Gospel Story Finder

While recently involved in a stake youth music festival about family history, I was invited to find a story about a living relative or an ancestor. At first I wasn’t excited about the assignment. I’d always assumed I would work on family history when I was older. But I decided to start by emailing my grandparents to see if they had any interesting family stories.
After emailing, I called to schedule a time to interview my grandpa. We decided to meet at a restaurant for dinner. There, my grandfather told me childhood memories and a special story about being sealed to his family in the Salt Lake Temple when he was seven years old.
I’ve heard other people tell incredible tales about their ancestors, and I wanted an amazing story too. But as I learned more about my family, I discovered that dramatic stories don’t make up all of our family history. Most of our genealogy is full of everyday people who had incredible faith.
I really enjoyed interviewing my grandpa, but afterward I thought of ways I could have done things better.
First, we were in a noisy restaurant, and that was fine while Grandpa spoke of his childhood. But it didn’t provide the right atmosphere for his sacred story. I wish I’d had a quieter place to listen.
Second, I became so enthralled with his stories that I often forgot to take notes. I wish I’d recorded the interview so I could listen to the story and make sure no information was lost.
Finally, I learned the importance of asking more specific questions. Instead of asking, “What are some of your favorite childhood memories?” I could have asked, “What was your favorite Christmas tradition as a child?” or, “Do you remember a time when your testimony first began to grow?”
I still don’t know everything about my grandfather, but through interviewing him, I discovered life-changing events in his life and became closer to him. I’m grateful for the experience I had and look forward to interviewing him again, along with other relatives.

This gathering of Latter-day Saints at BYU brings a shared commitment to Karl G. Maeser’s feeling that education should shape both the head and the heart.28 Two years ago I taught a young woman in an introductory class in the mechanical engineering program. She was eager to learn and to take advantage of all that BYU has to offer. Since that course she has dropped by my office from time to time to keep me updated on her classes, activities, and plans for the future. During her time as an undergraduate student, she involved herself in the research project of a faculty colleague in another department. Not long ago this young woman approached her bishop about the possibility of receiving her temple endowment and began to prepare herself. When the time came for her to enter the temple, neither her father nor her mother was able to join her. Among those few whom she invited to share with her that first temple experience were her BYU research faculty advisor and his wife. Where else but at BYU could such associations be cultivated and where else could a student turn to a faithful faculty member to share in such a sacred experience? I would call that inspiring learning.

The Beehive class of three girls of the Alton Ward, Kanab Utah Stake, set a long-range goal to be members of the state 1-A girls basketball championship team.
The trio—Holly Heaton, Wendy Crosby, and Deanna Rust—attended workshops and clinics and practiced several hours each day, summer and winter, to achieve their goal. Their efforts paid off. The three girls were all starting members of the 1-A Utah State Girls Basketball championship team. Holly was voted the Most Valuable Player at the state tournament, and Deanna was named to the All-State Tournament team. In addition, they were all starters on the 1-A State Girls Volleyball championship team.
When the girls go to other schools to play, they always arrive wearing dresses. They take pride in setting an example of modesty and femininity.
In addition, they are all excellent students and have perfect attendance at church, even when they are very late getting home from away games.

I understood this principle a little bit more after watching a session of general conference. I’d just gotten into a fight with my sister, and I was fuming in my room. At first, I didn’t really feel bad for what I’d done. I felt like she’d earned my anger and definitely did not deserve an apology. The conference messages touched me, though, and I felt the Spirit soften my heart. I realized that I needed to apologize. As I thought through my apology, I felt sick to my stomach. I started to doubt that my words would fix anything. I reasoned that she would still be hurt and she wouldn’t understand that I really was sorry. I felt hopeless knowing that I could’t completely heal the wound that I’d created. At a loss about what to do, I decided to get on my knees and pray. I prayed and asked Heavenly Father for forgiveness. I asked Him to bless me with the ability to let my sister know that I was truly sorry.
After my prayer, I asked my sister if I could talk to her for a minute. I told her I was sorry. She played with her hair and wouldn’t meet my eyes and then mumbled her own apology. “No,” I responded, “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.” I felt my heart soften even more and tears filled my eyes. I gave her a hug and apologized for all the times I’d been mean to her and for not being a good big sister. My relationship with my sister was different after that day. It still is far from perfect, but a new understanding and love has grown between us.

As a boy, I well remember Sunday School on Mother’s Day. We would hand to each mother present a small potted plant and sit in silent reverie as Melvin Watson, a blind member, would stand by the piano and sing “That Wonderful Mother of Mine.” This was the first time I saw a blind man cry. Even today, in memory, I can see the moist tears move from those sightless eyes, then form tiny rivulets and course down his cheeks, falling finally upon the lapel of the suit he had never seen. In boyhood puzzlement I wondered why all the grown men were silent, why so many handkerchiefs came forth. Now I know: mother was remembered. Each boy, each girl, all fathers and husbands seemed to make a silent pledge, “I will remember that wonderful mother of mine.”

I’ve known great love in my marriage, with my children, as the president of the Relief Society, and as I grew up in a loving family who looked forward to the occasional visits of one of my mother’s older cousins whom we called Aunt Lillian. She had been a teacher in the public school system for more than 30 years. We were entranced as we listened to her tell of the problems she had as a teacher with disruptive students and of those in the school system who made a great impact for good upon the life she lived alone.

One day she invited me to her apartment to help her entertain the young daughter of a school teacher friend. Everything was meticulously prepared for us—the food she served and all of her surroundings. Her thoughtful ways evidenced a life-style of noble living. I was deeply impressed with the love she showed both of us that day, and it continued year after year for me.

When she was 70 years old, she bought her first car, a beautiful brand-new blue Plymouth, and she took driving lessons. When she got her license she decided to drive to California to visit her sister and invited me to go along to keep her company. I was then about 12 years old. I was so excited. I’d only been to Wyoming and felt that if I went to California, I’d become a world traveler. However, because she was such an inexperienced driver, I saw very little other than the road and other cars and was frightened most of the time. But we arrived safely and enjoyed our time with the family members I hadn’t known before.

She always gave so much of herself to make me happy. This continued on through my growing years and even when I married. Doug and I decided to name our second daughter after her. Her love was showered upon me and all of my children. At Christmastime, she would bring them lovely gifts. She knew the value of good books and beautiful flowers and people. She often tended my children and gave them a love for these things. All through those years I was the recipient of her love. And the day came when I was able to have her with us and do for her and ease some of her lonely hours. I received so much more love and enrichment to my life because of her.

That, you see, is what love is. It is the investiture, the immersing of ourselves in the lives of others and watching that change us and our surroundings.

Because of her I know that love is the life-giving force that renews the spirit of men and women and brings a new life to the world, a life that brings a longing for immortality.

Years ago, when our children were teenagers, we purchased a ski boat. A little while after we bought the boat, my two sons and I decided to venture out in it just before sunset. Out on the water, the motor suddenly spluttered for a few seconds and then cut out. The fuel gage stated we still had a quarter tank, but a quick investigation revealed that we had in fact run out of fuel. We made contact with our family onshore who arranged for a rescue party to come to our aid. We had been let down by a faulty fuel gage.
Unlike the faulty fuel gage, the old ship Zion will never let us down. Remaining on the old ship Zion, or active in and staying true to the gospel, will result in increased faith, happiness and growth.

Scripture chasing is a popular pastime in many seminaries throughout the Church. In most cases seminary students learn to find scriptures within seconds after being given a clue or situation. Competition is intensified when youth are put on teams and given points for their speed and accuracy. And in the Champaign Illinois Stake, even the media took notice.
The students were given the challenge to memorize 40 scriptures in the Old Testament. The objective was to learn to locate the scriptures and then apply them in daily life. During practice sessions the students were given (1) a short clue, usually one word, (2) a verbal description of a life situation, or (3) a picture of some event. They then had to find the specific scripture in 15 seconds. The time was gradually reduced until each student could find every scripture in just a few seconds.
Out of 250 home-study and early morning seminary students in the Champaign Stake area, 15 became finalists in a run-off competition. In May 1976 the students with the fastest times formed three teams of five members each. Final competition between the teams was telecast over commercial television. The winning team, Robert Woolley, Carol Burdock, Deann Veach, Sue Ellen Emery, and Carol Retz, were given award plaques for their accomplishment.

After hearing this talk, I decided to put it to the test. One day, my daughter and I made our favorite homemade lasagna. The thought popped into my head to make an extra pan and take it to the lady that we minister to. I didn't give the second voice a chance to say anything and quickly began preparing the second pan of lasagna. I texted her to be sure she'd be home and then dropped off some fresh-out-of-the-oven lasagna a couple of hours later. Done! I had acted on my good thought and didn't think much more about it.

The next morning, I saw a text from her. She said that her baby had been sick, and she hadn't been able to put him down all day. She was trying to figure out what to do for dinner that night when my text came through. She said it was a little tender mercy for her.

I know this is a small thing, but for me it was pretty big to follow a prompting and to know that it was an answer to someone’s need. The formula is so simple! Pray for promptings; act on good thoughts; ignore the second voice. You'll do more good than you'll ever know.

When he was just 10 years old, Joshua Dennis spent five days trapped in the pitch-black darkness of an abandoned mine. When rescuers finally heard his faint cry for help and pulled him out of the horrible darkness, he was disoriented, cold, and exhausted. Much to their surprise, he wasn’t afraid. Josh spent his time sleeping, yelling for help, and praying. “Someone was protecting me,” he explained. “I knew people were going to find me.”
Joshua’s simple but profound faith had been nurtured by his parents, who taught him that he had a Heavenly Father who knew where he was at all times. They taught him he had been born with the Light of Christ within him. Truly, Josh had been brought up in light and truth (see D&C 93:40) so that when he found himself huddled on a ledge 2,000 feet deep in a mine, he had drawn upon that light to sustain and comfort him, to give him courage and hope. Josh experienced what Abinadi taught when, speaking of Christ, he said: “He is the light and life of the world; yea, a light that is endless, that can never be darkened” (Mosiah 16:9).
Remember little Josh Dennis? He is now Elder Dennis serving a mission far away from the dark mine which held him captive. Now Elder Dennis finds his way along the narrow, unfamiliar paths of Honduras sharing a message of hope, salvation, and light. What he teaches every day is the paradox he experienced as a young boy lost in a mine: that amidst encircling gloom, amidst the darkest possible circumstances, it is possible to feel hope, peace, and comfort—all because of the light which is stronger than all darkness, the light of Jesus Christ.

My heart jumped as I read the poster: “Handel’s Messiah performed by the Swansea Orchestra and Welsh Choir.”
I had been on my mission in Swansea, Wales, for six months and felt the longing that often comes to new missionaries during the Christmas season. We had many family traditions during the holidays, but my favorite was going to hear Handel’s Messiah. My mother had played the organ for many such performances. I would sit, listen, and feel the music.
With permission from the mission president, I purchased tickets for the missionaries in our area. The night of the performance, our group bundled up against the cold and walked to the concert hall. I silently prayed that we would all feel the sacredness of the inspiring music.
When we arrived, I realized that we were late and that the performance had already started. We weren’t going to be allowed inside until intermission! As I listened to the music through the doors, I could not hold back the tears.
An usher must have noticed my desperation and decided to let us in. He told us to stand in the back until the intermission so that we didn’t interrupt the singing. He slowly opened the doors, and we all quietly stepped inside.
Walking into the hall was like walking into heaven. The feeling of peace and joy overwhelmed me. It wasn’t long, however, before we noticed people turning their heads, pointing and staring at us. All of us had entered quietly and didn’t know what we had done to bring attention to ourselves. As soon as the intermission began, we found our seats.
When the oratorio resumed, the music filled my soul. I wept during the “Hallelujah Chorus,” and when the soprano sang “I Know That My Redeemer Liveth.” The missionaries beside me also felt the power of the music and grabbed their handkerchiefs. The experience was something we would always remember. But it wasn’t until the performance had ended that the truly memorable moment came.
As we were leaving the building, people were still whispering and pointing, but no one said anything until we were outside. A man then approached us, saying, “It was you! It was you!”
We all waited for an explanation.
“During the first part of the performance, we felt a change in the room—a strong feeling that Christ was there,” the man said. “So we turned to see what had caused the change. When we looked to the back of the auditorium, we saw seven figures glowing as if they were angels. When you came into the room, you brought the Holy Ghost. You were there to represent Christ; you were the angels.”
As he spoke, I looked down at my missionary name tag and read the bold lettering under my name: “The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.” How humbled I was at that moment to be a representative of the Messiah and to have silently testified of Him that night before thousands of people.

It also matters how job applicants see these issues. I remember interviewing two well-trained applicants for the same position one day. When I asked how each one felt about the Church influence here, one said, “Oh, the Church is no problem for me. I have learned not to let it get to me.” The other said, “The Church and the gospel are my whole life. That is why coming to work at BYU would fulfill my lifelong dream.” The vast attitudinal difference between these people was, and should be, a major factor in deciding whom to hire. We aren’t looking for people who merely ­tolerate our environment or who will try not to harm it; we seek believing, thoughtful people for whom this is the freest intellectual and spiritual environment in the world.

Not too long ago, I lacked self-esteem, refusing to care for or accept myself. I had a serious case of the “I feel worthless” syndrome.
My parents tried to encourage me.
“Put on some makeup, Paige,” my mother would say hesitantly, knowing any suggestion could cause an eruption from me. Talking to me was like walking on eggs for her.
“Just leave me alone!” I would exclaim, louder and angrier than I had intended. I knew my parents had spent many sleepless nights worrying about their daughter. I wanted to be alone, which in return made me feel lonely, angry, and self-destructive. But then something happened to change that.
One Sunday evening, my mother insisted that I go to a stake youth fireside. In the car on the way to the stake center, I argued with my mother. As I remember, I was always looking for an argument, anything I could use to blame others for my misery.
“I don’t want to go to their stupid fireside. I’ll just sit in the car,” I said.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Paige. Of course you’ll go,” my mom answered.
When I walked into the chapel, I noticed a group was already sitting, not in the pews, but on the stand. Trying to go unnoticed, I sat down.
A youth leader tapped me on the shoulder, “Paige, why don’t you come and sing with us?”
“I’m sorry, Sister Daines, but I haven’t been here for any of the practices. I don’t even know the name of the song.”
“Don’t worry,” she said as she helped me up from my seat, “you’ll be fine.”
Before I knew it, the stake president was introducing “a vocal number by the great youth of the stake.” Panic raced through my heart.
The pianist touched the keys and the opening bars of “I Am a Child of God” echoed throughout the chapel. Tears slowly slid down my cheeks, and I began to sing with the group. I knew the words to this song. I had all along.
“I am a child of God,” the words came from my lips. I looked out on my parents who were smiling from the front row. Their eyes said, “We love you.” My mother began to cry, and I knew I was not alone. I was a child of God and had been sent to parents kind and dear.
From that moment, I knew I had value. I was significant to my parents and most importantly a child of God. Finally, I stopped listening to all the negative voices inside of me and heard a voice that said, “Paige, you are a child of God.”

Then one day my sister came to visit with her two beautiful little daughters. It was one month before my 24th birthday. Time was running out, and I knew I needed to decide what I was going to do with my life. That day one of my nieces fell asleep in my arms. As I watched her sleep I realized that someday I would have children and they would ask me, “Daddy, why didn’t you go on a mission?” At that moment I made my decision.
My decision was not easy for my mother to accept. She and my father were separated, and I was the only child at home with her. Still, I knew that what I was doing was right, so I filled out my papers and sent them in. When my call to serve in the Honduras Comayaguela Mission came, my mother was so upset she became ill. But in time, she began to accept my decision, and she even helped me prepare to leave.
On the day I left for the Missionary Training Center, I gave my mother a priesthood blessing. And as I served I began to understand the Lord’s promise: “I, the Lord, am bound when ye do what I say” (D&C 82:10). How great was my joy when the calling I had so long dreamed of holding was finally mine—that of full-time representative of the Lord and His Church. How great was my joy when one year into my mission I received word that my mother had accepted the truth and had been baptized. How grateful I am that I took a leap of faith.

9:55 a.m. Missionaries dedicate a lot of time to planning, at the beginning of the day, throughout the day, and at the end of the day. They talk not just about what they’re going to do but about what each investigator needs.
Today the elders are talking about a man from France, an investigator they’re going to invite to be baptized.
“He’s worried,” Elder Triplet says. “He doesn’t feel worthy.”
“Let’s talk about repentance and how God remembers sins no more,” Elder Ward suggests after the companions think it over. “Why don’t you teach it in French to make sure he understands?”
The last thing the elders do before leaving is pray—again. This is one of many prayers they’ll offer today. Missionary work requires a lot of heavenly help. Then it’s out the door and off to the bus stop in a hurry.
11:21 a.m. A 10-minute bus ride and a short walk later, the missionaries arrive at a rented meetinghouse at the same time as their investigator. The meeting begins well, but the investigator’s concerns push the 45-minute lesson they had planned on to more than an hour.
“That was the most frustrating lesson I’ve ever been in,” Elder Triplet says afterward. “He likes the Church. He thinks it’s true. He wants to pay tithing. But he doesn’t believe he needs to be baptized again. He was a little argumentative.”
“He’s a great guy,” Elder Ward says, shaking his head. “Maybe he’ll be ready to talk about baptism next time.”
2:06 p.m. The missionaries jump on another bus, this time to El Casco, the historic quarter of Toledo, Spain. They stop by an investigator’s business to invite him to an activity that night.
“You can get lost in here really quick if you aren’t paying attention,” Elder Ward says of the maze of narrow streets lined with buildings that seem to lean over those walking below.
2:24 p.m. While navigating the tight streets, the missionaries stop to offer help to a woman carrying a heavy load. They spend a moment explaining who they are and what they do, but the woman isn’t interested.
2:47 p.m. It’s siesta time in Spain, so the missionaries catch a bus back to their apartment, or piso, for lunch. “Everything shuts down between 2:00 and 4:00 p.m.,” Elder Ward explains. “Some people get mad if you knock on their doors.”
“This is chorizo, or sausage,” Elder Triplet says poking at lunch. “It’s typical food. We eat a lot of noodles and chorizo because it’s cheap and easy to make.”
“The mission is great preparation for marriage,” Elder Ward laughs as he mixes his Kool-Aid. “You have to learn to get along, cook, clean, do laundry, budget, and take care of yourself.”
4:24 p.m. Back in El Casco, the missionaries meet with a counselor in the mission presidency about current activation efforts.
“This is a great area,” says Elder Ward, who explains that Church attendance has gone from about 15 to 80 members each week because one family set the example of fellowshipping.
4:59 p.m. The elders end up with a little unexpected free time on their hands, but missionaries are used to doing some planning on the fly. Their backup plan was to do some tracting.
5:42 p.m. In El Casco, where so many people live above street level, knocking on doors often means carrying on conversations with people on their balconies. And even in historic tourist towns, a missionary has to look out for dogs.
The elders have some success: “We found some great people,” Elder Ward says. “There were some youth from Paraguay. They invited us back tomorrow.” And some failure: “We had a half-hour conversation with one man,” Elder Triplet says. “It was like talking to a wall.”
7:45 p.m. Two buses later the elders make it to the activity they had planned with the sister missionaries who work in the same city, Sister Kathleen Bonifay and Sister Brittany Hofman.
The people they were expecting to come didn’t. “That’s the way it goes sometimes,” Elder Ward says. But after a little footwork, the missionaries are able to gather a handful of other investigators living nearby. After a hymn and a video, you can feel the influence of the Holy Ghost as the missionaries bear testimony of the Book of Mormon as another witness of Jesus Christ. The activity is a success.
“The Lord takes care of you when you put forth your best planning and best effort,” says Sister Bonifay.
9:13 p.m. After a hike to the bus stop, the elders and sisters have made it back to their respective apartments, where they’ll call their leaders, review the day and their long-range plans, and make plans for the next day.
“Well, this is what we do,” Elder Ward tells you. “It doesn’t change much.”
Elder Triplet laughs. “We are the same yesterday, today, and tomorrow.”
Things didn’t go exactly as the elders had planned, but the day went well anyway. They made some good contacts, pulled off a powerful activity, bore testimony of Christ, and did their best to follow the promptings of the Holy Ghost.
“I’ve heard people say these are the best two years of their lives,” Elder Triplet says. “The two years are great, but that doesn’t necessarily mean they’re the best 730 days of my life. There are some days I thought would never end. But I have loved being a missionary.”
Elder Ward agrees. He has mixed emotions about leaving. “I always thought I’d be excited to go home,” he says. “But I see life differently now. I love my life. I’m a missionary. I’m speaking to people about Christ every day. Leaving will be bittersweet.”
You’ve enjoyed getting a taste of missionary work as well. As exciting as it is, missionary work can be exhausting. Now it’s time to get some rest and prepare yourself for your day as a missionary. It has a way of coming faster than you think.
Preach My Gospel is a part of every missionary’s day. You can get a copy at a distribution center or at www.ldscatalog.com.

“When is your uncle Tanolo going to take you into the kiva?” Little Brown Bear asked. “I am four moons younger than you, yet I was taken into our kiva this day.”
Acuma pulled his rabbit robe closer around his shoulders and sat huddled by the fire, watching the smoke curl upward to add more blackness to the sooty ceiling of the big cave.
“I don’t know,” he said sadly. “I have done everything I am supposed to do.”
“A boy must prove he is now a man before he can enter a kiva,” Little Brown Bear continued. “Have you gone on a hunt?”
“Oh, yes. We stalked the deer through snow and drove him to the edge of our flat mountain. It was my arrow that brought meat to our fire.”
Little Brown Bear shook his head. “I cannot understand. Surely Tanolo is not so cruel that he would tease you.”
Acuma shrugged but did not answer. He had done everything that was required. He knew the legends, his arrow points were well made, he could make fiber from the yucca plant and weave it into heavy sandals, and he could shoot a straight arrow. All these things his cousin from the big cave village had done too, and this day he had been taken into the kiva.
This was an honor for which every Indian boy lived. Yet Acuma could not go. His father said he was well prepared, but Tanolo would not take him. An Indian boy could not be taken to the kiva by his father. At birth an uncle is chosen to be his teacher, and it is this uncle who must take him to the kiva, where he will go through the rituals to become a man.
Acuma glanced at his cousin, wishing Little Brown Bear could tell him what had happened down in the kiva in his own village. But of course, it was a secret.
When Little Brown Bear left for his own cave village, Acuma jumped up and called his brown dog. He threw off the rabbit blanket. He would be running and his body would warm on this winter day.
“I will not shed tears like that foolish Popeta,” he exclaimed, and he dashed off to chase rabbits. Maybe he would kill one with his throwing stick and show his uncle how skilled he was. Acuma’s dog romped along beside him as they scrambled down the side of the canyon to the creek below.
Then he stopped in surprise. Popeta was filling a water jug to carry back up the steep canyon wall to the cave. She seemed small although she was his own age. Her father could not till his cornfield properly because of a lame leg, so the family did not have enough to eat. And because the father could not run fast, he could not kill enough rabbits to make new blankets. The one over Popeta’s shivering shoulders was badly worn.
“You wear no blanket,” Popeta said in surprise, her teeth chattering. “It is cold.”
Acuma squared his brown shoulders. “I am a man, and I do not feel the cold,” he boasted. “I shall run and catch a rabbit for our dinner.” He started off.
Popeta lifted the heavy water jug. As she did so, the blanket fell from her shoulders. Immediately the brown dog grabbed it in his teeth and raced off, dragging it through the thorny bushes.
“Come back, come back!” Popeta cried out. “It is my only blanket.” She spun angrily on Acuma. “Your horrible dog has stolen my blanket. Go get it.”
Then her shivering grew worse and she began to cry as she climbed the canyon wall with the water jug on her head.
Acuma tried to find the dog, but it had raced down the canyon, dragging the blanket. He could see torn scraps hanging on bushes.
“It is no good now anyhow,” he said as he raced along, feeling warm. Soon he threw his curved stick at a rabbit and proudly carried the dead animal home.
“We already have meat for stew, my son,” his mother said while she stirred something in a clay pot over the fire. “You are a great hunter, and my heart is proud. But why not give it to one who has none?”
Acuma strolled over to Popeta’s fire. “Here you will have meat.”
She thanked him, then asked, “Did you find my blanket? Without it I will have nothing to warm me tonight.”
Acuma shrugged. “No I could not find it.”
He forgot about Popeta as he ate his hearty stew that night and sat huddled by the fire, his own warm blanket over his shoulders.
During the night he awoke feeling cold and pulled the rabbit fur blanket up closer. Somewhere he could hear crying.
It is probably that foolish Popeta, he thought. She always cries.
The next day he could not see her by her fire.
“She is not well,” his mother said. “She needs food and warm blankets. But I have none to spare.”
Too bad, Acuma though carelessly and ran off. But every now and then he remembered her crying.
“It is the fault of my dog,” he grumbled to himself. And the more he thought about it, the less he enjoyed the games he played with his friends.
That night he could not sleep. Finally he got up and went to the small dark room behind the cave where Popeta slept.
“Here is my blanket,” he said. “Use it.”
“But it is not yours to give,” she said in surprise.
“I will lend it,” Acuma said, and he hurried back to his room. He was shivering. How cold it was! He found an old feather blanket that was so worn it could not cover him well. But if he curled up in a tight ball in the very corner of his room the blanket kept out a little of the cold. Popeta had been right—he could not give away his blanket, since all things in the family belonged to the mother. Though he used it, the blanket was his mother’s property.
Then I must make Popeta one, he decided.
For many days his friends called him to play games, but he could not because he was hunting rabbits. He had no idea it took so many to make a blanket. He gave the meat either to his mother or to Popeta, and he sat late into the night cleaning and tanning the skins. He sighed wearily. There was so much work and no fun. At times he was tempted to stop, but remembering Popeta’s tears during that cold night kept him going.
And the few hours he slept, he was always cold. He longed for his own rabbit fur blanket again.
After he had collected enough skins, he had to make many, many arrow points—the very best he could. Then he hurried to his cousin’s village, to the Blanket Maker.
“I will give you these fine arrow points if you will make me a blanket,” he said. “But I must have it quickly. The nights get colder and snow is now on the ground.”
Soon the blanket was finished and Acuma took it to Popeta. “This is yours. It should keep you warm.”
Popeta handed him back his own. “You are kind and it is a beautiful blanket. You have brought us so much meat that I am well. My mother and father do not feel hunger either.”
“I shall see that you have meat in your pot,” Acuma said in embarrassment, then hurried to his own campfire.
That night his uncle came to him.
“When the morning sun rises, you will come with me. It is time for you to enter the kiva to learn the things that will make you a man.”
Acuma’s heart leaped with joy. “I am pleased, my uncle. But tell me, why have you chosen the time as now? For these many moons I have been ready—knowing the making of arrow points, yucca fiber, and the hunt.”
“But the one thing you did not know, my son, you have learned,” Tanolo replied. “A boy plays and gives no thought to others. A man gives up his playing when there is work to be done. Because your dog caused misery to another, you did what was you duty to do, and you did it without complaint. I have watched you and my heart is proud. You shall be known as Acuma, the one who has the heart of a man, though his body is still that of a boy.”

When the McCanns first saw it set amongst acres of pine trees on idyllic Kangaroo Island, they knew they had to secure the holiday home. Evonne and David Sandelin McCann envisioned retreats here with their five children and youth camps for their stake in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
In the years since, all their dreams became reality. The McCanns generously opened their home to friends and the Church’s youth groups, who have wonderful memories of staying there—experiencing dusk surrounded by kangaroos, wallabies, possums, and spotting koalas snuggled in the boughs of the eucalyptus trees.

Brother Thach had joined the Church in 1971 while on a South Vietnamese air force training assignment in the United States. He made Latter-day Saint friends, attended Church meetings, accepted the missionary discussions, and was baptized. On his return to Vietnam some nine months later, his suitcase containing his copy of the scriptures was stolen. At the time, he was not aware of any Church organization in Vietnam, although a branch did exist in the capital city. But he did receive a twelve-month gift subscription to the Ensign, the English-language Church magazine. Reading and rereading the twelve copies of the magazine sustained him spiritually during the next ten years. When the government changed in Vietnam and “foreign” printed materials were viewed with suspicion by the authorities, he cherished his copies of the Ensign even more and hid them for safe-keeping.

My university days were not all easy. As I neared the time for graduation, I seemed to have a mountain of work to complete before the specified time, and I worried that I would miss the deadline. Over the years of college training I had been earnest in my prayers and had constantly asked that the Lord would bless and guide me. But I was not aware of any special help received, even though I had made good progress. One Sunday, about a week before graduation, my wife and I were visiting a young couple who were our close friends. (You see, I didn’t study on Sunday, because I thought that during my school years that would be the same as working.) My friend asked me if I was ready for graduation. I told him that my work was still incomplete and that there was some doubt whether I could complete it.
“Oh,” he said, “you’ll make it all right. Let’s look in the newspaper. They just published the list of graduates.” He began by reading the names of those who would graduate with honors, and he included my name.
Of course, I knew he was only teasing, and I laughed as I said, “You can’t fool me with your jokes.”
Then he said, “Well, isn’t this your address?” and he read that.
I said, “Let me see the paper.”
As I read my name among those who were to receive honors, my eyes filled with tears and an inward light filled my whole being with understanding. As clearly as in a vision I saw how, over the years, in quiet, unseen ways, God had been listening to my prayers and had overshadowed me with his blessed influence to bring me through triumphant!

When you grow up on a farm, you learn that everyone has a job. As a 10-year-old, my job was taking care of our chickens.
At first the baby chicks were cuddly little balls of yellow fuzz. But then they grew into chickens. Whenever I fed them, they’d peck at my ankles. It really hurt!
My father was serving as stake president. During that time, Elder L. Tom Perry came as the visiting General Authority. He and his family visited our home, and we loved listening to his inspiring words.
But the magic of the moment was broken when my mother asked, “Bonnie, have you fed the chickens yet?”
I had completely forgotten about those chickens and didn’t want to leave. But Elder Perry brightened up and asked, “Does someone need to feed chickens? Lee and I can help you!”
I couldn’t believe it! An Apostle would actually help me feed chickens!
I grabbed my flashlight, and Elder Perry, his son, and I started walking. I knew the way, so when we came to a ditch, I knew I had to jump. But Elder Perry didn’t know it was there, so he stumbled into the ditch and got his shoe wet. I was horrified.
He was very kind, and we kept going. Soon we reached the coop, and the three of us fed the chickens.
On the way back home, Elder Perry asked if he could hold the flashlight.
“Bonnie,” he said, “now I can see where I’m going too. Walking with your light, I couldn’t see very well, so I fell. In a way, this light is like our testimonies of Heavenly Father. Each one of us needs our own testimony.”
What a perfect lesson from a wise and loving Apostle! It is one I will never forget.