Gospel Story Finder

Like Jim, as a young man I was privileged to have “goodly parents” (1 Ne. 1:1). They taught gospel principles and values to our family by precept and example. As a young boy I thought I had a testimony. I believed! Then came some personal spiritual experiences through faith, prayer, scripture study, and especially father’s blessings in our home that caused me to think more seriously about the principles I had been taught and believed—but even more deeply about what I was beginning to feel. I will be forever grateful to parents who helped coach me through those precious spiritual experiences. They have had a lasting impact on me and on the strength of my testimony.

I learned a lot about my identity as a child of God while I was on my mission. But after I came home, I realized I still had a lot to learn about the importance of remembering that other people are also children of God.
Soon after I returned home, I was thrown into a difficult calling and put in charge of an important event. I was overwhelmed, and I couldn’t get ahold of the people who were supposed to be helping me. I sent an email that was, truthfully, pretty strongly worded.
I was right that the calling was important and that I needed more support, but I quickly realized that maybe this wasn’t the best way to motivate people. I needed humility; I needed to remember that other people probably had their own things they were stressed about.
As Elder Steven E. Snow taught when he was a member of the Seventy, “If we humble ourselves, our prayers are answered; we enjoy peace of mind; we serve more effectively in our callings; and, if we continue to be faithful, we will ultimately return to the presence of our Heavenly Father.”
Truly, I have felt more joy in my calling and in my life as I’ve learned to be more humble.

A historic example of commitment to be strong and immovable for all ages was portrayed by a British Olympian who competed in the 1924 Olympics in Paris, France.

Eric Liddell was the son of a Scottish missionary to China and a devoutly religious man. He infuriated the British leadership of the Olympics by refusing, even under enormous pressure, to run in a preliminary 100-meter race held on Sunday. Ultimately he was victorious in the 400-meter race. Liddell’s example of refusing to run on Sunday was particularly inspiring.

Depictions and memorials in his honor have referred to the inspirational words from Isaiah, “But they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint.”24

Liddell’s admirable conduct was very influential in our youngest son’s decision to not participate in Sunday sports and, more importantly, to separate himself from unrighteous and worldly conduct. He used the quote from Isaiah for his yearbook contribution. Eric Liddell left a powerful example of determination and commitment to principle.

It’s been many years since Greg [names have been changed] was in junior high school, but he can still vividly remember how it felt when his tormentors would chase him as he tried to walk home from the school bus. If they caught him, sometimes they would grab his trombone case and throw it into the snow, or they would toss his homework into the pond by his house. Other times they would become more violent, pushing and hitting him, even knocking him to the ground.
“I felt powerless and scared,” he says now. “I didn’t know what to do.”

Today, both Greg and Emily agree that the damage caused by bullying doesn’t have to last forever. Both have gone on to have successful careers and families of their own. And while neither would wish for such a painful experience again, they agree that in some ways they are better people as a result: they are more understanding of those who are struggling and are more anxious to reach out and help. And they know that their worth does not depend on what others think of them, for the worth of every soul “is great in the sight of God” (D&C 18:10).

Bishop Edgley: An experience I had with my Aaronic Priesthood quorum was on a Scout outing. We were sitting around a fire with my wonderful Scoutmaster, who was also the assistant deacons quorum adviser. A couple of guys who were not active in the Church were looking at some pornographic material.
The Scoutmaster stopped as he was talking to the Scouts and asked if he could have the magazine. He closed it and then told us how hurt he was, how troubled he was. Then he testified of the power of the priesthood when we honor it. He handed the magazine back, and that young man threw it in the fire.
That Scoutmaster taught us by the power of the Spirit about the priesthood. Of all the lessons I’ve had in quorums and chapels, I am still impressed by that experience.

The stage was aflame with the swirl of red and orange skirts, flared pant legs, and silky, shimmery blouses. Twelve feet stomped rapidly on the stage floor to the beat of the Bolivian folk music, and out in the Utah high school auditorium there were happy whistles, claps, and shouts of “ah-ree-va,” which the young Bolivians insisted on as audience participation. There were six performers: four young men and two young women. They had come to Utah as part of a “partner’s program” between Bolivia and Utah—they came as a cultural exchange group after winning the National Folk Music Contest from among thousands of Bolivian entries.
It didn’t just happen that they were all Mormons; it was because of the Church that they met and organized their group. They were all members of the La Paz Ninth Branch, La Paz Second District in the Bolivia La Paz Mission. As branch members they began singing and dancing together at youth activity night. As they began to stir interest in their performances, they called themselves Rama Nueve—Branch Nine.
It was in February of 1976 that they came to Salt Lake City to be the guests of Dave and Chris Boyd. The Boyds did not speak Spanish nor did the Bolivians speak English when they first arrived in Utah. Chris said, “It’s close to a miracle how we have been able to communicate. We’ve been able to work with the time schedules, solve medical problems, and enjoy each other’s company.
They learned English quickly and after only a few months could understand much of what was being said around them. When they played for school children throughout the Salt Lake Valley, they would ask them in English to clap or answer their musical questions in certain parts of the songs. They learned easily to say “Thank you,” “I’m very happy to be here,” and “My name is _____. What is yours?” They also learned to say “I’m hungry!”
They were most homesick for Bolivian food. Chris said that they would graciously eat anything she cooked for them. But they are used to food that has no chemical additives in it, and when they began eating American food, they had a hard time adjusting to it. In Bolivia they eat a lot of vegetables but insist on cooking them. Many Americans eat raw vegetables; Rama Nueve calls it rabbit food.
They make most of their own instruments. The flutist makes his flutes from cane stock. The bell tones he can make are pure and clear and seem even richer than those from flutes of silver. One of the instruments they use is the charango. It is made from an armadillo-type animal, a tatú. The shell is used as the back or sound part of the instrument.
All of the young Bolivians are exciting, accomplished musicians, but not one of them can read printed music. They began playing instruments by ear at a young age. “Many of the youth have a great desire to learn to read music but don’t have access to teachers who know the skills,” Chris said.
They brought seven different costumes with them from South America. They explained that there are 40 or 50 regional costumes in Bolivia. These costumes grew out of early uniforms worn by the Bolivians when they were required by European occupants to wear certain clothes as marks of identification.
When asked what it is like to have six Bolivian youths move in, Chris said: “It is like having brothers and sisters move into your home for a few months. I will really miss them when they’re gone. Their tempo of life has affected my way of living. I’ve had to learn to relax. But on the other hand, their tempo has changed too. They are so busy right now that they hardly have time to watch the sunset.”
During the time they weren’t singing at concerts or benefits of some kind, they were catching up on their sleep or writing letters home. One of the favorite things they learned while they were in Utah was how to roller skate. “It’s a sport we don’t have in La Paz.” It may well be introduced upon their return. They have also learned to swim and dive. Chris said that anything they enter into they do with their whole soul. They have taught others the Bolivian folk dances and want very much to learn how to dance in the American fashion.
From the first week they arrived in Utah they wanted to be involved in a family home evening at least once a week. So, on Monday nights they were invited into homes all over the Salt Lake Valley and enjoyed American family home evenings. But on Sunday nights they decided to get together and take turns giving the lesson to their own group. They made popcorn and usually ended the evening singing LDS hymns in Spanish.
They like Utah and its people. The thing they noticed most was the layout of the Utah communities where most of the streets run directly east and west or north and south. “In Bolivia,” Luis said, “the telephone books are full of street names—no numbers. A taxi driver knows how to get to any address. Some streets wind up into the mountains, and it’s really easy for a stranger to get lost. Here, you just figure out the numbering system, and you can find your way around. It’s so organized. I like that.”
On May 26, 1976, Rodolfo Villalba left Salt Lake City to return home to Bolivia as a full-time missionary for the Church. “My heart is full of beautiful things I want to share with my people,” he said. After his mission he wants to come back to Utah and Brigham Young University; then he will return again to Bolivia to become a productive member of his community.
Rodolfo Murilla also returned to Bolivia at the end of May—there was a rumor that he had someone special waiting for him. The other four, Raul, Luis, Elizabeth, and Lidia, stayed in the U.S. to attend Brigham Young University. They are serious about becoming good representatives of Bolivia. After their education, they all say they want to go back to help their homeland. Lidia wants to study sociology. Luis wants to go into some technical field. Raul feels that it is a great opportunity, “one in a lifetime, to study in another country. And to do it in the Church university is really something!” His father is not a member but wants the best opportunities for his son. Raul is the oldest of the children in his family, and his father wants him to set a good example for his younger brothers and sisters.
When asked what was the greatest experience they had while they were traveling, they immediately replied, “Meeting President Kimball.” On April 26 in the Church Office Building, the group was introduced to President Kimball. They spent time speaking with him through an interpreter. “It was the highlight of my life,” said Elizabeth. “I’ll remember that over everything else. It was a privilege and a humbling honor.”
Each of the youth has a vibrant testimony of the gospel and is aware every moment of the need to be a good example of Church membership. Every concert they gave while in Utah was closed by singing the simple song “I Am a Child of God.” They sang it first in Spanish and then in English. They said it was how they could bear their testimony so that everyone could understand.

It was a fall day in Wyoming. The majestic Teton Mountains rising high into the blue sky were delicately mirrored in Jackson Lake—a breathtakingly beautiful setting for the beginning of a high adventure canoe trip down the 158 kilometers of rugged Snake River. True to its name, the river curled its way through a wilderness area abundant with wildlife. There would be few roads and only occasional trails.
Excitement was high, and hearts seemed to be beating a little faster than usual as the 19 Scout leader fathers and their 16-year-old sons waited on the river bank at Moran to begin their canoe trip down the Snake River.
Two tanned, tall, river-experienced 19-year-old young men would be our guides—one at the head of the group and the other following close behind. Their every word of instruction and warning was caught by ears that were straining to learn. There was a bit of apprehension as they warned about whirlpools, with their circling current, that could take a canoe and its occupants down under. There was also the instruction about approaching and riding through the turbulent water areas. The main word of instruction was, “Whatever you do, don’t unbalance your canoe.” We resolved and it was our intention that we would do everything the guides had instructed us to do. We would stroke evenly on each side; we would kneel up all the way so we could move easily and keep the canoe in balance.
As the leader responsible for the group, I seemed to be having some doubts as I listened to the safety precautions the guides were giving us. I remembered a newscast a few days before telling of a father who had fallen from his canoe while going through a rapid and had struck his head on a rock and had drowned before he could be recovered, even though he had his life jacket properly in place.
The lead guide gracefully slipped his canoe into the water and glided effortlessly out into the river. In turn, each canoe, with father and son in place, followed. It was a beautiful day—the fresh clean air was invigorating; the clear blue sky with an occasional white billowy cloud added to the beauty of the surroundings. The water was clear and the river flowed smoothly along. The spruce and pine trees, together with grass and shrubs, made each turn of the river one of artistic beauty. The first 16 kilometers were so enjoyable that most of the fear and concern faded away.
As we looked ahead, we could see another stream emptying into the main river. We could see the whirlpool signs, and we became more alert as we approached the junction point. All of a sudden there was an excited cry ahead: “Look at the moose!” I wanted to see the moose, so I whirled around and caught a fleeting glimpse of it with its large flat antlers just as I was going headfirst into the Snake River.
The water was cold; the rocks were hard. I struggled to get to the surface. A thousand thoughts raced through my mind: “I wonder where my son Dave is. How will I find our canoe? Can I find my paddle?”
As I swam toward the shore, I caught sight of Dave right ahead making his way to the bank. I lost my hat and all of the suntan lotion and the dark glasses I had in my pocket. But I was glad to get out of the cold water and again get back in the canoe so we could stay with the others.
After that, they could have said “Look!” at a thousand moose and we would not have turned around to look. We looked straight ahead. There were kilometers of rapids and turbulent water, and we went safely through. We didn’t look to the left or to the right. In fact, one rapid was so severe that one canoe in trying to negotiate it tipped over backward. The father was heavier than his 16-year-old son, and he was in the back. They had not intended to unbalance the canoe, but they did. They got wet just the same. Intention is not enough!

But with all of her achievements and associations, none has meant as much to her as meeting two missionaries in October 1981.

One day Julia was asked to help lead a project to repair a library destroyed in one of the Soweto riots. Her first reaction was to refuse. What? she asked herself. Do they think I’m Cinderella? If we rebuild that building, they’ll just burn it down again. But as she thought about the request, her heart softened. She went down to the site to see what she could do to help. There, she was shocked to see two young white men working in the dust and heat. Seeing white men in Soweto was rare, but seeing them do manual labor for blacks was sheer fantasy. Curious, Julia approached them. They identified themselves as missionaries of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and invited her to hear their message.

Accepting their invitation was not easy. Her home was in disarray—but more important, it would be very dangerous to have white people in her home. It could mean trouble for them as well as for the family hosting them. “But something bent in me,” Julia says, “and I couldn’t turn them away. I asked them to give me three days to clean up my cobwebs.”

At their first meeting, she was polite but not impressed. On their second visit, however, they saw a picture of Julia’s wedding and asked about her husband. When she told them he was dead, they explained that baptism could be performed for him. At that moment, “Something opened in my mind,” Julia recalls. “‘Take baptism for him?’ I asked. ‘In what way?’” They explained how.

“I said to them, ‘Look here, elders. You have shocked me. I am a black, and we are not allowed to speak about the dead in other churches. Now you come and tell me about my dead. You’ve got a different message. Come again.’ Their words had touched a very delicate place in my heart.

“So they returned, and I listened to them. I said to myself that there could be no better, truer church, for I had always had much love for my parents. I could never understand why I was taught to forget about them and not mention them. I guess there was a fear that people would go back to ancestor worship.

“I was also deeply impressed by the First Vision of the Prophet Joseph Smith—how he talked directly with God. Reading the Book of Mormon changed my whole life. That was what really brought me to my knees. I started to realize that we are but one family.”

Julia was baptized on 28 November 1981, less than two months after meeting the missionaries. Of her baptism, she says: “When the door opened and I walked into the waters of baptism, I could really feel the cleansing power. I felt real joy.”

Martin woke up slowly. His mom was shaking his shoulder.
“Martin,” she said, “it’s time to wake up.”
Martin rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. The sky was still dark, but he knew what time it was. His family woke up at 5:30 every morning to read the Book of Mormon together. It wasn’t always easy to get up so early.
Martin rolled out of bed and walked slowly to join his family. He stretched and yawned really wide. His brothers and sisters looked sleepy too, but they were all there.
Each person read for five minutes. At first Martin wanted to go back to bed. But he kept listening. Each verse seemed to make him feel better and better. By the time they were done reading, Martin felt spiritually strong.
And spiritual strength was something Martin needed every day. In Kenya, there were only a few Church members Martin’s age, and they all lived far away.
After school Martin always went to a boys’ club run by a Catholic church. One week the club went on a camping trip together. Martin had a lot of fun. He sang camping songs. He chopped logs. He even helped build a campfire.
But on the second day, one of the leaders brought out a teapot. “We’re going to have tea now,” he said.
The other boys were excited. They drank tea at home for special occasions. They all grabbed their cups and waited for the leader to fill them.
Martin felt a little nervous. He knew that he shouldn’t drink tea. But he didn’t want to offend his friends.
Then he remembered how he felt when he kept the commandments. When his family followed the prophet and read the Book of Mormon together, he felt happy. When they didn’t, he didn’t feel as happy.
Martin knew what he had to do.
“No, thank you,” he told the leader when he came to fill Martin’s cup. “I don’t want to drink tea.”
The leader looked surprised, but he let Martin drink water while the rest of the boys drank tea. Some of the boys wanted to know why Martin didn’t drink tea, but none of them made fun of him. Martin felt happy. He knew the Word of Wisdom would make his body strong. And he was glad that he had been strong enough to do the right thing.

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.”

Mormonism was appearing to become, as the scripture says, as a stone cut out of a mountain, without hands and rolling forth to fill the whole earth (see D&C 65:2). Political officials worried about it moving outward and abroad from the immediate locale, illegal charges were leveled, court documents and summons were issued, and vigilantes were formed—at Carthage, the county seat. Joseph and Hyrum were to appear to answer charges against them.

As Joseph Smith left Nauvoo for Carthage that twenty-fourth day of June, he would have looked for the last time on the city and the magnificent temple that he loved. He knew he would never look upon it again.

“Be patient in afflictions,” he was told, “for thou shalt have many.” Later, he said adversity had become second nature, but had only “wafted me that much closer to Deity.” Brigham Young said of him that he lived one thousand years in thirty-eight.

To his companions who were accompanying him to Carthage, he gave these prophetic words:

I am going like a lamb to the slaughter, but I am calm as a summer’s morning; I have a conscience void of offense towards God, and towards all men. . . . And it shall yet be said of me—he was murdered in cold blood. [D&C 135:4]

Why did he not turn back? There was time to escape. He was not yet in the hands of his enemies. Friends were at his side who would die for him if necessary. Some suggested he flee across the Mississippi where he would be safe. But he continued to Carthage.

President Bruce Blanchard, a counselor here on BYU-Idaho's campus, serves as a member of my stake presidency. In stake conference he told the story of a man he counseled when he lived in Utah before coming to BYU-I. The man was in prison and had actually served as a missionary in the same mission as President Blanchard. President Blanchard asked him "How does a temple-endowed returned missionary, who bore testimony, end up in prison?" The man simply answered "I forgot who I was. I forgot my Savior." He forgot and fell away.

“On another occasion,” Jenny continues, “during the fitness award practice walks we had to carry a backpack, and I felt so weighed down that I nearly quit. Usually, before such a big trial, I ask Dad for a blessing. This time I realized I’d forgotten. I was just about to look for a phone to call Mum to come and get me when a line from my patriarchal blessing came into my head: ‘You can achieve anything you set your heart to do.’ And with help from my Heavenly Father, I did it.”

When I was only about eight years old, I wondered about the nature of God. One day my father read the scripture from the book of James that promises that if we lack wisdom, we can “ask of God, that giveth … liberally, and upbraideth not; and it shall be given” (James 1:5). Those words filled my heart and were imprinted on my mind.
When I was alone in my bedroom, I prayed to God, asking Him to tell me if the church I was attending was the right one. I wanted Him to answer me immediately. But that didn’t happen. God didn’t do what I wanted, and I was sad that He hadn’t answered my prayer immediately. I wanted to know! I had done what I thought was sufficient.
Growing up, I had the opportunity to search for the answer in many churches. As I did, I got more and more confused. Everybody contradicted each other, and they would just gloss over my questions about the nature of God.
Years later, tired of searching, I said, “There is no answer.”
I began to do things that some modern youth do, such as partying and participating in a lot of worldly diversions. Each week I sank further and further into darkness because my decisions weren’t the best. The bad habits were also distancing me from my family, who had always supported me.
But once again the desire came to me to ask God. I prayed, “Father, I am here waiting. I have searched, and I have not found. The scriptures promise answers, but nothing is coming. Look at me. I am alone. I want to know, but I don’t know how to find You.”
At that time only—not before and not after, but just when I needed it—I felt that my chest burned as strong as if a volcano were inside of me. I couldn’t control the tears. I knew it was an answer to my question.
In the afternoon, when I was at school, I was thinking about my answer when my best friend asked me, “What are you thinking about, Ismael?” I didn’t give him a truthful answer then, telling him that I was thinking about the beach and that I wanted to go see the sunrise in the morning. I invited him to go.
“I can’t,” he told me, smiling.
“Why not?” I asked him. “What are you doing so early in the morning?”
“Seminary,” he said.
“Seminary? What is seminary?” I asked him. He explained to me that it was classes that his church held.
“How long have you been going to a church?” I asked him, surprised.
“As long as I can remember. I’m a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
I told him I wanted to go and see. I knew inside that it was an answer to my long years of prayer.
The next day I woke up at 5:30 a.m. and went to seminary. The greatest surprise was that they were studying the Bible. I can say that I have never felt such a strong feeling of peace as I did when I entered the branch’s building in Matancita, the Dominican Republic, where pure doctrine was shared, delicious to a soul that had sought so anxiously. The hymns sung filled my mind and my heart with a thought: “This is the truth.”
“Wow,” I thought, “I want to feel this every day.” I asked when I could come back, and the teacher, my friend’s mother, gave me the class schedule and invited me to come to the branch’s Sunday services also.
From then on, every Monday through Friday, I got up at 5:30 to go to seminary and every Sunday to church. I couldn’t miss. I had found what I had always been looking for.
Sadly, there were no missionaries to teach me and baptize me. After a year and a half and much prayer, missionaries arrived and taught me all of the missionary lessons in a week. I remember the moment when I was submerged in the blue waters on my village’s beautiful beach.
I now enjoy the privilege of being not a stranger or foreigner (see Ephesians 2:19) but a brother of all those who have entered in the path of the Lord, the strait and narrow path.

During the time I was a teacher in the Aaronic Priesthood, I was called to be president of the quorum. With the urging and assistance of a dedicated and inspired quorum adviser, I worked diligently to ensure that each of the young men attended our meetings regularly. Two of them were a particular challenge, but with our perseverance and love and a little persuasion, they began to attend meetings and participate in quorum activities. However, as time passed and they left the ward to pursue education and employment, each of them drifted back into inactivity.
Over the years I have seen each of these two dear friends at various functions. Whenever I do, I place a hand on their shoulder and remind them, “I’m still your quorum president, and I won’t let go. You mean so much to me, and I want you to enjoy the blessings which come with activity in the Church.” They know I love them and that I’ll never ever give up on them.

The summer before my freshman year of high school, my family moved from a small town in California, USA, to northern Virginia, right outside of Washington, D.C. As I walked through the high school doors on the first day, the hallways were jam-packed with students going every which way to get to their classes. Over 2,000 students were crammed into an old, overcrowded building, but I felt alone as I walked the halls. I didn’t feel like I fit in, I struggled in my classes, and I began to think things would never improve. To make matters worse, as I attended church and seminary, and as I participated in gospel discussions at home, it also became obvious to me that I didn’t have a testimony of my own.
Lying in bed one night, I thought that if the gospel really is the source of peace, hope, and joy, then I needed to know for myself if it was true. I figured the best way to do that was to read the Book of Mormon and accept Moroni’s invitation to ask God with a sincere heart, with real intent and faith in Christ, if it is true (see Moroni 10:4–5).
As my freshman year came to an end, I began to seriously read the Book of Mormon for the first time in my life. Throughout the summer, I read and prayed every day. It took a while, but about a month or two into my sophomore year, I had read the Book of Mormon from cover to cover.
One night, I knelt by my bed and asked Heavenly Father if the Book of Mormon and the Church were true. I was sure I was going to get an answer, but if I was expecting some kind of miraculous spiritual manifestation, I was disappointed because nothing happened. I felt confused and frustrated. Why hadn’t Heavenly Father answered my prayer? Despite my disappointment, I continued to study and pray.
One day, I explored the woods behind my house. It was fall, and some of the leaves had already turned red and gold. The air was cool, the sky was blue, and beams of sunlight shone through the trees. I found a big rock by a stream to sit on, and as I watched the water flow by, I opened my heart to God again.
Suddenly I had an impression, as if God were asking me, “Eric, what has happened in your life since you started reading the Book of Mormon and praying every day?”
Immediately, I thought of my friends. I had made friends that summer who are still dear to me today. My anxiety about school had subsided, and my grades had improved. I realized that I was a lot happier and that I had strength beyond my own to face the challenges that had been so difficult the year before.
Then it happened.
I didn’t hear a voice, but the Spirit filled my heart as these words came to my mind: “Of course, it’s true!” An overwhelming feeling of peace, joy, and assurance came over me. I knew I had finally found my answer.
“It’s true! It’s true!” I said to myself over and over again as I walked home.
President Ezra Taft Benson (1899–1994) once said, “There is a power in the [Book of Mormon] which will begin to flow into your lives the moment you begin a serious study of the book.”1
That day in the woods of northern Virginia, I came to know that President Benson’s words are true. I realized what a difference the Book of Mormon had made in my life, and I also realized that because the Book of Mormon is true, then Joseph Smith is a prophet, we have a prophet today, and The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is God’s kingdom once again established on the earth.
When I remember my special spiritual experience, a scripture always comes to mind: “Verily, verily, I say unto you, I will impart unto you of my Spirit, which shall enlighten your mind, which shall fill your soul with joy” (D&C 11:13).
I am grateful for the undeniable influence of the Holy Ghost that told me, “Of course, it’s true!”
I have been blessed ever since.

The scriptures are for people of all ages. Young children can also learn to read, ponder, and appreciate them. A father recently assigned two of his children, ages eight and nine, to read four chapters from the New Testament each Sunday. At first they had to be prodded, but they gradually developed interest and even began to read on other days of the week. Soon they were reading before going to bed each night. When they finished the New Testament, they started the Book of Mormon. Within three months the older child finished the Book of Mormon and started it again.

It was a typical Saturday afternoon. I was super excited because after doing my chores, I was going to hang out with some of my new friends from my cheerleading squad. Being a new seventh-grade cheerleader had helped me make tons of friends at my new school.
I bounced up the sidewalk to Macy’s* house as I watched my mom drive away. “Ah, sweet freedom,” I thought. “I love being a teenager. I can finally go to the mall and movies with my friends.”
Macy opened the door, and I could see that my friend Lisa was already there. We started curling each other’s hair, laughing, and dancing and singing to music as we got ready. Macy explained that there would be several kids from school meeting us at the movie—not just girls but boys too. Even the cute boy at school I just met. I started to feel a little uneasy. I kept listening as she told me what movie they wanted to see. I got chills and knew instantly it was the Holy Ghost letting me know it was not a good movie. I asked to see the trailer for it. As I watched, I knew it was a movie I definitely didn’t want to watch.
What was I going to do? What would they say? I started thinking of plan B.
I began texting my mom privately. “What should I do, Mom?” I asked. She quickly texted back and said she didn’t feel good about the movie but she would let me decide. I knew I shouldn’t watch it; there was no doubt about that. I made up my mind. I was going to tell them I wasn’t comfortable with watching this movie. Surely they would understand, right? They were my friends. We could do something else instead.
“What? You don’t want to see the movie?” Lisa asked.
“Is it because your mom doesn’t want you to? Tell her that you saw something else.”
“What, are you too good for us?”
“Don’t be such a loser.”
My heart broke as I listened to my friends. My worst nightmares were coming true. For a moment I thought to myself, maybe I should just go. It won’t be that big of a deal. Mom said I could …
No. I knew I shouldn’t.
“Come on, guys,” I said. “My mom said she would pick us up and we could go back to my house and eat pizza and do a movie there. Or we could go get our nails done and hang out at the mall.” They weren’t interested. They wanted to go see this movie with all of our friends from school.
I texted my mom and told her I needed her to come pick me up. I was devastated. How could this happen? I thought they were my friends. I thought they wanted to hang out with me. All I wished for right then was my good friend Sandy from my Beehive class. She was a true friend. I knew she would’ve understood my decision.
I’d been so excited for this day and now it was turning out to be the worst day ever. When I saw my mom pull up, I quickly grabbed my stuff and headed out. As I walked to the car I felt a tear roll down my cheek. I’d just made one of the hardest decisions of my life, but I knew it was the right one.
I felt good knowing I had followed the promptings of the Holy Ghost. I know that I am a much stronger girl because I chose not to go.

When Ezra was age twelve, his father was called on a mission, and being the oldest child, Ezra was left to help care for his mother, who was expecting, and his six brothers and sisters. A smallpox epidemic caused them all to be seriously ill, and the mother became critically ill, but they refused the insistence of the doctor that the father come home. And the Lord blessed them, and they weathered this and many other difficult situations while the father served a mission.

While teaching at BYU in 1978, Brother Dennis Rasmussen applied and was selected to study at the Jewish Theological Seminary of America. In the opening session, as he gave his name and university, Rabbi Muffs boomed, “You’re the Mormon! … Do you pay your tithing?” “Yes,” he answered. “Do you pay it with a joyful heart?” “I believe,” the rabbi said, “that joy is the essence of religion. There is nothing more fundamental to religious living than joy. … I am working on a book about joy.” Brother Rasmussen responded, “There’s a passage in the Book of Mormon that you might like. It says, ‘Adam fell that men might be; and men are, that they might have joy.’” Rabbi Muffs was profoundly touched and exclaimed, “I’ve found the text I’ve searched for all my life … in the Book of Mormon.” Turning to Brother Rasmussen he said, “Say it again, but not so fast.” As he repeated the familiar words, the rabbi’s eyes glowed in appreciation of this great truth he understood but had not heard so succinctly expressed.