [1920–2007], Second Counselor in the First Presidency, “A Priceless Heritage,” Ensign, Nov. 1992, 84–85).
I had imagined Bodil standing here, perhaps mourning the loss of a family member. Now I realized that she hadn’t stood here at all. She was buried here. Tears pricked at my eyes. A nine-year-old girl was buried here, and her family had been required to leave and move on. They walked and walked until they reached the Salt Lake Valley. After starving, freezing, and suffering, they had not been afraid to continue on. If they could keep walking, surely I could too.
These pioneers had been real people. Old men, young men, widows, mothers, young girls just like me. They had suffered and traveled away from everything they knew to live in a better place. I lived in that place. I had lived in a good place all of my life because of my pioneer ancestors. They were not just people who lived a long time ago, and I was not here just to see what they had done. They were my people, and I was here, standing in front of the graves at Rocky Ridge, to get to know them.
I went home after that adventure with a newfound respect and appreciation for my heritage. I can’t ever forget how it felt to stand at those graves. The boulder said “REMEMBER,” and I will forevermore.

I was an average Latter-day Saint in high school. I was involved in sports and music and Boy Scouts. And I was quite interested in music. I played the drums in band, and my favorite kind of music at the time was punk rock. I used to practice drumming to CDs until the day came when I formed my own band with three nonmember friends.
Our band started innocently enough. Soon we became quite popular around town, which led us to believe we were the best. I soon found myself skipping Church functions to practice. Then I began ditching church on Sundays to play. During this time we got a phone call from a band we idolized. Members of that band said they saw us play, thought we were good, and offered to help us record our first CD. This sounded too good to be true. We were on our way to the top, and my commitment to the Church dwindled even more. I hardly attended, and I didn’t associate with my LDS friends anymore. I was slipping away.
As the months went on, our band grew more popular, and I quit going to church all together. I started partying all the time and hanging out with a bad crowd. I got to meet every music hero I had. I traveled throughout the United States and Canada. You could walk into any music store and find our CDs on the racks. I thought it was great! If God didn’t want me to be doing this, I rationalized, He wouldn’t have allowed the band to get so big. In the band, I didn’t have to have an outside job; all I had to do was play. We made enough money from our playing to live.
During my four years of playing with the band, I became really unhappy. I didn’t have any direction in life. I was lacking something. I hadn’t stepped inside a church for four years, and I didn’t have a clue about my beliefs anymore. I was really living a life of sin. Serving a mission was the last place I thought I would end up.
The band was on tour, finishing the last couple of shows before we went home. The moment when everything changed for me came in Portland, Oregon, on our way to a show. I was sitting in the passenger seat of our tour van. I was a little homesick, and it was a gray day, raining as it often does in Oregon. We pulled up to a stoplight, and, out of the corner of my eye, I saw two figures in trench coats standing there. There were two missionaries standing on the corner waiting to cross the street. They didn’t notice me, but they must have been sharing a joke because they were smiling and laughing even though it was a miserable day. Before I knew it, I found tears streaming down my cheeks, just like the rain running down the window of our van. These two elders had something about them—a “glow” if you want to call it that. I felt they had what I was looking for.
As I was watching them and trying to conceal my tears from the other band members, I suddenly felt something familiar. I felt the Spirit of the Lord strong within me. I knew what I had been missing. I realized I hadn’t had Heavenly Father or Jesus Christ in my life for five years! This was my wake-up call.
I was very confused about what to do. So I did something I should have done sooner. I got on my knees one night in my apartment and prayed to my Heavenly Father for help. Help came in the form of great Church leaders who worked with me through my repentance.
I quit the band, came back to the Church, and served as a second counselor in the presidency of my young single adult branch. Now at the age of 23, I’m devoting the next two years of my life to serving a mission. Those two missionaries in Portland will never know that just by being there, happy to serve their missions, they helped turn around the life of a desperate person. They didn’t speak a word to me, but their example changed me forever.
God lives and He answers prayers, sometimes on a street corner in Portland in the rain.

When I was five years old, my mother took me to Grandmother’s house to stay overnight. My grandmother lived on a farm, and it was always very exciting for me to play outside. But this time Grandmother warned me, “Be careful of that red hen with baby chickens. Don’t get too close or she might think you want to hurt her chicks.”
“I won’t, Grandma,” I promised. “I’ll be very careful.”
But when I saw the mother hen and yellow chicks, I forgot my promise. They looked so soft and fuzzy that I bent down and reached over to touch one of them. The tiny chick peeped and quickly ran away from me. Then the mother hen flew at me and pecked me on the hand until I ran into the house crying to my grandmother.
Grandmother held me close until I stopped crying. When I was able to talk, she asked me what had happened.
“I just wanted to see if the little chick was as soft as it looked,” I told her. “I wasn’t going to hurt it—I just wanted to touch it. Then that old mother hen pecked me!”
“But how was the mama hen to know you weren’t going to hurt her little baby chicks?” Grandmother asked. “You are much bigger than she is, and she didn’t want anyone to hurt her little chickens. That is why she pecked you—to make you go away.”
Then she told me to go out and play in the yard again, but to stay away from the mother hen with her babies. She also gave me another warning, “Now don’t go too close to that mother goose either. She has some babies too, and she is bigger than the mother hen. If you try to touch one of her babies, she might really hurt you.”
“I won’t touch them, Grandmother,” I promised.
When I went back outside, I stayed away from the mother hen. But I soon saw the mother goose and her train of baby geese following behind. I couldn’t see them very well, so I went closer to take a better look.
When I was close enough to see, the mother goose spread her big wings, stretched out her long neck, opened her beak, and hissed at me. I was so frightened that I ran back into the house and told Grandmother what had happened.
“Parents love their children,” Grandmother said, “and they want to protect them. That is what the mother hen and the mother goose were doing.”
Then my grandmother taught me a valuable lesson. “Not only do your father and mother and family love and want to protect you,” she said, “but our Heavenly Father loves you. He has placed a prophet here on earth to watch over us. This prophet has many assistants, such as the stake presidency, the bishopric, the home teachers, and your teachers in Primary and Sunday School. Many people love you and will protect you, so you never need to be afraid.”
I remember my grandmother’s lesson whenever I hear children sing “I Am a Child of God” or “My Heavenly Father Loves Me.”
This is a lesson all of us should remember, for we are His children and He loves each one of us!

Peter McBride was a six-year-old boy who was probably hungrier, colder, and more exhausted than you have ever been. But he couldn’t go inside to warm up or buy food at the store. He could only go inside his tent, which collapsed on him one night and froze to his hair. He could only eat whatever he could find, like boiled ox hide and tree bark. Peter was a member of the Edward Martin Handcart Company.
Members of this company had come from faraway England. Problems delayed their journey to the Salt Lake Valley, and by October they were running out of food. All Peter and his baby sister were given to eat was a little flour each day. Early winter storms came, making pulling a handcart very difficult. Many were dying from cold and exhaustion.
When they came to the North Platte River, Peter said his father “worked hard all day pushing and pulling handcarts through the icy waters of that dangerous river,” helping people reach the other side. Peter’s father had a beautiful singing voice, and before he went to bed that night, he sang about how he longed to be in Zion. “The wind was blowing very cold,” Peter described. “The snow drifted in and covered our tent.”1 The next morning, Peter’s father was dead. Peter cried as he watched his father’s body being buried beneath the snow.
Peter’s older sister Jenetta was left in charge because their mother was sick. Jenetta often walked to the river to get water for cooking, even though her shoes had worn out. Her bare feet left bloody footprints in the snow wherever she went. Realizing they could go no further, the company camped near the Sweetwater River and hoped that help would arrive before it was too late.
A group of missionaries returning home to the Salt Lake Valley passed the struggling pioneers and told Brigham Young about them. Immediately, he called for 20 rescue wagons to be sent. At last, Peter and the pioneers joyfully caught sight of the wagons approaching. Peter said that “men, women, and children knelt down and thanked the Almighty God for [their] delivery from certain death.”2
The rescue teams could not carry enough food and supplies to relieve all the suffering, but they helped give the pioneers courage to continue. Together, they crossed the Sweetwater River and found shelter amid the rocks now known as Martin’s Cove. There, most of the company left their handcarts behind. The weakest pioneers rode in the wagons, and others walked until more wagons came, giving enough room for everyone to ride the rest of the way. On November 30, 1856, Peter and the handcart pioneers arrived safely in the Salt Lake Valley—where they remained faithful Church members for the rest of their lives.

Melissa remembers, “On the night of the tragedy, I saw the most beautiful sunset I had ever seen. I just knew that Heavenly Father was showing his love for us, telling us that everything would be okay.”

One recent convert is Johan Bonno, who was born in the Marquesas Islands, the northernmost part of French Polynesia. Although he had led a rough life, he became interested in the restored gospel because of a schoolteacher who had moved to the Marquesas from Tubuai. “Maimiti spoke to me of the true Church,” he explains. “She taught me about the Book of Mormon. Little by little, I let go of the bad things in my life. She invited me to church, and little by little good things entered in.”
They married and moved to Tubuai. “My father-in-law invited me to a missionary open house, and there I felt a powerful, comforting feeling,” Johan explains. “It filled me with a desire to know the truth. I prayed in earnest about Joseph Smith. I came to understand that the Lord had restored the Church through him.” Johan was soon baptized and confirmed.
Today Johan and Maimiti are preparing to be sealed in the Papeete Tahiti Temple. “Having the light of the temple in our life will be like trading a 15-watt bulb for the brightest sunshine,” he says. For Johan, learning of the restored gospel required building a layer of faith. So did getting married, moving to Tubuai, and joining the Church. Now going to the temple will add yet another layer to a pearl that keeps on growing.