Gospel Story Finder

I still have a small set of scriptures that my mom and dad gave me when I turned seventeen. I will always remember one time as a young woman when I read the Book of Mormon. I had read it before, but this time it was different. Perhaps I was more in tune with the Spirit, or maybe I had studied more diligently or prayed more fervently. This time I wanted to know for myself if the Book of Mormon was true.
As I finished Alma chapter thirty-two, with that wonderful passage about faith, I had a feeling that I recognized as a witness from the Holy Ghost. I knew the Book of Mormon was true. I wanted to tell the whole world how I felt, but I was alone. So with tears of joy streaming down my face, I wrote a big red star at the top of the page and wrote, “May 31, 7:30 A.M. This I know, as if written to me.” Then in the margin on one side, “I have received a confirmation. I know the Book of Mormon is true!” In the other margin I wrote, “One month ago I began fasting each Tuesday for a more sure knowledge. This I know.”

Amy bounced up and down in her seat.
“What are you so excited about?” Mom asked, smiling at her from the front of the car.
“It’s England Day!” Amy squealed. Mrs. Harvey’s second-grade class had been learning about countries around the world. Amy had already learned to do the Mexican hat dance and sing a song in Japanese. Today her class was having a special party with lots of English food.
“Your ancestors joined the Church in England,” Mom reminded her. “They were very brave and stood up for what they believed in.”
“Today I’ll pretend to be just like them. It’ll be fun!” Amy said happily.
When she reached her classroom, Amy stared in awe. The school chairs were arranged in a circle around a table filled with warm crumpets, lemon custard, and raspberry jam. There was even a bowl of English toffee! Amy couldn’t wait for the party to start.
But then Amy noticed something. At the back of the table, a small, blue teapot was labeled TEA. Amy felt a knot form in her stomach.
Mrs. Harvey clapped her hands for the children to settle down. “Class, take a seat!” she sang out. “Today we’re having a very special party—a tea party! In England, people drink tea and eat crumpets as a snack. Who can tell me what a crumpet is?”
Amy’s classmates eagerly raised their hands, and one explained that a crumpet is a small cake. But Amy just sat in her seat feeling sick. Tea! She knew that tea and coffee were bad for her body. A commandment in the Word of Wisdom said not to drink them. The knot in her stomach kept growing. If she refused, what would her teacher and classmates think?
Then Amy thought of a better question. What would Jesus think? What would her ancestors think? Amy remembered Mom saying her ancestors were brave people who stood up for what they believed in. They followed Jesus Christ. They had been baptized in England, the same way Amy had been baptized. She still remembered that warm, clean feeling from her baptism, and how she always wanted to choose the right.
Slowly the knot loosened, and she knew what she had to do.
When Mrs. Harvey came to pour her some tea, Amy put her hand over the cup. “No, thank you,” she said. “I don’t drink tea. May I have a glass of water instead?”
“Of course you may,” Mrs. Harvey said, and she continued down the row.
As Amy drank her water and ate a crumpet dripping with jam, she felt warm inside. She had obeyed the Word of Wisdom, and—like her ancestors—she had been brave and stood up for what she believed.

Now step with me to the third poster, “America Rediscovered.” Centuries passed before America was rediscovered. The Lord inspired the thinking and guided the sailing of a man, Christopher Columbus, who on several occasions gave credit to the Almighty. In writing to the Spanish leaders, Columbus said, “Our Lord unlocked my mind, set me upon the sea, and gave me fire for the deed. Those who heard of my enterprise called it foolish, mocked me, and laughed. But who can doubt but that the Holy Ghost inspired me?” During the voyage, after weeks of sailing with no land in sight, mutiny raised its head. Finally Columbus promised the captains of the two other ships that they would turn back if land was not sighted in forty-eight hours. Then he went to his cabin and in his words “prayed mightily to the Lord.” On October 12, the very next day, they sighted land. We believe a land of liberty and religious freedom was a necessary ingredient in the plan of God; thus, Columbus and others, particularly those seeking religious freedom, were led to the shores of America.

At an earlier time and in a different conflict—namely the American Civil War—a historically documented account illustrates courage, coupled with mercy.

From December 11 to 13, 1862, the Union forces attacked Marye’s Heights, a large hill overlooking the town of Fredericksburg, Virginia, where six thousand Rebels awaited them. The Southern troops were in secure defensive positions behind a stone wall which meandered along the foot of the hill. In addition, they stood four deep on a sunken road behind the wall, out of sight of Union forces.

The Union troops—over forty thousand strong—launched a series of suicidal attacks across open ground. They were mowed down by a scythe of shot; none got closer than forty yards from the stone wall.

Soon the ground in front of the Confederate positions was littered with hundreds, then thousands, of fallen Union soldiers in their blue uniforms—over twelve thousand before sunset. Crying for help, the wounded lay in the bitter cold throughout that terrible night.

The next day, a Sunday, dawned cold and foggy. As the morning fog lifted, the agonized cries of the wounded could still be heard. Finally, a young Confederate soldier, a nineteen-year-old sergeant, had had all he could take. The young man’s name was Richard Rowland Kirkland. To his commanding officer, Kirkland exclaimed, “All night and all day I have heard those poor people crying for water, and I can stand it no longer. I … ask permission to go and give them water.” His request was initially denied on the grounds that it was too dangerous. Finally, however, permission was granted, and soon thousands of amazed men on both sides saw the young soldier, with several canteens draped around his neck, climb over the wall and walk to the nearest wounded Union soldier. He raised the stricken man’s head, gently gave him a drink, and covered him with his own overcoat. Then he moved to the next of the wounded—and the next and the next. As Kirkland’s purpose became clear, fresh cries of “Water, water, for God’s sake, water!” arose all over the field.

The Union soldiers were at first too surprised to shoot. Soon they began to cheer the young Southerner as they saw what he was doing. For more than an hour and a half, Sergeant Kirkland continued his work of mercy.

Tragically, Richard Kirkland was himself killed a few months later at the battle of Chicamauga. His last words to his companions were, “Save yourselves, and tell my pa I died right.”

Kirkland’s Christlike compassion made his name synonymous with mercy for a post–Civil War generation, both North and South. He became known by soldiers on both sides of the conflict as “the angel of Marye’s Heights.” His loving errand of mercy is commemorated by a bronze monument which stands today in front of the stone wall at Fredericksburg. It depicts Sergeant Kirkland lifting the head of a wounded Union soldier to give him a drink of refreshing water. A tablet to Kirkland’s honor hangs in the Episcopal church in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. With simple eloquence, it captures the essence of the young soldier’s mission of mercy. It reads: “A hero of benevolence, at the risk of his own life, he gave his enemy drink at Fredericksburg.”

The words of William Shakespeare describe Kirkland’s deed:
The quality of mercy is not strain’d;
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest:
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes: …
It is an attribute to God himself.

One of our finest missionaries was leaving Pennsylvania. Two young women had waited for him. (Most of us found ourselves without anyone waiting for us.) In his last interview he wanted to talk with me about situations that might occur when he returned home. One young woman, who happened to be an airline stewardess, seemed to be his favorite. Yet she had not been careful about the way she lived in relation to sexual purity. The other young woman had announced before his mission that she would not participate in anything that was not appropriate.

“What should I do, President?”

I said, “You’ll know what to do, Elder. But just remember the two years you have served so well in Pennsylvania. Remember those things we have learned together, and remember what you really believe in.”

Well, he returned home and went to the apartment of his airline stewardess. He found as they went on a date that evening that things had not changed—he was sick inside. He later took out the other young woman, then called to report the activities of those two evenings. The young woman who had decided to live the commandments long before she ever met him had so deeply impressed the young man that from that time on he dated just her. Now they are living happily. Yes, now they are living the way that most of us would like to live.

A couple in England was invited to attend a special seminar for those who had never been to the temple. “Each week we heard testimonies of many people who had been blessed by keeping the commandments of the Lord, of people who had had to change their lives to go to the temple. That really helped us. And we were given a different project each week concerning the gospel that we were to include in our activities and to achieve during that week.” When the seminar ended they felt prepared to go to the temple and had the necessary interviews. “On November 9, 1973, we were able to receive our endowments and were sealed with our children, Jon and Jamey, for time and eternity. That was truly the most glorious day of our lives.”

But falsehoods about the Saints continued to spread. Joseph did his best to combat the mounting prejudice until October 1838, when he and other Church leaders were betrayed at Far West, Missouri, into the hands of government officials.
Joseph and his brethren were eventually tried at Richmond, Missouri, then imprisoned in Liberty Jail for four months. Finally, early in April 1839, Joseph was taken to Gallatin for another trial. A fellow prisoner, Alexander McRae, wrote that during one adjournment of the court, Joseph made a gesture of friendship toward the guards.
“From that time until we got away,” McRae’s account continues, “they could not put a guard over us who would not become so friendly that they dare not trust them, and the guard was very frequently changed. We were seated at the first table with the judge, lawyers, etc., and had the best the country afforded, with feather beds to sleep on—a privilege we had not before enjoyed in all our imprisonment.”6
Peter H. Burnett, a legal counselor for the prisoners, wrote: ‘[Joseph] had great influence over others. … Just before I left to return to Liberty, I saw him out among the crowd, conversing freely with every one, and seeming to be perfectly at ease. In the short space of five days he had managed so to mollify his enemies that he could go unprotected among them without the slightest danger.”7
After the legal proceedings at Gallatin, the lawmen (who apparently believed in the innocence of the prisoners) gave Joseph and his companions the opportunity to escape. They seized the chance and crossed the state border into Illinois.8

One young husband decided to find out for himself if the Church were true. He had observed the uplifting changes brought into the lives of his wife and children, who had joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints six years previously. He obtained a copy of the Book of Mormon and began reading. At first he felt nothing, but he continued to read. He remembered that he should pray as he read—that was the counsel the missionaries had given. For the next six evenings he continued to read and to pray. He continued to plead with the Lord to let him know the truths contained in these scriptures.
Two more evenings he continued, and then a deeply spiritual experience began to unfold. He found himself listening as he read. It was as though he were hearing the characters in the story speak rather than verbalizing the printed word himself. He continued to pray and to study. At the close of the tenth evening, he stated that he was now hearing the voices of the characters and feeling the spirit of their messages.
His continued effort brought him near to the Lord in his search for truth; he then received a testimony of the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon.

The Millers’ most unusual family home evening started out very much as usual. Mom and Dad sat together holding hands. Twelve-year-old Jeramie looked bored. Nine-year-old Charlie tapped his toes impatiently. Eight-year-old Jimmy made faces at six-year-old Jenny, who glared back at him. It was four-year-old Billie Jo’s turn to lead the opening song, and she waved her hands wildly to “Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam”—as usual.
After the opening prayer, Dad began the lesson by hanging a picture of Jesus on the wall and telling the children that they should always remember Him.
Just then there was a knock at the door, and the man Dad invited in was anything but usual. He had a brown beard and long brown hair that hung to his shoulders. He wore a tan robe that came down to the brown sandals on his feet. A dark blue cloak hung across one shoulder. He looked just like the people in most of the paintings they had seen of the Savior’s time.
The children were very quiet when the stranger spoke. He said his name was James and that he was going to tell them some stories about his special Friend, Jesus Christ.
The first story was about a young man who died. The man’s mother had been very sad. She needed her son. She had asked Jesus to help her. He spoke to her son, and the young man awakened. (See Luke 7:12–14.)
James’s next story was about when Jesus had been teaching a large crowd of people on a mountain by the sea. No one had brought anything to eat, except a boy who had five loaves of bread and two small fish. The boy had been willing to share his food, so Jesus blessed it. After it had been blessed, it fed all five thousand people, with some left over. (See John 6:1–14.)
The stranger, who called himself James, talked to the Millers a long time. They had heard his stories before, but when he told them, they seemed to have just happened. There was an even more wonderful feeling in the room as James told them how much the Savior loved the people He had taught and how much He loved them. He told them that they would be happier if they remembered to love one another as much as Jesus Christ loved them.
Mom had begun to lead the closing song, “Love One Another,” before the children recognized the stranger. When he began to sing, they all knew that it was Brother Park, the man who led the singing in sacrament meeting each week. Long hair and a beard couldn’t disguise his singing voice. His first name really was James, he said, and the Savior really was his special Friend.
Brother Park stayed to eat ice cream and cookies with them. Before he left, he looked at the picture of Jesus that Dad had hung up and said, “You know, this is just how an artist thinks Jesus looks, but when you look at it, I hope that you will remember Him. Remember that He cares about what you do, and He loves you.”

That was certainly true in my case. I received a phone call one day asking if I would meet President Hinckley in his office. After greeting me, President Hinckley basically asked one question: “How would you like a change of scenery?” We members of the Seventy are used to moving to different assignments. I had been at Salt Lake headquarters for a few years. So I thought, “Afghanistan, here I come.” What I said was, “President, whatever you would like is what I would like.”

With great kindness but also with considerable brevity, President Hinckley indicated that President Merrill J. Bateman, who had served wonderfully well as BYU’s 11th president, was being reassigned to full-time Church service. President Hinckley said he would like me to serve as BYU’s 12th president. I was, of course, surprised but pleased. At first Sharon thought I was spoofing her, as I sometimes do. However, she soon realized I was serious. She was as honored and humbled as was I with this unexpected but exhilarating opportunity.

Was there a charge? “You’ll do what is right,” President Hinckley said. Subsequent to that time, President Hinckley has called to see how our Provo housing is coming but has not given further new or specific direction. Elder Eyring, as Church commissioner, and the board arranged for us to have a nice university residence here in Provo. Sharon’s one request was a double oven. We are now in the process of moving in and are anxious to be here full-time physically, as we are already emotionally.

We were in Boston last April for a regional conference. The stake president invited us to go to the University of Massachusetts Medical Center to visit Robert and Reed Nixon. At the hospital we met with members of the family and proceeded to a special room where two young men were on life-support systems. They were brothers, and they had been injured in a terrible accident. Each was paralyzed from the neck down. We were asked to bless them and did so.

Months have now passed. They have left the hospital, followed by a term at a rehabilitation center. They are now home and are making some headway. The most severely injured spoke in stake conference two weeks ago. Tears fell from the eyes of that large congregation who listened to a boy say with great effort a few words of gratitude and faith.

They have been able to come home because of the kindness of others. A handful of contractors in the area contributed time, labor, and materials, as well as their skills, to add to the family home, creating facilities that have made it possible for the boys to be with their loved ones.

Eleven-year-old Beth Burroughs pulled the reins gently but firmly to the right and guided her horse, Ebony, down the side of a rocky dry wash. The homemade wreath of flowers she had slung over the saddle horn bounced as she maneuvered her animal down the little zigzagging ravine. By taking this route, Beth would save herself a good mile and a half of riding time on the road. She had to get to Heaven’s Gate Cemetery and back home so that she could help her mother with the wash.

The predawn light had turned the mist that hung over Hampton Lake into silver lace as Beth galloped along its south shore. Her horse was starting to show signs of strain, so she decided to pull up and let him rest.

Looping the reins about a large dead limb that protruded from other woody shore rubble, Beth knelt at the water’s edge and gazed at her rippled, distorted reflection. If it had been someone’s first view of her, she thought, she would have been as badly misrepresented as Rebecca had been.

Ebony lifted his dark head, shook his mane, and went back to drinking. Beth gazed fondly at him a moment, then her eyes returned to the rippling water. She remembered her father talking about the worth of the individual soul, about how each person that ever was, is, or ever would be is a child of God and therefore special in his or her own way. He said that no one should judge anybody else by appearance because his character, like his soul, is inside and can only really be seen by Heavenly Father.

But somehow, Beth painfully recalled, her father’s teachings had been hard to put into practice whenever Rebecca was around—until the day of the field mouse. …

Ebony lifted his head again, his thirst now satisfied. Beth lingered a minute or two, watching her reflection clear and sharpen in the settling water. Then she remounted Ebony and continued down the road.

Mr. Flannagan chugged by in his Model T, waving and honking as he traveled in the opposite direction. Such a noisy, happy machine, Beth thought, then decided she was wrong. Machines might be noisy, all right, but they didn’t have feelings. People could feel happy. She had been happy, very happy in the time she had spent with Rebecca after the day of the mouse’s burial. Beth had made more and more visits to the yellow house on Banberry Road. She and Rebecca had helped Sister Johnson bake cookies, walked the fence in the big grassy field just down from Tucker’s Mill, and lain on their backs, watching the clouds sail wildly by in the yellow sky.
Rebecca had a smile for everyone, a smile, Beth was sure, that could light up the world. She was like a little child. But had not the Savior Himself taught that “of such is the kingdom of heaven”? Beth hadn’t minded the funny looks some of her old friends gave her every now and again after she became friends with Rebecca. Her real friends respected her for her feelings. Besides, she knew Heavenly Father approved, and He was her most valued friend.

As Beth’s horse clip-clopped past the bright red covered bridge a half mile from Heaven’s Gate Cemetery, she couldn’t help but think about Rebecca’s death a year ago. Rebecca had disappeared into a neighbor’s burning house and lowered a small child out a window into someone’s waiting arms just before a section of roof collapsed on her, burying her beneath the fiery timbers.

Beth laid the homemade wreath of flowers on Rebecca’s grave. A couple of minutes later she again climbed onto Ebony’s back and rode out of Heaven’s Gate.

The sun seemed to perch on top of the mesa as horse and rider turned up the little treelined path toward home.

“Did you have a good ride, honey?” Beth’s father asked as he stepped from the barn, leading a plow horse.
“Sure did,” Beth replied, walking her horse toward him. “There’s a lot to see when the sun comes up. First you see a little of this, then a little of that. Pretty soon everything is all lit up as pretty as can be. As pretty as a good memory. As pretty as Rebecca Johnson.”

Nearly 30 years ago I drove to Utah for the first time. I had been living a very unchristian life but wanted to change. I just didn’t know how.
The evening of my second day in Utah, I stopped at a motel in a small town in southern Utah. As the lady in the office gave me a room key, I asked if she was a Latter-day Saint. She pleasantly replied, “Yes, I am.” Beaming, she added, “Have you read our wonderful book, the Book of Mormon?” Both startled and enticed, I told her I had not.
“There’s a copy in your room,” she continued. “There is nothing exciting for you here in town, so you might as well get acquainted with this wonderful book.”
I thanked her and took my luggage to my room. Once there I saw a maroon paperback titled the Book of Mormon on the nightstand.
I casually opened the book near the center and read a few verses, but my mind went blank. I did not understand anything. Disappointed, I put down the book and left my room, feeling empty. I drove around until I found a bar—a dark, ugly place. I went inside and instantly felt miserable, lonely, and hopeless. I stood there for a few minutes and then turned around and strode out, determined to never again waste a moment of my life in any bar.
Invigorated, I returned to my motel room and picked up the Book of Mormon. I knelt before the Lord, whom I knew little about, and pleaded with Him to have mercy on me. I asked Him to forgive me for the mess I had made of my life and to help me to understand what I read in the Book of Mormon, to know if Joseph Smith was a true prophet, and to know if the Mormon Church was for me.
I opened the book reverently and read the first verse I saw: “I glory in plainness; I glory in truth; I glory in my Jesus, for he hath redeemed my soul from hell” (2 Nephi 33:6). My heart burned and my tears fell. The words stood out with a wonderful light of hope—a light of Jesus Christ beckoning me to come unto Him.
Weeping, I again knelt in prayer, begging the Lord to lead on. Then I opened the book again and began reading the first chapter of 1 Nephi. I was filled with awe at the unmatched power, purity, and truth of the words and testimony of Nephi. I read until 2:00 the next morning, the Lord opening my understanding as I read.
Six months later I was baptized a member of this wonderful, true Church. I know the Lord blessed me to find and read the Book of Mormon—the book that established my faith and testimony in Jesus Christ.

Working with Spanish-speaking investigators is an experience shared by Elder Santiago Tinon from Chicago, Illinois, and Elder Alejandro Flores of E1 Paso, Texas. Originally called as English-speaking missionaries in the Utah Salt Lake City South Mission, the two elders are now working exclusively with Spanish-speaking people from Mexico, Guatemala, Venezuela, and El Salvador. In one month alone, this missionary pair had six baptisms. One of them was a young Mexican woman who had come to Provo, Utah, to study. She smoked cigarettes heavily but accepted the challenge to read the Book of Mormon. By the third discussion, she was converted and readily gave up her smoking. She was an example, Elder Flores says, of how well the gospel is accepted among Hispanics.

In 1883 the Widtsoe family immigrated to Logan, Utah, where young John later enrolled in Brigham Young College. A hard worker and bright student, he graduated in 1891, studied chemistry at Harvard University, and graduated with highest honors in 1894. While at Harvard, he met Leah Eudora Dunford. They married in the Salt Lake Temple in 1898 and became the parents of seven children, only three of whom lived to adulthood.

In tracing our family names, we often find them spelled differently, depending on the source. This was the case of a university student in Provo, Utah, who caught the vision of this linking of generations. He was walking through the library one evening and remembered hearing someone in the Searing family tell about a town in New York State that had been named after an ancestor. So he decided to look up the town. He stumbled across a very old copy of a gazetteer of New York and read about a man named Simon Searing who helped settle Long Island in the mid-1600s. Could Simon be his ancestor? He had to know. He began research in earnest and traced his line back several generations. But still he needed to bridge the gap between the 1800s and the 1600s. Then a miracle occurred. He unexpectedly located a history of a Syring family. The families in the Syring book ended in the same generation he had reached in his own research. Not only was he able to connect many generations, but he also linked himself to the early settler Simon Searing.

“My Young Women leaders had challenged me to finish reading the Book of Mormon by November,” says Sierra Hoffman, a Mia Maid from Albany, Oregon. “I was in the middle of it when President Hinckley gave the challenge to all members to read the Book of Mormon before the end of the year.”
She could have simply finished from where she was. And she did. Then, after completing her leaders’ challenge, Sierra turned back to 1 Nephi in late November and started reading again—this time to meet President Hinckley’s reading challenge. She read each night, sometimes for several hours.
“The spirit that filled my room and my heart as I read was amazing!” she says. “Passages that I had never noticed before stood out and touched me deeply. Verses that had confused me before made sense. Tears would fill my eyes as I read about the Savior visiting the Americas.”
Sierra also noticed a change in her 10-year-old brother as he, too, began reading from the Book of Mormon daily. He became more loving, kind, and respectful. Just as President Hinckley promised when he made the challenge, there was a greater feeling of the Spirit of the Lord in the Hoffman family’s home.
Throughout the Church, thousands of youth like Sierra and her brother took up the prophet’s challenge. And many sent stories about the blessings they received to the New Era. For some readers, this was their first time through the Book of Mormon. For others this was their third, fifth, or even tenth time. Regardless of the number of times these teens had read this book of scripture, they all recognized specific blessings they received because they accepted the challenge.
“Never before have I felt like I did while reading the Book of Mormon this time,” says Brandon Merchant, a priest from Green River, Wyoming. “Never have I been able to relate so much information to myself and the world. I can see Satan’s traps easier; I can more quickly and efficiently answer questions from people investigating the Church. I guess it is true what they say—if you study it, the information will be available at the time you need. I understand the meanings and teachings more than I ever have. It is almost impossible to describe the great feelings and understanding that I have received.”
Nicole Wood, a Laurel from St. George, Utah, didn’t think she would have time to read the Book of Mormon. She didn’t really think it was all that important to do it, either. “But I started reading a little bit every night anyway,” she says. “I can’t even describe how much it has changed my life. I was less stressed out in my classes. I felt happier, and, mostly, I felt closer to my Father in Heaven.”
Along with this change in her life, Nicole says she grew to love the Book of Mormon. She found it easy and exciting to apply its stories to what she was experiencing. And she felt close to the prophets who wrote so that we could learn from their experiences.
“It wasn’t just a story anymore,” explains Jessica Grosland, a Mia Maid from Springville, Utah. “I was reading it all the way through, and by the time I got to the end, I found my heart breaking along with Moroni’s as he talked about how bad the people had become.”
Jessica says she felt as if she were there with Book of Mormon people. “I took the journey with them as they went on this roller coaster of righteousness and wickedness. I felt their good and bad times were mine. I have a much better appreciation and can see them as real people now.” Most important, says Jessica, “My testimony is stronger. I feel the Spirit more, and I do have a stronger desire to follow the words of Christ.”
Mitch Oakes of Ontario, Oregon, describes his experience in much the same way as other youth do: “I seemed to get more out of reading it this time than the other times. I found more scriptures that helped me in my life and with my acquaintances. At school and home, I felt more Christlike. I caused less contention with my little brother, and I felt more love for everyone. My testimony was strengthened.”
Sarah Glade, a Laurel from El Paso, Texas, says she decided to accept President Hinckley’s challenge because “the world around us is encouraging more and more behaviors that go against what the Church teaches us. Reading the Book of Mormon helps us to put on the armor of God and to be in the world but not of it.”
“When I read the Book of Mormon,” she adds, “everything feels right. I don’t stress about school, I’m nicer to my family, and I have more patience with others. It’s the highlight of my day, a ‘homework’ assignment that I really enjoy.”
In August of 2005, when President Hinckley issued the challenge to finish the Book of Mormon before the end of the year, he said: “Without reservation I promise you that if each of you will observe this simple program, regardless of how many times you previously may have read the Book of Mormon, there will come into your lives and into your homes an added measure of the Spirit of the Lord, a strengthened resolution to walk in obedience to His commandments, and a stronger testimony of the living reality of the Son of God” (“A Testimony Vibrant and True,” Ensign, Aug. 2005, 6).
What these youth who accepted the challenge have in common is a life-changing experience. Most of them have continued to read the Book of Mormon. They’ve felt the difference it makes in their lives, and they want that difference to continue.

Carrying an empty grain bucket, Dallas Benson glumly closed the wooden gate on his Angus show steer and headed for the granary. He kicked at a pebble, and a puff of dust exploded about his feet. Though it was still the middle of May, already the sun was hot, the air dry, the grass and weeds lightly scorched.
Dallas took a deep breath and frowned. He had hoped this would be a fun summer, with his very own four-wheeler, but his father had dashed those hopes two days earlier.
“A cow!” Dallas had groaned as his father sat sharpening a shovel. “What do I want with a cow? I’ve got a steer. He’ll bring a good price at the county fair.”
“Your steer will give you money once,” his father explained, bending over and scraping some dried mud from the shovel. “But with a good cow, there’s money coming in all the time, as long as you milk her.”
“But I don’t want a cow. I want Jake Hawley’s four-wheeler. He’ll give me a good deal.”
He could see his father was far from convinced. “How much fun can a guy have milking an old cow?” he muttered. “Besides, we already have Ginger.”
“Ginger’ll give us milk for the house, but she’s not going to make any money. At least not missionary money.”
“I’ve got money,” Dallas protested. “And I still have time to get more. It’s not like I’m leaving tomorrow.”
“Four years pass quickly.” His dad pointed the file at him and counseled, “If you buy one of those four-wheelers, you’ll just be putting money in a hole. The only thing you’ll get back is a few thrills and maybe a broken neck. You put your money in a missionary cow, and when you’re 19, you’ll have your money. And you’ll have been thinking about a mission too.”
“But, Dad, can’t I have a little fun?”
His dad started filing away on the shovel’s edge. The only sound was the loud grinding of metal on metal. He paused, “If you’ll invest your money in a cow and milk her, I’ll provide the feed. The profits will be yours.”
Dallas licked his lips nervously. “Does that mean I can’t buy the four-wheeler?” he questioned.
“Son,” his dad began quietly, “you earned that money. You saved it. You’ve been planning for a mission too. That’s good. I’m proud of you. But it’s still your money. I trust you to do what you think is right. If you think you’ve got to have that four-wheeler … well, the money’s there.”
“Jake’s going on a mission too,” Dallas argued. “We’ve been planning since we were kids, and he’s got a four-wheeler. It isn’t wicked to have a four-wheeler.”
His dad scraped the file across the shovel’s edge a couple of times. “We’re not planning Jake’s future. We’re planning yours. Sometimes a person has to make a hard choice. Not between what’s good and wicked but between two things he really wants. He has to stop and decide which of those two things means the most to him. When you turn 19 and you have money put away for a mission, you’ll go.” He cocked his head to the side and pressed his lips together. “But if your money’s tied up in a four-wheeler … well, then you’re torn.”
“Come on, Dad,” Dallas moaned, “you’re trying to make me feel lousy.”
“No, I’m forcing you to make a decision. You see, you want me to make it for you. Well, I won’t. It’s not my money. It’s not my mission.”
Dallas pulled the granary door open and hung the grain bucket inside on a rusty nail. In the distance he heard the low, muffled putter of a motor. Gradually the noise increased, and soon he saw a four-wheeler bounce over the hill, careen precariously between rocks and cedars, and smash over clumps of sagebrush. It picked up speed as it reached the dirt lane leading to the Benson place. Dallas’s friend Jake burst into the yard, scattering the scratching hens, then sliding to a halt in a billowing cloud of dust and flying gravel.
Jake thumped the handlebars with the palm of his hand and called out above the idling putter of the engine, “How’s that for driving, Benson?”
“You’re going to kill yourself one of these days,” Dallas remarked.
“What did your dad say?” Jake asked.
Dallas kicked at the four-wheeler’s fat, puffy wheels. He glanced out past the stack of alfalfa hay and watched his father in a field harrowing, pursued by a hungry flock of seagulls. “He left it up to me,” he replied morosely.
“Great! When you going to get it?”
“I’m not.” Dallas dusted his pants. “I decided to get a cow from Brother Singer. For my mission.”
“A cow instead of a four-wheeler!” Jake gasped, shaking his head. “Why do you want a cow? You buy a cow and you’ll be married to her, twice a day, every day.”
“I need mission money.”
“Shoot! We can earn mission money later. After high school we’ll get good construction jobs.” Jake scratched the back of his neck. “If it were my money, I’d get the four-wheeler.”
Dallas squatted down in the dust and started tossing pebbles. “It’s my money, but Dad helped me with it. He helped me with the feed for the steers I’ve raised. He covered for me here at home, doing my chores, while I worked for Brother Madison. He’ll let me do what I want with the money, but I know how he feels.”
“So you traded your four-wheeler for a cow.” Jake shook his head. “When you getting it?”
Dallas nodded toward the barn. “It’s there in the barn, waiting to be milked. Brother Singer brought it over before I got home from school. Do you want to take a look?”
Jake wagged his head. “I’ve got places to go and a whole tank of gas to get there.” He kicked the four-wheeler into gear, waved, and lunged up the lane with a cloud of dust chasing him. Dallas watched until Jake bounced over the hill and out of sight. Then he turned toward the barn.
The kitchen door slammed. Dallas turned to see his 10-year-old brother, Rusty, jump down the steps with a milk bucket in one hand and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in the other. He skipped over to Dallas, licked at the jelly on his sandwich and asked, “Have you seen her?”
Dallas shook his head, still listening to the faint growl of Jake’s four-wheeler. “She’s a big one,” Rusty continued. “Looks mean too. I brought you the milk bucket. I want to see this.”
“Since when did you get interested in milking cows?” Dallas remarked.
Rusty grinned, took a bite, and said, “Since Brother Singer brought that monster he calls a cow. She’ll scare you to death.”
“Monster,” Dallas muttered, grabbing the bucket. But when he reached the barn and saw the big Holstein cow for the first time, he was surprised. Ginger, who stood in the next stanchion, was dwarfed by her. The monster cow was white with a splattering of black on her face and across her back, and when Dallas opened the barn door, she jerked back and eyed him menacingly.
“Brother Singer says she’s a little ornery at times,” Rusty commented from the doorway. “But she gives over four gallons a milking after she’s calved.”
“Well, she better get the orneriness out of her system with me,” Dallas growled, grabbing the one-legged stool he used when he milked.
“Brother Singer says it’s best if you hobble her.”
Dallas scoffed at the idea. “I’m not hobbling any cow I milk. If you can’t milk a cow without hobbles, you don’t have any business milking.”
Just as the first two squirts pinged into the milk pail, an enormous hoof lifted up and came down hard in the bucket, pulling it from between his legs and sending it clattering across the barn floor, filling it with dry manure and straw. Dallas sprang to his feet just as that same hoof struck with lightning force against the inside of his shin. The blow knocked him off balance, and just then the cow crashed to the right, pinning Dallas against the wall. Purple with pain and rage, he raised his two fists and was about to bring them smashing down on the cow’s back when she moved away from the wall and lashed out with a hind leg, smashing him in the thigh.
Dallas groaned, grabbed his leg and limped to the back of the barn where he dropped to the floor. Gasping for breath and trying to rub the throbbing pain from his thigh, Dallas glanced over at his younger brother, who was grinning widely at his suffering. “What’s so funny?” Dallas growled.
“Brother Singer calls her Kick-a-pooh Dan,” Rusty announced triumphantly. “Acts like a wild bull instead of an old milk cow.”
Dallas swallowed, limped over to the bucket, dumped a few flakes of manure and straw from it and turned to Kick-a-pooh. “And I traded a four-wheeler for you,” he muttered.
Dallas picked up the bucket and stool. For the next few seconds there was the rhythmic ping as Dallas squirted milk into the bucket. Soon all that could be heard was the cow’s loud breathing and the muffled swish as the white strings of milk fired into the foamy bucket.
“You just got to teach them who’s boss,” Dallas commented proudly to his brother.
“Somehow old Kick-a-pooh Dan doesn’t look like a fast learner,” Rusty remarked with smiling skepticism.
“I haven’t seen the animal I couldn’t …”
Before he could complete his brag, Kick-a-pooh’s manure-matted tail lashed out, cutting him across the face. Tears came to his eyes from the sharpness of the smack. He lunged for the offending tail, but before he could grab it, it whipped across his face again, and at the same time a hoof came crashing down on his knee, knocking him to the ground and sending the half bucket of milk slopping over his legs and onto the floor. Sprawled on the floor, he saw another hoof lash out at him. Ducking just in time, he scrambled to his feet and stumbled to the back wall, groping for the short piece of two-by-four he used to prop open the barn door.
“You got manure on your pants,” Rusty observed with delight, pointing at a patch of fresh green paste on both knees and the seat of his pants.
“You die,” Dallas shouted at the big Holstein, wielding the two-by-four club.
“Well, looks like you and Kick-a-pooh are getting acquainted,” a voice spoke from behind. Dallas whirled around to face Brother Singer, who was standing in the doorway.
Rusty sang out, “Boy, she’s a mean one. Every time Dallas gets a few squirts, old Kick-a-pooh knocks the bucket on the floor and stomps all over him. This is more fun than a rodeo. Dallas says he doesn’t need hobbles with Kick-a-pooh.”
“What I need is a club,” Dallas shouted. “I’ll break her leg off. Once I’m through with her the buzzards won’t want her. I’ll break her …” He turned on Brother Singer. “Why’d you sell me her? How can I earn anything if all the milk ends up on the barn floor? I might as well have a four-wheeler.”
Brother Singer laughed. “Those old four-wheelers are more ornery than a cow and twice as dumb. They’ll steal your money and break your neck to boot. At least Kick-a-pooh will get you on your mission.”
“If I spend much time with that bag of brittle bones, I’ll be cussing a blue streak. I won’t even be able to pass my interview with the bishop. I should have planted corn. It doesn’t kick.” Dallas looked down at his soiled, smelly pants. “And it doesn’t stink.”
“That’s a good cow, Dallas,” Brother Singer said, suddenly serious. “She’s the meanest, orneriest, most stubborn beast I’ve got. But she gives the most milk. If you can stand a few kicks and swats with her tail, she’ll make you money. However, there are a couple of things you’ve got to know.”
“Yeah, like have a club ready before you sit down.”
“I’ll admit she’s a little jumpy. That’s why you hobble her. One other thing, when you milk a cow, which side do you get on?”
“The right,” Dallas mumbled indignantly. “I’ve been raised on a farm.”
“Wrong, at least with Kick-a-pooh. As near as I can tell she’s blind in the right eye, or at least she doesn’t see too well. She goes crazy if you get to fussing around on her right side, but she’s a whole different cow if you approach from the left side. In fact, you can generally milk her without hobbles. Of course, I’ve learned not to trust old Kick-a-pooh. I’d use hobbles either side.”
Dallas glared at his newly purchased cow. Brother Singer slapped him on the back and remarked, “By the way, Dallas, I got a mighty good Holstein bull over at my place. I’d like to contribute to your mission, so you got free use of that bull. Before long you’ll have the best dairy herd in the county. Old Kick-a-pooh will put both you and Rusty on missions.”
Kick-a-pooh Dan was never docile, but Dallas did get to the point where he could get through most milkings without leaving a puddle on the barn floor. Once he was able to make it out of the barn with the milk in the bucket and not on the floor, then the money came.
Summer arrived and brought with it the heat, the long days, the gnats, and the endless labor of the farm. But Dallas did find a few snatches of time to slip away and go four-wheeling with Jake. Of course, riding behind Jake was not the same as riding his very own machine, but there were some thrills. However, all too often, just as the fun really got started and Jake pointed the four-wheeler up the mountain for one last daring ride, Dallas had to head home to milk Kick-a-pooh.
“Come on, Dallas,” Jake would demand. “That old cow can wait a few minutes. It won’t kill her. You pamper her like a baby.”
“She’s a fussy old bag,” Dallas explained, just a little embarrassed. “But if I’m not right there at five-thirty, she’s a monster. Then she doesn’t give nearly as much milk. I’d sure hate for her to dry up.”
“But we’re just going to the mouth of the canyon.”
“I can’t, Jake.”
As the summer progressed, Dallas still liked Jake’s four-wheeler, but he was beginning to reap the profits of a good cow too, even if she was an ornery one.
It did appear that Kick-a-pooh came between him and Jake. Though Dallas no longer harbored serious regrets about Kick-a-pooh, he did feel bad that Jake didn’t come around as often now. Too many times when he had come, hoping to go four-wheeling or to drive into town to play video games at Benny’s Corner, he had ended up standing around watching Dallas milk or shovel out the barn.
Summer passed and faded into fall, and soon winter set in. Five-thirty in the morning was always cold and miserable when Dallas trudged through the muddy snow and stomped into the barn to milk Kick-a-pooh and leaned his head against her warm, steamy flank and dozed. As soon as his eyes closed and he began to relax, Kick-a-pooh would flip her mucky tail across his face and bring him wide awake.
Toward the end of March, Jake invited Dallas to go with him and four other friends to a late movie. Dallas was counting on it. It had been a while since he and Jake had had some good fun together. But as usual Kick-a-pooh refused to cooperate. She was threatening to calve that night, and Dallas was too nervous to let Mother Nature pull off the operation by herself.
When Jake pulled up to Dallas’s house and honked, Dallas was in the barn with Kick-a-pooh, wringing his hands and chewing his lips. He shuffled out to Jake’s car. Jake rolled down the window and asked, “Aren’t you ready yet? Or were you planning on bringing your cow for company?”
“Kick-a-pooh’s going to calve, Jake,” he said.
“She can do it by herself,” Jake growled. “Cows do it all the time. Come on. Tonight’s our night to howl.”
“I can’t,” Dallas insisted, suddenly feeling uneasy, as though he were talking to a stranger and not his best friend. “Can’t lose this calf. It might be Rusty’s missionary cow.”
“Missionary cow!” Jake muttered angrily, jamming the car into gear. “That’s the trouble with that cow. She’s always got you worrying about a mission. You’re not a missionary till you’re 19. Why spoil the rest of your life?”
Dallas was taken back by Jake’s outburst, and for a moment he thought he detected a faint whiff of … but he couldn’t be certain. Besides, this was his friend Jake. However, his suspicions were aroused, and there was something disturbing about the way Jake was trying to conceal the brown paper sack partially pushed under the front seat. The other four were smiling unnaturally.
Dallas was hurt by the brusque farewell, and long after Jake’s car disappeared into the night, he remained outside thinking, wondering if he was missing something, wondering if Kick-a-pooh was messing things up for him.
Kick-a-pooh didn’t have her calf until late the next morning, and when she did she didn’t need any help. It was a healthy heifer. Dallas was rubbing the wet, wobbly thing down with a ragged bath towel when Rusty burst into the barn. Kick-a-pooh tossed her head at the intrusion, so he stayed in the doorway and watched in wide-eyed fascination for a minute.
“Is it mine?” he finally asked.
Dallas smiled. “If you take care of it. And I hope she’s blind in one eye and as ornery and disagreeable as her mother.”
“Why?” Rusty whined.
“So she’ll be a genuine missionary cow,” he laughed. “After you’ve milked her for a few years, nothing on your mission will be hard.”
Rusty crept closer to the new calf, reached out and touched its soft, damp fur. “Did you hear about Jake?” he asked furtively.
Dallas stopped working and glanced at his brother. “What’s there to hear?”
“Tim Linn called a few minutes ago. He said Jake wrecked his dad’s car. Rolled it. Tim’s big brother was with him. Broke his arm.”
“Did Jake get hurt?” Dallas asked, tossing the towel in the corner.
“Tim didn’t think so.” Rusty looked around to make sure they were alone and then whispered, “I think they’d been drinking.”
Dallas stared out the barn, across the corrals, and over to the hills where he and Jake liked to do their four-wheeling. He shook his head, and yet the news didn’t come as a surprise.
“Jake does a lot of things you don’t know about,” Rusty explained further. “That’s what Tim Linn tells me.”
That afternoon as Dallas was going out to check Kick-a-pooh and her calf, Jake came roaring into the yard on his four-wheeler. He had a Band-Aid on his chin and a bluish lump on his forehead.
“Did she drop her calf?” he yelled as he slid to a stop and shut off the engine.
“Come in and see,” Dallas invited with a smile. “If you’re interested and the price is right, maybe Rusty will sell her to you. He won’t take a trade-in on a four-wheeler, though.”
“I don’t want a cow,” Jake snorted.
“It’s a good investment,” Dallas smiled. “By the end of the year, I’ll have my mission paid for.”
Jake grinned suddenly and changed the subject. “Hey, I came over to see if you wanted to buy my four-wheeler. I’m getting a road bike, one of those big Honda 450s. All I need now is enough for a down payment, and then I’ll get a job at Market Center. I should be able to pay it off in a couple of years. I’m selling my four-wheeler cheap. If you’re interested, now’s the time to buy.”
Dallas stared for a moment at the four-wheeler that a few months earlier had intrigued him so intensely. He did some quick calculating, reviewing his funds. He was suddenly excited by the prospect; then just as quickly the excitement faded as he realized that the lure of the four-wheeler had diminished.
“I’m looking at another one of Brother Singer’s cows,” he answered.
“For your mission?” Jake scoffed.
Dallas shrugged. “A four-wheeler will never get me there.”
“I guess you’ve fallen in love with old Kick-a-pooh Dan,” Jake remarked sarcastically.
Dallas sighed. “Not really. She’s still the same ornery old beast. But she’ll take me places a four-wheeler will never go. I guess that’s why I stick by her.”
“Well,” Jake said, starting up his engine, “just wanted to see if you were still interested. If you change your mind, let me know.” The four-wheeler jerked into gear and roared out of the yard and down the lane towards the hills.
For a long time Dallas listened to the muffled growl of the engine. Then Kick-a-pooh drowned out the distraction with a demanding bellow, and Dallas turned back to the barn and his missionary cow.

It was a cold winter night in London, England, and my first night in the British Mission. Our group of new missionaries was taken to Speakers’ Corner in London’s Hyde Park to experience our first “street meeting.” By the time we sang a hymn and heard a rousing speech by one of the more experienced missionaries, about 100 people had gathered to hear what we had to say. In this crowd were several hecklers with strong anti-Church and anti-American sentiments. The atmosphere was very hostile.
Each new missionary took his or her turn declaring the gospel, standing on a collapsible box, called a soapbox. As a new missionary, I was scared to take my turn. I was fresh off the farm in northern Utah and frightened by the hecklers in the crowd.
The missionary who spoke before me was a wonderful new sister missionary from England. She was verbally attacked by a heckler about a world event that affected the United States but had nothing to do with the Church. The crowd became quite inflamed and unruly.
As she stepped down, the atmosphere was electric. It was my turn to speak. I reluctantly took her place on the soapbox. There, in front of that large, agitated crowd in London, I bore my testimony of the gospel. I declared that God had spoken again and that there was a living prophet on the earth. I added a few other basics of my testimony, and in a state of shock, quickly stepped down before the hecklers could ask me any questions. I would not have dreamed that among that crowd was even one person who had listened to what I said, but I was soon to find out differently.
A young man had been doing his school homework in his family’s apartment located not far from Hyde Park. For some reason, he felt prompted to go to Speakers’ Corner. This was not his usual hangout, so the feeling was a little surprising to him, but he went anyway. Once he got there, he was drawn immediately to our particular street meeting just as I began to speak. He listened to my simple testimony. As he explained later, “I felt something that I had never felt before in my life. I can only describe it as if I were floating about a foot off the ground. I didn’t know what it was, but I felt something, and I needed to know more.”
I was still recovering from my frightening experience when this young man came up to me and asked, “Do you mind if I ask you a question?” I could hardly believe that he wanted to ask me, a brand-new missionary, a question. Of course I was more than happy to talk to him. We began a conversation that led to an invitation for him to come to the mission office and an opportunity for me to teach and ultimately baptize him.
I opened my mouth that night, and this young man felt something. The Spirit had touched his heart. This was evidence of the Lord’s promise in D&C 100:5–6 and D&C 100:8:
“Therefore, verily I say unto you, lift up your voices unto this people; speak the thoughts that I shall put into your hearts, and you shall not be confounded before men;
“For it shall be given you in the very hour, yea, in the very moment, what ye shall say. …
“And I give unto you this promise, that inasmuch as ye do this the Holy Ghost shall be shed forth in bearing record unto all things whatsoever ye shall say.”

I'd like to add my testimony as we close our devotional and say that I know that Heavenly Father lives because I have felt his presence. I know that Jesus is my Savior because I have literally felt the healing power of the atonement in my life. I know that the gospel is true, because I have felt it's power to change lives. I come from a long line of alcoholics, and I can tell you quite truthfully that this curse of my fathers would have been mine also, had I not lived the Word of Wisdom when it was introduced to us by the missionaries. I know that the gospel of Jesus Christ is a place of refuge in every time of trouble, because it is there that I have turned and have found solace. I count it a choice blessing that our family came to Hawaii and that we were able to raise our children in the shadow of the temple. I love my associations with the students in the University Chorale, and my friends in the community. I will forever be grateful to the two elderly sister missionaries who found us by knocking doors and who taught us the gospel when we were about your age. As you leave this devotional and continue on your journey take our aloha with you and find joy.